"Just sign here, here and here." Harry grins as he watches Petunia bend over the contract and draw the quill awkwardly over the page. She obviously struggles with it, a scowl twisting her features; Vernon has already signed it, and with the final flourish of Petunia's ugly, pinched little signature, Harry's freedom is official. Sirius Black is now Harry Potter's completely legal guardian, from now 'til Harry's of age.

Dudley is watching from the side of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression sour: Sirius and Harry are dressed casually, in jeans and t-shirts, but Sirius' Azkaban tattoo is obvious on his neck, and more ink is obvious on his bare arms. Sirius is a true affront to the normalcy of Little Whinging with his long, dark hair and his scuffed, ripped jeans, and Harry has never been prouder to stand beside his godfather in his life.

"Done, then," Petunia says, huffing out a little noise, and Harry beams at her.

"So glad," he says, and he rolls up the piece of parchment, handing it over to Sirius. Sirius' expression isn't as plainly joyful as Harry's own is. He's irritated, and he regards all three Dursleys with a mildly hostile displeasure. "Let's go, Sirius."

"Is that the cupboard they kept you in?" Sirius asks, nodding back into the hall. Harry glances to the white-painted cupboard door, and then he meets his godfather's gaze again. "It's tiny."

"Yeah, I know," Harry says. "Let's go." Sirius breathes in, nostrils flaring, and he turns to stare at Petunia, leaning right towards her. Petunia stands her ground, holding her horsey neck straight and looking right into Sirius' face; Harry can see that Vernon's getting angry, and he can't be bothered with his relatives today. "Sirius," Harry says sharply. "They're bad people, they treated me badly, and now they won't. That's it. Let's go."

"Bad people!" Vernon spits out, reddening. "Took you in, out of the goodness of our hearts-" Sirius looks ready to pull out his wand at any moment, and Harry's uncle looks ready to come to blows, so Harry steps in.

"Shut up, Vernon," Harry says loudly, and the man is shocked into silence, his furious face turning a swift, ruddy plum-red. "We're going." He grabs Sirius by the arm, pulling him into the hall and then outside. Sirius keeps clenching and unclenching his fists, twitching irritably, but despite his plain fury Harry feels he's holding in his anger quite well. "Calm down."

"How can I be calm?" Sirius asks. "Those- those people-"

"What do you want to do, Sirius? Kill them? Hurt them? Send them to Azkaban?" Sirius lets out a sharp noise of frustration as he walks with Harry down Magnolia Crescent, and Harry shakes his head. "There's no point. Let's just go home."

"Harry!" comes a voice in front of them, and Harry stops short, offering the old lady an awkward, polite smile.

"Er, hi, Mrs Figg. You alright?"

"Oh, yes, enjoying the sunshine... Leaving for the summer then, are you? Don't suppose I'll see you back here, now that Sirius is out of prison?" Harry blinks at her, opening and closing his mouth. Mrs Figg is beaming at him, and Harry isn't quite sure what to say, or what to do.

"Er, no, Ma'am. We're heading back to London now. And then, obviously, back to school in September," he speaks slowly, narrowing his eyes slightly, and Sirius looks between the two of them, obviously perplexed.

"And what house are you in?" Mrs Figg asks in a bright, polite tone, tilting her head slightly and watching him carefully. "My brothers were both in Ravenclaw." Harry pauses for a few seconds before he replies.

"Slytherin, Mrs Figg," he answers. "And proud of it."

"Strange," she says lightly. "Always thought you'd be a Gryffindor. Ah, well. Have a good summer, Harry!" Mrs Figg totters off, dragging her trolley-bag behind her, and Harry watches her go, utterly thrown by the interaction.

"Who was that?" Sirius asks, and Harry considers the question as they dip under the traffic bridge to Apparate.

"Well," Harry says. "I'm not entirely sure I know."

---

Grimmauld Place is in chaos when Sirius and Harry arrive. Three house elves squeak in horror and disappear from sight as Sirius and Harry cross the threshold, and when they enter the dining room, it seems like everyone's home: Lucius and Mrs Weasley are in the midst of an argument, him holding a bottle of black poison and her shaking a bottle of Doxycide; over the table, Fred and Ginny are playing a fast-paced game of Exploding Snap against Draco and George, and in the corner of the room Hermione looks ready to slap Ron upside the head with her book.

"Just another day in paradise," Sirius says brightly, surveying the havoc with a smile on his face, and Harry shakes his head, making his way forwards. He takes the bottle of poison out of Lucius' hand, setting it on the table.

"Use the Doxycide," he says, looking right up into Lucius' affronted expression. "The cats and the owls in this house like to play with the Doxies, Lucius. Do you want to clean Hermione's cat off the stairwell?" Lucius blinks at him, and then he scowls, looking at Mrs Weasley.

"You can take care of them, then," he says in a biting tone.

"Happy to!" Mrs Weasley retorts, and she hurries out of the room and up the stairs. Harry winces as he hears Mrs Black's portrait start to scream at her, and he sighs, walking past Lucius and into the kitchen.

Sitting against the counter and silently sipping at a mug of steaming, green tea, Narcissa arches an eyebrow in greeting. "It reminds me of my youth," she says, looking into the middle distance over her drink. "So many people in one house who alll... Clash."

"No offence," Harry says, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a can of pop, "But I didn't realize it was going to turn into battle of the housewives."

Letting out a dry, tired laugh, Narcissa says, "No, Harry, nor did I." Harry flicks the tab on the drink, stepping back into the dining hall: Lucius is setting various silver crockery on display in a glass cabinet. Beside him, Sirius shakes his head, as if Lucius should be just throwing goblin-made silver out of the windows.

Narcissa and Lucius had settled in Grimmauld Place last year, and by the time Dumbledore had decided the house should act as a headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, they'd carved out enough of the house to have a bedroom for themselves, and another for Draco. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the house is extremely hostile, wrought with Boggarts, disturbingly large Puffeskeins, Doxies, and various other household pets. Even with the Malfoys and their three house elves working on the house, with the added help of Mrs Weasley, they're making slow progress.

Especially given that Lucius refuses to throw even the bloodiest of furniture out, lest they be losing some family heirloom.

"Is Bill here yet?" Harry ask, patting Sirius' shoulder to get his attention, and Sirius shakes his head.

"He's coming in this afternoon," he answers, and Lucius glances back.

"Which one is that?"

"The cursebreaker with the long hair," Harry supplies. Lucius' face is momentarily blank, and then he gives a nod of his head. "Do you want me to do anything?"

"Go help Molly," Lucius advises, and Harry raises an eyebrow, glancing at Sirius.

"Apparently, it's too difficult to keep track of each other if they lose last names, so they're on first name terms for the sake of efficiency," Sirius explains, and Harry sniggers, heading out into the hall.

"Mrs Black, please," Harry says. "Can't you calm down?"

"TRAITORS!" she screeches loudly. "MUDBLOODS, BLOOD TRAITORS, SCUM!"

"Silencio!" Hermione says, sweeping her wand forwards, but it makes no difference - it doesn't even lower the portrait's immense volume, and Harry shakes his head, gesturing for Hermione to follow him up the stairs. "Surely something will work. Has anyone tried Langlock?" Harry stops, thoughtful.

"No, actually," he says, leaning over the bannister with his can in hand. "Try it."

"Langlock!" Hermione casts, and Ms Black lets out a loud, choking sound, coughing. Hermione and Harry share a grin, and they make their way up the stairs and into the room with the armoire Mrs Weasley is currently de-doxying. She sprays them heavily, dropping three of them in a big, black bucket, and Harry grabs at a fourth, dropping it inside too.

"You oughtn't be using magic, you know, Hermione, dear," Molly says worriedly as she passes Hermione the bottle of doxycide and letting her take over.

"We're under the Fidelius Charm, Mrs Weasley," Harry says, putting his arm over his mouth and casting a mumbled Incendio as the doxy nest in the bottom of the armoire. Hermione the doxycide as the nest burns itself up, and Harry sets his can aside, helping her pick up the last of the doxies. "The Trace isn't going to work."

"You know very well that that isn't the point," she says sternly. "It's dangerous."

"We're not doing anything complicated, Mrs Weasley, or doing any new magic," Hermione assures her. "We'll only use the spells we already know the entire summer, I promise."

When Mrs Weasley bends over to Vanish the ashes in the wardrobe, Harry looks at Hermione and mouths, "Liar." Hermione puts her finger over her lips, grabbing at his can of cola and taking a sip. "Oi! I had to herd Draco and Ron around Tesco for an hour to get hold of that!" Hermione laughs, passing it back. "Just because your parents can't stop you..."

"Why would her parents stop her?" Mrs Weasley asks.

"There's a lot of sugar in it," Hermione explains. "It rots your teeth if you drink too much too often." Mrs Weasley gives the can a casual glance.

"Bit like an Acid Pop, then," she says uncaringly, and she picks up her bucket of frozen doxies and carries them down the stairs. Harry and Hermione push the armoire back against the wall, and Harry grabs some polish and a rag to start working on it. The armoire is made of teak but painted in varnished black, and now that it's not full of biting fairies, it's not so bad to look at.

They settle into conversation as they work on the armoire, bringing the varnished wood back to its usual shine.

"How did the Dursleys go?" Hermione asks.

"Perfectly," Harry says. "Though I think my old babysitter might have been a witch. How was this morning?"

"Ron wants us to come to the World Cup," Hermione answers, and Harry groans. Much as Harry loves Quidditch, he'd been put off at the idea of attending the World Cup this summer - there are going to be a ridiculous number of people, and with both Death Eaters and Lockhart's crew of idiots doing their best to wreak havoc across the country, he doesn't want to be in a tent when he can be here. "Given that it's the Weasley lads and Ginny, and then Sirius, Draco and Mr Malfoy, he wants us to come to bridge the gap."

"Bridge the gap?" Harry repeats.

"I know," Hermione says, shaking her head. "Sirius will pretend to be protecting the Malfoys the whole time as he enjoys himself, and the Weasleys can just continue as normal. I think he just wants someone to buddy up with - Ginny and the twins tend to stay together, and you know that Draco will stay with his father the whole time." Harry sighs.

"Suppose we could send Kreacher." Hermione frowns at him.

"Don't be nasty, Harry. It's not Kreacher's fault he's- you know. The way he is."

"I could say the same about Draco, Hermione." Hermione groans, and Harry laughs to himself. "But-"

"Kreacher is to alert the Mudblood and the blood traitor that they are wanted in the dining room," creaks an old voice from the doorway, and Harry turns to look at him. Kreacher stares at the both of them with his huge, watery eyes and his utterly hateful expression.

"What have I told you about using that word, Kreacher? Get out of my sight!" Harry snaps, and Kreacher disappears with a quiet pop. "You still feel sorry for him, Hermione?"

"Uh, yes, Harry," Hermione says, dropping the rag aside and following him down the stairs. "He's still a slave." Harry sighs.

"If I could free him without him going off to die, Hermione, I would." Harry raises his eyebrows as they step into Grimmauld Place's dining room. The table is all set, but none of the food looks like Mrs Weasley's - there are numerous small plates layered over the table, containing everything from pastries to soups to chips. Harry and Hermione stare mutely, taking seats across from each other, and the Weasleys children do much the same when they re-enter the room.

"Bloody hell," Ron says. "Did you do this, Mum?"

"I did, actually." Lucius's hair is neatly tied behind his back, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow - Harry doesn't miss the bandage tied over his left arm, hiding the Dark Mark there. "I do hope that won't be an issue, Mr Weasley?"

Sirius drops himself into a seat next to Harry, reaching for a small, square pie. "Eat this," he advises. "It's good." Narcissa and Lucius join them at the table, Draco sitting across from his mother, and when Mrs Weasley joins them Harry can tell she's trying hard not to show her enjoyment.

"Did you learn to cook at one of your restaurants, Lucius?" Harry asks, and the older man nods his head, wiping his mouth delicately.

"My grandmother taught me, for the most part, and then my uncles. Goodness knows Narcissa could do with similar tutelage."

"I can cook perfectly well, thank you, Lucius."

"Have you or have you not, my darling, previously managed to set bacon alight?" Harry laughs, and Narcissa tosses her hair.

"At least I, dearheart, have never injured myself with my own Conjunctivitus Jinx." Harry and Draco settle into conversation with them, asking questions about one thing or another - it doesn't take long for Fred, George and Hermione to join in, but Harry can see the other Weasleys are a little unsure how to react.

"Don't you think it's a little bit weird?" Ron asks in a whisper to Harry as they walk up the stairs together. "They keep acting- you know. Normal."

"What did you think they were going to be like?" Harry asks, pushing open the door to his bedroom and stepping inside, inviting Ron to sit down in his armchair. For the summer, Sirius had moved Harry's furniture over to Grimmauld Place, doing the same with his own bedroom, and Harry is glad to have his own room.

"I dunno," Ron says with a shrug, kicking the door closed. "They're just so- they're horrible people, right? They're just so smarmy. But they just tease and that, like- like-"

"Like they're human beings?" Harry asks, and Ron lets out a frustrated noise, sprawling in Harry's chair. "They're trying quite hard to be nice, honestly. They're even on first name terms with your parents."

"That just makes it worse," Ron says, shaking his head. "And then Malfoy- why does he get his own room?"

"Because Death Eaters stole his home," Harry answers simply, and Ron goes slightly red, shifting in his seat. He looks uncomfortable enough staying here without thinking about the Malfoys - the Weasleys are in Grimmauld Place for the summer while Dumbledore strengthens the wards around the Burrow and makes sure it's safe - so Harry says, "Why don't we play a game of chess?"

"You're crap at chess, Harry," Ron points out.

"I can practise," Harry says, and he grabs his board from the shelf. "You looking forward to the Cup?"

"Yeah, definitely. You sure you're not going to come?"

"Nah," Harry says, shaking his head. "Maybe next time." Harry is just about to move his pawn when there's a loud crash from downstairs, and Harry drops the game, throwing open his bedroom door.

At the top of the staircase, though, he skids to a stop, and he grins. "Hey!" he yells brightly, and runs excitedly down the stairs to greet Grimmauld Place's new visitors.

"Hello, Harry," Lindon says as Harry runs down the stairs to meet him, and he shakes Harry's hand. Cecilia isn't nearly so formal - she pulls Harry into a hug of greeting, and she shoots him a little grin as she pats his shoulder. Cecilia is wearing red jeans and a low-cut blouse Harry can't quite tear his gaze from, though Lindon is in a usual set of deep blue robes, and behind them stands a long-haired, tall man that must be Bill Weasley.

Bill Weasley has a broad, square jaw and the same bright, blue eyes as the rest of the Weasley clan. There's a light, gingery stubble over his chin and his cheeks, and the rest of his hair is drawn into a ponytail behind his head, and he wears a loop through one ear with what looks like a wolf fang hanging from it: his shoulders are broad but he's thin and his waist is small, and his tight shirt and trousers accentuate the fact. Harry looks him from his handsome face to his dragonhide boots, and then he goes silent for a few seconds, staring up at him.

Bill's easy smile falters slightly, and then he puts out his hand for Harry to shake it.

Harry feels the callouses of Bill's hand under his own, and he swallows hard before saying awkwardly, "You're, uh, you're tall." He coughs, letting Bill's hand go. "Tall."

"Come in, Celia," Sirius says, poking his head in from the dining room, and Celia and Bill follow him into the next room. Lindon lingers for a second as Hermione follows them out of sight, and then he gently pats Harry's upper back, leaning in closer.

"If he were available to the likes of us, Harry, I'd have already had him." Lindon pats Harry's head, and Harry lets out a sigh as he follows the historian into the next room, doing his best not to look too disappointed. Maybe Harry's a bit too young for Bill, anyway - for now, at least. Cecilia immediately begins talking urgently with Bill, spreading out a set of complex looking diagrams on the table: Lindon stands beside her, pointing out certain parts and explaining them in complex, numerical terms Harry mostly doesn't understand.

Within the next few minutes more people begin to arrive - Dora Tonks manages to trip over the threshold into the dining hall, falling into the arms of Celia, who easily pulls her up again; Kingsley Shacklebolt steps in with a horribly disfigured man limping by his side; Remus walks in followed soon after by Snape; Dedalus Diggle all but propels himself into the room with a beam on his face; Percy Weasley, to his obvious distaste, is accompanied inside by a filthy man who introduces himself as Mundungus Fletcher. As more people enter the room, Ron, Ginny and the Weasley twins are ushered out of the room, followed soon after by Draco - Harry refuses to leave, and when Mrs Weasley tries to push the issue, Sirius stands between him and Hermione and insists they'll stay if they want to.

Harry's grateful for it, though he feels more than out of place as they all begin to sit down at the long dining table. Harry sits beside Lucius with Hermione on his other side: across from them, the disfigured man is staring at Harry with a focus heavily assisted by his artificial eye. "Can I help you?" Harry asks after a few minutes, and the man lets out a hoarse, ugly little laugh.

"Got your dad's cheek, haven't you, Potter?" The man laughs a little more, and then suddenly turns serious. "I'm Alastor Moody."

"Mad-Eye Moody," Lucius supplies from Harry's left, and the ex-Auror slams his broad, scarred hand on the table, glaring at Lucius with a scowl on his face. "Oh, do forgive me, Alastor. Am I not permitted to speak?" Mad-Eye goes for his wand, but behind him Remus grabs his wrist, stopping him short. Lucius' lip is twitching into a smirk, and Harry glances at Hermione for help.

He recognizes the name of Mad-Eye Moody, of course - he'd been utterly notorious during the First War, and there'd been a whole chapter on his defensive methods in Celia's book about the Dark Arts, but he hadn't really been prepared for the man's odd demeanour. He constantly glares between the Malfoys and Snape, and Harry receives a not dissimilar stare every now and then. He doesn't seem capable of holding a smile for more than about four seconds at a time, and constantly has a scowl on his ugly face.

Remus points out the other strangers to Harry - Mundungus Fletcher is something of a career criminal, Hestia Jones and Sturgis Podmore are both accountants, and Emmeline Vance is apparently an Auror. The room becomes more and more crowded, and the sound of their chatter becomes louder as Harry and Hermione keep silent, looking around the room with interest.

Lindon is in deep conversation with Sturgis Podmore, leaning a little closer to the man than is really proper, and Harry's a little distracted by it until the door to the dining hall closes with a strangely loud click of sound. Harry looks to Dumbledore as he enters the room, flanked by Arthur Weasley. Arthur quickly runs to sit down next to Molly at the other side of the room, and Dumbledore stands silently at the end of the table, his blue eyes scanning the room.

They settle on Harry before they narrow slightly, and Harry offers him the most winning smile he can manage. Hermione does the same beside him, obvious hopeful, but he doesn't ask them to leave. In fact, their presence seems to amuse the old man somehow, because he gives a tiny nod of his head before he finishes looking around the table.

"You have each been gathered here," Dumbledore says quietly as he sets his hands absently on the end of the long table, "to become members - or, indeed, to renew your membership - of an old order. The Order of the Phoenix is a society that was originally founded during the First War, in order to fight Lord Voldemort and his followers. With Azkaban destroyed, we can expect him to soon return: we require the Order once more."

"Is that why we're including enemies in our little gatherings, now?" Moody demands with a flick of his thumb at Lucius. Despite everyone staring at him, the man is unflinching, and Narcissa's expression remains equally blank. Harry glances to Snape, who looks to be bored with the evening's proceedings, and then back to Narcissa as she starts to talk.

"By all means, Mr Moody," Narcissa says archly, "Refuse the assistance we're forced to give you if you please - we hardly wish to be involved." Moody and Lucius both open their mouths to join the conversation at the same time, but Dumbledore lightly taps on the table with his knuckles to interrupt them. The quiet sound seems to ring in the full dining room.

"Mr and Mrs Malfoy," Dumbledore breaks in, "are currently being housed here at Grimmauld Place. It was Narcissa's handwriting you read on the slip of paper that told you of this address: please treat them with respect." Moody looks like "respect" should be redefined as a weapon with a lot of sharp edges, but he does go quiet again, crossing his arms over his chest. "You have each been invited to join the Order of the Phoenix - those of you, of course, who have reached the age of seventeen."

Tonks lets out a quiet chuckle as Harry frowns. Dumbledore smiles, and says, "If you would leave us, Mr Potter, Ms Granger..."

"No offence," Harry says, "But I've already faced Voldemort twice, and Hermione's helped in the latter endeavour. How many of the rest of you can say the same? I know Percy and Tonks have never looked him in the face before." Moody starts to laugh, and there's whispering around the room - Mrs Weasley looks horrified, and Harry can see the new people bickering quietly with others around the table. "I've faced Voldemort, and I've faced a Basilisk, too. I'm not just a random kid - I'm part of this fight whether I like it or not."

"The boy's right," Moody says. "Let him stay."

"He's a child," Mrs Weasley protests. "Who next, Albus? Our children?" Harry tries not to be annoyed with her - he can see that she's upset and anxious for him, but he doesn't want to leave.

"I'm not your child though, Mrs Weasley," Harry says. "I'm an orphan because of Lord Voldemort, and that should be reason enough for me to be allowed to stay."

"I give him my full support," Sirius says, crossing his arms over his chest, and Remus gives a reluctant nod of his own head.

"Put it to a vote, sir," Remus suggests, and Dumbledore gives a nod of his head.

"Those in favour of allowing Mr Potter-"

"And Hermione," Harry says. Hermione gives him a small smile,

"Those in favour of allowing Mr Potter and Ms Granger to stay, please raise your hands." Harry and Hermione both look around the room, watching the hands raise. "And those opposed?" Mrs Weasley, Percy, Lucius and Narcissa each raise their hands, but they're the only ones to, and Harry allows himself a tight smile as Dumbledore seems to accept this. "Let us begin, then," Dumbledore says, and he begins to talk.

---

The Order of the Phoenix's meeting is not nearly as interesting as Harry had expected it to be. It's dull, tiresome, and involves a lot of discussion of things that don't seem to directly be related to any expected return of Lord Voldemort - Cecilia presents an analysis of historic headquarters for the Death Eaters and the Order discusses where the Death Eaters might gather on a map of he UK, which Harry doesn't get, because they all know the Death Eaters are at Malfoy Manor. And then there's a big discussion about potential ward structures for protected places, where Lucius, Lindon, Dumbledore and an elderly gentleman called Elphias Doge speak for everyone else, as barely anyone else seems to have the same comprehension of the subject. And, finally, Dumbledore takes a list of duties - none of which Harry or Hermione can contribute to, anyway.

"Other members will be joining us in the next few days," Dumbledore says quietly, "We will engage another meeting in a week's time."

"Who else is joining?" asks Tonks, leaning forwards in her seat. "I know Mum and Dad are joining up, but who else?"

"Oh, a few people here and there," Dumbledore answers with a slight shrug of his shoulders and a small wave of his hand. Everyone splits into quiet conversation - Snape and Lucius begin to talk together, and Narcissa gets into a complex discussion with Hestia Jones that sounds to Harry like it's about different sort of silk. Hermione abandons him to talk to Bill and Celia about cursebreaking, talking animatedly on the subject and asking dozens of questions, and Moody seems to have backed Lindon into a wall, threatening the historian with a severe expression on his features.

"I'm gonna head to bed," Harry says to Sirius. His godfather had been settled alone at the table, still, looking faraway, and now he looks at Harry with raised eyebrows, having been drawn suddenly out of his reverie. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just fine," Sirius says, giving a shake of his head, and then he says quietly, "The last time me and Remus sat down for an Order meeting, James and Lily were just across from us. That's all."

"Sorry," Harry murmurs, and Sirius shoots him a tired smile, patting the side of his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. Good job on joining the ranks, eh?" Sirius winks at him, and Harry gives a little smile in return."Have a good sleep, Harry."

"Cheers, Sirius, you too." Harry heads out of the room, closing the door behind him, but as soon as he's halfway up the stairs George grabs him around the middle, hauling him up and into the room directly above the dining room, where Draco had pulled out a floorboard to try and get a good listen to the room below. Judging by the frenzied, curious expressions of the twins, Ron, Ginny and Draco, they hadn't been all that successful. "Look, I'm not saying anything," Harry says firmly, shaking his head. "If your parents won't let you join up, it's not my fault."

"Oh, Harry, come on," Ginny complains, but Harry repeats his firm head shake, and he leaves the room. George follows after him, closing the door behind them.

"You gonna tell us tomorrow?" he asks, arching one of his eyebrows, and Harry nods his head.

"Yeah," Harry promises. "Me and Hermione will fill you in - if we volunteer to get rid of the Puffskeins in the yellow room, everyone else will probably leave us be, so we can tell you then."

"Sounds good," George says, grinning at him, and slips back into the room behind him. Harry walks down the corridor and into a room: with a quiet thunk, he drops onto his bed, pressing his face into the pillow. All of a sudden, he's exhausted - he doesn't even bother to change his clothes, just kicking his shoes to the floor, before he falls asleep.

---

"I don't see why we can't join!" Fred says irritably, coaxing a Puffskein into his hands. They're not very difficult animals to deal with - there's a positive infestation of them in the yellow room, named for its hideously ugly wallpaper, and they're usually happy to wander into the hands of whoever reaches for them. It's just that once they get into your arms, they're a bit over-affectionate.

"Because you're not seventeen," Harry replies, catching a Puffskein's long, dexterous tongue with his finger before it can get into Harry's nostril. "Your mum won't have it."

"You reckon we could breed these to be smaller, Fred?" George says distractedly. He's currently balancing eight Puffskeins across his arms, all of whom are emitting a warbling purr as they look lovingly up at his face. "You know, maybe half the size?"

"I suppose," Fred says, glancing at his brother. "You reckon they'd sell?"

"Oh, yeah," George nods his head, and Harry turns away as they begin to get into business conversation. Hermione is absently stroking a Puffskein with her knuckles, peering up at the empty wall as if it's somehow interesting.

"You alright?"

"It's the strangest thing, this wallpaper," Hermione mutters, her gaze scanning across its surface. "It makes me think of other yellow stuff - not buttercups or nice things, but... You know. Horrible, foul things." She scrunches up her nose, shaking her head. "And it smells, too, but I don't know how to describe it - all I could say is that it smells yellow." Harry glances at her perplexedly, but then she shakes her head, turning to look at him. "What did you think of last night?"

Harry sighs. "I dunno. It was- boring."

"You expected it to be more exciting?" Hermione asks, seeming a little amused.

"Yeah," Harry says, and she chuckles, setting the Puffskein neatly inside the basket they'd set aside for them. George sets the last of them into the large, wicker basket, and Fred lifts it up, bringing it down the stairs and down into the kitchen. "Alright, Ron?" Ron is sat in the kitchen with Bill, talking seriously with him, and Bill stands up immediately to help Fred with the Puffskeins.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright," Ron says. "Just telling Bill about try-outs this year."

"Lose a Weasley, gain a Weasley," George says fondly, ruffling Ron's hair. "It's getting to be a tradition, Ron, my lad."

"Actually," Ginny says from behind them as she enters the kitchen, "I figured with Percy gone I'd try out for Seeker. Ron's only looking to be a stand-in Keeper if anything happens to Oliver." Fred beams at her, seeming pleased. "So there may well be four of us."

"Well, three and a half," George says as Ron slaps his hand away. "Ronnie won't count as a stand-in."

"Shut up!" Ron says, and Harry glances back as she hears screaming from the hallway. He runs back, getting out his wand to cast Langlock on Mrs Black.

The woman stood on the doorstep has long, chestnut hair tied messily around her head, and her deep lidded eyes narrow as she looks across the room. Mrs Black's curtains have been thrown aside, and she is screeching at the top of her lungs, but when the woman yells, "Oh, shut up, you miserable old hag. There's a reason we're all alive and you're dead," she's shocked into silence, staring at her. The woman spells the curtains closed, and the man behind her gives a little grin.

"Well done, dear," he says genially, and the woman pats his chest affectionately as she steps inside, pulling the door closed behind her. "Is Sirius about?"

"Drom!" says Sirius from the landing, beaming down at her as he makes his way down the stairs, and Harry turns to look at the woman properly.

"Drom?" he repeats. "Andromeda Tonks?"

"Yes," she says lightly. "Yes, that's me." Harry gives a little laugh. He's never seen the woman's face before - he's only ever seen her frantic, curly handwriting spidering over parchment, but he feels like he knows her nonetheless.

"Oh, well, uh, I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"Oh! Oh, of course you are! Just look at you!" Dromeda laughs, throwing back her head, and Harry acts without even thinking about it - he puts out his arms and hugs the woman tightly. Andromeda seems surprised, but she hugs him back, patting his shoulders as she smiles at him. She's one of the few people who's written him back since he was eleven, and seeing her in person is- it's odd. It's nice, warm, pleasant.

He still has the blanket she sent him in his first year.

"I'm Andromeda, love, and this is Ted. Ted, say hello."

"Hello," Ted says brightly, pushing his glasses up his nose. He and Andromeda are about Narcissa's age, Harry guesses, and Andromeda has pale skin and laughter lines obvious on her face; Ted's hair is parted to the left, and he has warm, friendly features. The both of them are dressed in Muggle clothes, with Andromeda in a surprisingly low-cut blouse and a rather tight skirt.

"Drom!" Sirius says again as he comes towards them, and he hugs her tightly before he looks to Ted. "And you must be the husband who saved her from that family of hers!"

"My knight in argyle socks," Drom agrees fondly, and Sirius shakes Ted's hand, patting his shoulder. "Where are we going, Sirius?"

"To the dining room," he answers, and Harry follows them inside. Harry fixes the Tonks with cups of tea, and he listens as Sirius begins to talk with them - he'd only really dimly realized that Andromeda and Sirius were cousins, and now seeing them chat back and forth it's nice to hear them go.

"Molly!" thunders a loud voice, and Harry turns his head as Lucius stamps into the dining room, dressed in a pair of Sirius' pyjama bottoms and nothing else. His bare feet are obscenely pale, and Harry can't help but stare a little at his chest: Lucius Malfoy has a lot of muscle on him. Harry's never really seen muscled wizards - Fred and George have buff arms, but Lucius Malfoy has thick, corded shoulder muscle and abs. He has visible abs.

"Oh, Lucius, darling," Drom says smoothly. "You needn't have dressed up on my account." Lucius glances at her, then flinches wildly, grabbing for his wand, but she tuts at him. "Andromeda, Lucius. Not Bellatrix." Lucius closes his eyes for a second, pinching his nose and seeming visibly annoyed, but he drops his wand into the pocket of the pyjama trousers as Molly, Bill, Ron and Ginny come into the room.

Harry watches Lucius as he crosses his arms over his chest: the bandage is still over the Dark Mark on his left arm, but above it on the upper arm is a thick, shiny square of skin, burned scar covering the straight edges.

"Merlin's balls, Mr Malfoy," Bill exclaims, giving the older man an unabashed grin. "You look like our Charlie!" Lucius curls his lip, staring at him.

"Pardon, William?" If looks could kill, Harry expects Bill would be in several dozen neat slices right about now.

"He means your muscles," Molly says, who's staring at Lucius' chest like it belongs to an alien. "How on Earth did you ge tlike that?"

"It's a process known as exercise," Lucius mutters with irritation obvious on his face, shaking his head as Dromeda stifles her giggles in Ted's shoulder, "Where are your hellspawn?"

"Arthur's just taken them out with Hermione to buy some groceries," Molly says sweetly. "Why, what have my hellspawn done?"

"They've stolen the contents of mine and Narcissa's wardrobes," he answers icily. "Leaving us without dress."

"Is, uh, is Narcissa undressed too?" Bill asks innocently, and Lucius reaches for his wand again: Harry grabs him by the wrist, stopping whatever horrible hex he's ready to cast on the chuckling cursebreaker. "They'll be back soon. Calm down." Lucius all but snarls in Bill's direction, and he stalks from the room and up the stairs again. Harry watches after him.

"Does he really exercise, d'you think?"

"Oh, does all sorts of little exercises at the crack of dawn, Narcissa used to say," Andromeda says, her lips twitching with amusement. "Good to see they've made a nice difference. You could look like that, Ted."

"I could," Ted says, seeming to weigh up the idea. "But I'd rather have another biscuit." Dromeda slides the plate towards him, and the two of them share a little laugh together.

"What was that he said?" Harry asks, turning back to them. "About Bellatrix?"

"Oh, we look rather similar, that's all," Andromeda says with a sigh. "Shame, really. She rather takes away from my brand." Harry laughs a little despite himself, and he listens carefully as they all set into conversation again. Harry can't help but enjoy the people who're beginning to come in and out of Grimmauld Place - it's exciting.

He just hopes the excitement will continue for the rest of the summer, especially in Order meetings.

Harry frowns at the Prophet as he holds it in his hand, scanning the pages. One story had been about a sighting of Gilderoy Lockhart in Diagon Alley, where he'd gotten into an altercation with a woman while leaving Gringotts, and another had been about Death Eaters. Bellatrix Lestrange had been seen in Calais with a small group of other Death Eaters, too - it had been mentioned at last night's Order meeting, which had proved as dull as the first one.

The Prophet, unfortunately, offers no extra detail. He glances up as Tonks comes towards him, pulling one of his letters towards him and discarding the Prophet in irritation.

"Who are you writing now?" Tonks asks, leaning over his shoulder and peering curiously down at the stack of parchments on the table. He'd been worried about the Fidelius Charm, but all of the owls had come through it just fine. Sirius had explained it with a wave of his hand and a muttered set of words about different species and post charms and it's fine: it worries Harry a bit that the Charm can be so easily bypassed by owls, but he supposes the important thing is that wizards can't follow them through.

"Uh, I'm writing a reply to Mafalda Hopkirk... Do you know about something happening at Hogwarts this year?"

"No," Tonks says innocently, but there's a playfulness in her tone, and he narrows his eyes at her. He'd actually only written to Hopkirk with a technical enquiry about the use of magic objects outside of Hogwarts by underage students, but she'd mentioned excitement happening at Hogwarts this year.

"What? What's gonna happen?" Tonks taps the side of her nose, making it lengthen as she does so, and Harry leans away from her, laughing. He can't keep it from his mind, though - it's not the first sly implication he's heard of something at Hogwarts this year, and he wants to know what's going on.

After the World Cup, at least, maybe it'll be easier to find out something about it.

---

Harry sighs, unplugging the television and setting it aside with a shake of his head. "I told you," Hermione says without looking up from her book. "There's too much magic for it to work."

"My radio works sometimes," Harry retorts, and he takes up the screwdriver again, undoing the back of the television and putting the plastic casing aside.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asks, looking at him with an extremely irritating expression of amusement on her face.

"I'm going to make it work."

"You don't even know how the television works normally. Let alone with magic thrown into the mix." Much as he hates to admit it, she's right, and he throws the screwdriver down, staring at the mix of wires and confusing bits of metal in the back of the television.

"When I leave Hogwarts," Harry declares, "I'm going to make television work for wizards." Hermione drops a bookmark into her page, setting the book aside as she leans forwards. They're the only ones in the living room - Mrs Weasley is in the kitchen, baking in the peace of the household, and Narcissa is in the dining room with her own book. With everyone else out of the house, having made their way off to the World Cup, Grimmauld Place is ridiculously quiet, and the boredom is hitting Harry hard.

"They'll be back tomorrow morning," Hermione offers, and Harry sighs.

"Yeah," he agrees. "But it's not even five, yet."

"Are you children occupying yourselves?" Narcissa appears in the doorway, and Harry and Hermione glance up at her, mildly surprised. Narcissa, for the past few days, has been doing her level best to ignore Hermione entirely, but she looks at Harry and her both as she stands beside the doorframe.

"Uh, no, not really," Harry admits.

"Get up," Narcissa orders cleanly, clapping her well-manicured hands together. Harry and Hermione stare at her. "Come, come on. We must fight the ennui somehow."

"Are you bored too, Mrs Malfoy?" Hermione asks as she pulls herself out of her chair, and Narcissa les out a huff of sound, tossing her hair slightly as she leads them out into the hall and up the stairs.

"A lady is never bored, Ms Granger. At the very most, she may be disinterested." Hermione makes such an ugly face at Narcissa's back that Harry has to stifle a snort of laughter against his sleeve, and the both of them follow her into the yellow room. Narcissa sweeps the furniture aside with an easy, silent movement of her wand, and then she murmurs a quiet spell, conjuring three straw targets that fasten themselves upright before the three of them. "What offensive magic do you know? Ms Granger, you first."

"Uh, Densaugeo, Petrificus Totalus, the Jelly-Legs Jinx, Rictusempra, Expelliarmus, an Instant Scalping jinx, the Bat-Bogey Hex..."

"You know the Bat-Bogey hex?" Harry asks, and Hermione nods.

"Ginny taught me," Hermione says, and then continues, listing off a few more spells before turning to Harry.

"Uh, most of the stuff Hermione knows, but not the Bat-Bogey. And then I can cast a Knee-Reversal Hex-"

"Really?" Narcissa interrupts. She'd listened to Hermione rattle off the spells in her arsenal rather disinterestedly, only giving a nod now and then, but this spell seems to give her pause.

"Yeah, I learnt it in Snape's Duelling Club in second year." Narcissa hums, and she spells her sleeves to shorten themselves and draw themselves in against her arms, doing something similar to the skirt of her robes. "Oh, and we know Serpensortia."

"That's not really offensive magic," Hermione argues, but Narcissa gives a minute shake of her head.

"I suppose you learned that from Draco?" Narcissa asks, and they nod their heads. "It is excellent offensive magic for someone who isn't a duellist." She goes quiet for a few moments, considering what to say. She looks pretty, like this - Narcissa's hair is a beautiful light blonde, and her eyes are a deeper blue than Draco and Lucius', not as icy, and when she's pensive she looks ready to be added to a portrait at any moment. "Lucius and I are very different in this respect: I'm something of a natural duellist, and am comfortable with a variety of spells in my arsenal. Lucius can only cast a few hexes well, and thus he favours a more... Creative approach."

"Like conjuring snakes?" Hermione asks, and Narcissa nods her head.

"Precisely. I would guess, Harry, that you're something of a wonder on the duelling ground - a Kneel-Reversal Hex at twelve is very impressive. And you, Ms Granger, what magic would you say you're best at?" The question is asked so severely that Harry wonders for a second if it's a trick question, but Narcissa's expression is serious, and she concentrates on Hermione's face as she asks it.

"I don't think I'm best at any sort of magic, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione says eventually. "I'm not naturally gifted at any of them, particularly, but I can apply myself to different things." She seems a little nervous about answering, but Narcissa seems to approve of the answer, looking between the two of them appraisingly.

"Let's begin with something simple," she decides. "A Jelly-Fingers curse - it will debone your opponent's wand hand. Ideal for a rapid disarmament." Narcissa's targets are soon spelled into metal forms instead of straw ones, and then she says, "Watch me."

---

"I did it!" Hermione says after a few hours of practice, running towards her target. Holding up the target's gloved right hand, she shows that no metal fingers are plain inside, and Narcissa gives a little clap of her hands. It takes Harry a little longer, but when he does manage it, Narcissa beams at him, and they break to eat downstairs.

"And what is your favourite offensive spell, Molly?" Narcissa asks with the sort of forced politeness Harry has come to expect from the Malfoys. Mrs Weasley considers the question, chewing her bite of her sandwich in a delicate fashion.

"Colei novis," she answers finally, and Narcissa hides a small titter behind the back of her hand. Molly glances between Hermione and Harry, and then says, "When your opponent's got a rod and tackle, it, er- It twists them up."

"Can you teach me that?" Hermione asks immediately, and Harry shudders.

"Of course you'd want to learn it," he says. "That sounds awful."

"When faced with an opponent who will happily kill you, Harry, you ought use any tool in your arsenal," Narcissa says, pushing her plate neatly aside. "Back to work, I think." Mrs Weasley looks a little worried at the idea, but she doesn't protest, and simply settles back to let them go. Narcissa's a surprisingly good teacher, and Harry's glad to learn something a bit more... Well. Practical.

---

"Can't we keep going?" Harry asks, and Narcissa laughs, pushing the three targets she'd conjured aside. She shakes out her sleeves, bringing them back to their usual length, and she gestures for Harry and Hermione to precede her down the stairs. Harry does feel tired, he supposes, but he could easily keep on going. Hermione looks a little tired herself, but she seems to have a similar want to keep on going.

"It's nearly midnight," Narcissa replies, chuckling. "I-" There's a harsh slam as the front door is thrown open, and they freeze on the stairs: it's raining heavily outside, and Lucius stumbles over the threshold with Ginny in his arms - she's a sickly pale white, and Lucius runs with her into the dining room.

"Sirius!" Harry says as Narcissa rushes into the dining room: his godfather's hair is singed and smoking, cuts all over his face, and he supports Fred into the room. Fred is coughing blood that stains the front of his bright green shirt and the carpet, and Harry's blood runs cold as he follows them into the dining room.

Ginny is sat up on the dining table, choking as she spits water out, and Mrs Weasley rubs her back. Ginny's eyes are wide and watering, and Harry looks at her in horror. "It's a jinx," Lucius says, shaking his head and rubbing over his cheek. "It makes you feel like you're drowning. Draco, bring him over here!" Draco and George have Ron between them, and Lucius pushes him to sit down in one of the dining chairs. Ron's leg looks somehow wrong, and Lucius is careful about cutting up the denim of his jeans.

"Oh, my God," Hermione says sharply, putting her hand over her mouth and turning her head away: Harry can't quite tear away his gaze, though, and just keeps staring: Ron's leg is swollen on the right side, the flesh bent into an unnatural shape, and Harry can see his kneecap is completely out of place.

"This," Lucius murmurs quietly, "is going to cause you some mild discomfort."

"It's going to fucking hurt, Ron," George translates, squeezing his brother's shoulder, and Ron lets out a cry of pain as Lucius spells the kneecap back into place. Harry runs to grab some pain killers from the kitchen, and surveys the chaos as he pours small amounts of Auxlian Elixir into shot glasses. Mrs Weasley is bent over Fred, casting different charms over him, and Narcissa is doing her best to heal the open cuts on Sirius' face.

Harry feels utterly powerless as everyone bustles back and forth - just a few minutes ago Harry had felt like he'd really be able to handle himself in a fight, and now?

Now he's not sure at all.

"Come here, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore says in a very quiet, serious tone, and Fred moves immediately, doing his best to stand up and face Dumbledore. It's been an hour now since the Malfoys, Sirius and the Weasleys returned from the Quidditch World Cup, and everyone is sat anxiously around the dining hall in one chair or another. George is holding tightly to Fred's arm, helping him to stay on his feet: he just keeps on coughing, and every single retch and choke brings more thick blood out of his mouth.

Sirius and Mrs Weasley had been about to take him to St Mungo's when Mr Weasley had finally appeared with Dumbledore in tow, and Harry feels a sweeping relief as Dumbledore does a few complicated twists of his wand and Fred gasps for breath, no longer spitting anything out of his mouth. Bill presses a glass of water into his brother's hand, patting his back, and Fred drinks greedily to try and soothe his throat. There'd been a sense of rising panic as every counterspell and healing charm each of the adults had tried had failed to work, and the relief in the room is palpable as Fred breathes in heavy breaths.

Lucius is holding Narcissa's hand tightly in his own, and Draco leans into the half hug Narcissa gives him: it's a good thing Draco inherited his mother's more slender form rather than his father's broad shoulders, Harry thinks, else they wouldn't fit together on the loveseat at the side of the room. Hermione is putting a greenish balm on Ginny's neck to soothe some of the bruises there, and everyone else sits mutely around the room, staring into the empty air.

"Arthur did not have time to tell me," Dumbledore says quietly, "what precisely occured."

"They came for us, Draco and I," Lucius says, his grip tight on the glass of whiskey in his right hand; his left remains interlinked with his wife's, and from the look of it Lucius has no plans to let Narcissa go for the rest of the evening.

"I'd left the tent to, er," Sirius glances at Mrs Weasley, and then says, "flirt with some girls I'd met in the stadium. I didn't think anything of it - the two of them were exhausted, and I was just coming back to the tent when I saw the flames licking at the entrance. I drew the both of them out, but there was fire everywhere."

"They were marching," Bill adds. "Twenty or thirty of them in their masks, and others had broken off to grab some people from the crowd."

"One of them took me," Ginny says quietly. "Recognized my hair."

"That's how Ron got hurt," Bill says. "The three of us were coming back to the tent together, and Ron lunged at the woman who cursed her."

"Us and Dad were in the tent still," George says.

"And I told you to stay in the tent," Arthur says.

"We didn't do that," Fred says without a semblance of guilt. "Put two of the bastards on the ground before one of them hit me with that curse." Harry tries to make sense of all of their stories - Ginny, Bill and Ron walking together, the twins and Arthur still in the tent, and Sirius finding the Malfoys in theirs. He feels trapped, all of a sudden, and he keeps thinking of them all - Ron, with his twisted leg, Ginny drowning in the middle of the room, Fred coughing up everything in his chest.

"Why were you all split up?" he demands, looking between them all. "Are you stupid or something? What the Hell, Sirius, you just left the Malfoys to go flirt with someone?" Sirius startles somewhat, obviously surprised, but the others just look between each other, shaking their heads.

"Harry," Bill says quietly, shaking his head at him. "There'd been no sign that anything was going to wrong or awry. We were enjoying the excitement of the game, of the win. Ireland had-"

"I don't care who won," Harry snaps out, and he feels Dumbledore' hand on his shoulder. He glances at the old man, who just meets Harry's eyes for a second: usually, if Dumbledore tried to do something like this, he'd be annoyed, but somehow it calms him down a little, and he shrugs Dumbledore's hand off him, going quiet again.

He listens in silence as Arthur explains how he'd got them all together, to go to a portkey they'd set up for London, and Harry lets himself zone out, dropping himself into space. He replays it again and again - Sirius' burns, Ginny drowning... It's horrible. All that magic is just horrible, and he can't believe he'd just been enjoying learning to cast a scalping hex when-

"Harry?" He jolts, pulled out of his spiralling daydream, and he looks around the room. Everyone is staring at him, and Hermione's hand is on his lower arm. "Dumbledore was asking us why we didn't go," Hermione murmurs, frowning at him, and Harry sighs, shaking his head.

"I didn't want to be in the crowd," Harry admits, shaking his head. "It seemed like a lot of people to deal with. When Hermione said she wasn't really interested, I thought we could both stay back."

"And you, Narcissa?" Dumbledore asks, turning to her and raising his silver eyebrows.

"I hate Quidditch," Narcissa answers simply. "I think it's dull."

"You're mad, Mrs Malfoy," George says, and despite himself Harry snorts. Narcissa puts her nose in the air, but even Draco offers a weak little laugh.

"I was teaching the children a few hexes," Narcissa says. She doesn't look at Lucius as she speaks, but he keeps his gaze focused on her face. "We were upstairs - I thought taking advantage of some time to study might be beneficial." Harry doesn't miss the way Lucius' eyes widen slightly, nor the comprehension on his face.

"The children?" Lucius repeats, glancing at Hermione and curling his lip slightly. "What-"

"And you, Molly?" Dumbledore interrupts before Lucius can continue, and Harry feels a little grateful for that.

"I like a game of Quidditch, but I don't much like to watch it," she answers tiredly, "Do you think this is important?"

"No," Dumbledore says, shaking his head. "I merely wished to check. I know Percival didn't attend because of constraints of his work: he and Mr Crouch required him to complete some paperwork at the Ministry."

"Did anyone die?" Ginny asks. Harry only now notices that her voice is slightly hoarse, and he feels an extra pang of sympathy for her: she stands firm, though, and isn't shaking despite what she's just been through. None of the Weasleys are, actually, except Fred - they're all a lot hardier than Harry had expected. Dumbledore is silent in response to the question.

"It's too early to be certain as to the precise number of casualties," he says quietly, obviously doing his best to be charitable, but Ginny shakes her head.

"Please, Professor. Who died?"

"Percival is completely fine," Dumbledore says, "He was sent back to the Ministry at six o'clock this evening. I say this because Bartemius Crouch was discovered dead beneath the Dark Mark not long after." Harry stares at him, utterly taken aback by what he's said - Barty Crouch, with his tough-bristled moustache and eternally stern expression, had never really struck Harry as capable of dying. "A few witches from the Salem Institute have been hospitalized with heavy spell damage, but to my awareness Mr Crouch was the only casualty."

There's silence in the room, and Arthur says, "You should all get to bed, I think. We can worry in the morning."

"Did he have any family?" Harry asks, looking at Dumbledore. "He never- he never really mentioned any, when he wrote me, so I didn't know..."

"His son was a Death Eater," Lucius murmurs. "He died in Azkaban, and his wife died of grief soon after. He never remarried." It strikes Harry with a particular melancholy, and he stays still as the Weasleys slowly split off to go to bed - Hermione and Ginny make their way up the stairs together, the twins in their pursuit. Harry stays in place, silent. Nobody bothers him - Bill goes to bed, as well as Draco, Ron, Lucius and Mrs Weasley, and it's only then that Sirius sits down beside him.

Mr Weasley is talking seriously with Dumbledore, too quietly for Harry to hear even if he strains: Sirius is silent as he puts his arm around Harry's shoulder and delivers a small kiss to the top of his head. He rubs Harry's upper forearm, and Harry breathes in, slowly. There's a slow sickness twisting his belly, making shivers run up his spine, and he can't quite verbalize what he's feeling for a few minutes. For that time, he and Sirius sit in the silence together, the only sounds in the room coming from Dumbledore and Mr Weasley's quiet mutterings.

"Would it have been different, do you think, if I'd come?" Harry asks finally, and Sirius shakes his head right away, like he'd been waiting for the question. Guilt ghosts through Harry's body, despite his having not even gone, but he can't help but wonder - would it have been different, if he'd gone? Could he have saved Crouch somehow? "I could have-"

"No, Harry," Sirius says, rubbing Harry's arm. He smells burnt, and Harry wonders how long it will take for him to fix his hair, which is uneven on one side. "You couldn't have done anything. He was a very capable wizard - a demon in a duel. Nothing you could have done would have saved him." Harry leans against Sirius' side, closing his eyes as his godfather plays absently with his hair, and he breathes in slowly, doing his best to ignore the smoky odour from his hair.

"I want to go to his funeral," Harry says. He's never been to a funeral before. He was never taken to his parents' funeral - did they even have a funeral? - and although he remembers Aunt Petunia going to one or two, Harry had never been brought along. What's a funeral like, even? He doesn't know. But he knows he wants to go to Barty Crouch's - even if he hadn't really known the man, he feels like he's lost something.

"'Course," Sirius says. "Sure, yeah. You can probably go with Percy - Mad-Eye will go too." Sirius' hand rubs slowly over Harry's shoulder, and Harry swallows down the thickness in his throat. It isn't that he wants to cry. In honesty, he just feels sick. "You gonna head to bed, kid?"

"Yeah," Harry says lowly. "Yeah, Sirius, I'll go. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Sirius says firmly. "Don't be sorry."

---

Harry stays in his room the next day. He reads through old letters the old man had sent him - Crouch had never been a regular penfriend of his, but he has a dozen or so pieces of correspondence. He doesn't know why he's bothering: every letter is curt, simple and polite, but Crouch had never spilled his life's secrets on the page or displayed his heart. He'd just been a professional man who'd been nice enough to write Harry back.

Harry sits on the floor, leaning against the back of his armchair and absently paging through books, not really reading any of them. He doesn't feel social, and nor does he feel hungry, so he doesn't bother coming downstairs for breakfast. At twelve, one of the Malfoys' house elves appears with a bacon sandwich, sets it beside Harry, and then disappears.

He doesn't eat it.

Harry doesn't even feel like playing a record - all he wants to do is sit and think about the Death Eaters, and wonder how many more people they'll kill this year.

Hedwig brings him a letter in the early evening from Afifa Lanjwani: it's a normal thing, just telling Harry how she's doing and how she's enjoying work in her parents' shop. He sets it aside, and he pets Hedwig when she sits beside him, settling in the silence.

The knock on his door in the early evening isn't entirely unexpected. "Come in," Harry calls, and he hears the door open.

"Harry?" Remus asks. From his current position, Harry's out of sight, and he waves his hand to the left of the armchair so that Remus can see him. He knows why Sirius has sent Remus - Sirius isn't great at talking about feelings, even though he tries, and Remus is a little better. Still terrible at it, but a little better.

"Down here." He hears the door shut closed, and Remus comes into the room. Harry stays in his place, cross-legged against the back of his chair, and Remus slides down against the wall across from him, his hands on his knees. For a long time, neither of them say anything. Remus seems like he's waiting for Harry to say something, but for Harry doesn't feel like saying anything. And then, the question suddenly coming back to him, he asks, "Did my parents have a funeral?" Remus stares at him, obviously not having expected the question, and then he nods his head.

"Yes, of course they did."

"Were you the only person to go?" Harry asks. He doesn't know why, but asking the question hurts him. He has a terrible visual of Remus in some churchyard in the rain, holding a tattered umbrella over his head, all alone.

"No," Remus answers. "No. I was there, for your mother and father. Minerva McGonagall came, Filius Flitwick, and Albus. Hagrid..." Remus trails off, and he looks at the patched knees of his trousers, letting out a quiet sigh. "It wasn't that your parents didn't have more friends, of course, it was-"

"All of them were already dead, or in prison," Harry finishes. He speaks dully. "I know all my family had been killed already. I asked a lot about them, in fist year, when I was writing people - no one ever mentioned you or Sirius to me, 'cause I never asked about you. I asked about grandparents, and uncles, and stuff. It never occurred to me that I'd have some. And they'd be alive now, if it hadn't been for the war, wouldn't they?"

"I can't know that for certain," Remus says immediately, but Harry ignores him, looking at Hedwig and stroking over her cheek. She coos at him, giving a small, affectionate nip to the side of his hand. "The Potters were all- they were all very focused on the cause, Harry. They wanted to protect-"

"I know," Harry says. "I know. It's okay."

"You haven't eaten anything," Remus murmurs, and Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"Don't really feel like it," he replies. Remus doesn't nag like Mrs Weasley or Lucius would, and nor does he push the plate of cold sandwich towards Harry. He just looks at Harry with his sad eyes, and gives a slow nod of his head. "What's happening downstairs?"

"Lucius and Bill arm-wrestled," Remus offers, and Harry gives him a weak smile. Remus looks more well-rested than usual, but the full moon is coming soon, and Harry knows it won't last.

"Did they bet on it?"

"Of course."

"How much did Lucius win?"

"A Galleon." Harry laughs a little, quietly, and he leans his head into it when Hedwig gently butts her head against his temple. "I'll come downstairs for dinner," Harry promises, and Remus gives a slow nod of his head.

"Alright, Harry," Remus murmurs. "We love you, you know, Sirius and I." It makes Harry glance up, and he stares at Remus. Remus' expression is intense and focused, but he's never said that to Harry before. The words echo in his ears.

"Yeah," Harry says, barely hearing his own, thick voice. "Yeah, I love you too." When he hears the door shut closed, he closes his eyes, and he lets himself let out a small sob. He feels stupid for crying over anything at all, let alone over the death of a bloke he didn't even know, but he can't really stop himself. Especially when that's not all he's crying over.

He just hides his face in Hedwig's feathers and lets himself cry.

---

"Do you feel better?" Hermione asks when Harry sits next to her at dinner, and he considers the question for a little bit. He'd dabbed his eyes with cold water, trying to make them look a little less red-rimmed, but he's worried it's obvious he's been crying.

"Yeah," he decides. "Yeah, a little." She reaches for his hand, giving it a squeeze, and he gives her a small smile before they begin to eat. Everyone talks at dinner: Draco is animatedly continuing an argument with Ron, who goes a darker shade of red the more Draco continues, and that's mostly what Harry listens to the whole way through. It's not even a subject he cares about - they're arguing about whether chess should be considered legitimate enough for a competition - but they're both so irritated about it it's impossible not to be entertained.

There aren't that many people at dinner: neither Mr Weasley nor Bill are present, and Narcissa is gone too. The twins are home, but they aren't at the table. Barring Draco and Ron, everyone is a little muted, and Harry's a little glad for that - he loves the animated conversation of Grimmauld Place, but tonight he's grateful for something a little quieter.

"There's a meeting tonight," Sirius says to Harry, and Harry nods his head, glancing to Hermione.

"I'm coming, yeah," Hermione answers his silent question, and both Draco and Ron drop their argument to glance their way.

"Why can't we join if they can?" Ron demands for the fifth time, and Mrs Weasley opens her mouth to respond, but Harry interrupts.

"Hands up if you're an orphan because of Lord Voldemort," Harry says dryly. He raises his own hand, watching Draco and Ron with arched eyebrows. "Now raise your hand if you and you parents are at risk from Lord Voldemort simply because of your blood status." Hermione raises hers. "There it is, Ron. That's the reason."

Remus hides his laughter in his cup, and Sirius reaches over, patting Harry's face with obvious fondness. Harry leans back and out of his godfather's reach, shaking his head at the man, and Sirius laughs openly, putting his hand on Remus' shoulder instead. Harry nearly misses the way Sirius' fingers linger there for a second before he draws his hand slowly away again, and he frowns slightly, a little perplexed by it, but he brushes the thought away.

"Who's coming tonight?" Hermione asks.

"Well," Remus says, and he begins to list some names.

"No Death Eaters captured!" Mad-Eye storms, banging the base of his cup on the table. "None of them! Two fifteen-year-olds Stunned a few of 'em, and that useless lot couldn't capture a one." Across from Mad-Eye at the table, Kingsley steeples his fingers, silent. Beside the both of them, Tonks sits with her head in her hands, shaking her head slowly. The three of them all look exhausted, and Harry watches them for a few seconds. Beside her, Andromeda pats her daughter's back, and Tonks just shakes her head, her hair lengthening and thickening into an ugly, mousy grey-brown.

"Were any killed?" Harry asks, and Mad-Eye seems surprised at the question, glancing at him.

"Aye, lad. A man named Scabior, nasty little so-and-so, and, er, Valiant Crabbe. Scabior was an Azkaban escapee, but Crabbe was free. Got caught by friendly fire from one of his friends." Mad-Eye lets out an ugly little laugh, and Harry nods his head.

"Well, that's the bright side, at least."

"Harry!" says Mrs Weasley from the side of the room, looking shocked, and Harry glances at the other members of the Order. People are shooting him odd or offended looks, and Harry feels himself scoff.

"Well, sorry, Mrs Weasley, but they're Death Eaters. I'm not going to feel bad that they're dead."

"They're still people, Harry," Arthur murmurs, a frown on his face, and Harry shakes his head. He doesn't back down.

"They would have let Ginny drown in front of them, and laugh as she fell," Harry retorts. "If they're people, Mr Weasley, it's only barely." There's a silence that rings through the room for a moment, and then Mad-Eye grins at him.

"The lad's got the right idea," he says brightly: his bad mood seems to have been cleared right up by Harry's unpopular opinion, and Harry gives the old man a funny look.

"Unpolished though his opinion might be," Lucius says cleanly, "He's correct. I was duelling to kill with the Death Eaters that came for my son - it makes no sense to do otherwise. Any one of them would kill you all if they believed it would please to the Dark Lord."

"Including you, Malfoy?"

"No, Mr Moody," Lucius retorts. "I shall have to return to my previous hobbies of deflowering young ladies and murdering cats." He draws out the sibilance of the 's', glaring at Moody, and Harry hears Snape let out a sound that's almost laughter. Moody rips his head around to glare at him, too, but before he can continue Lindon Sartorius clears his throat in a dramatic fashion.

"If anyone's interested," he says silkily, "Cecilia and I were also nearly murdered last night."

"No one's interested," Lucius says, and then he hisses. Harry had felt Narcissa's foot move sharply under the table, and he tries to hide his laugh in his sleeve. Lindon tosses his hair slightly, ignoring Lucius, and he waits until everyone is looking at him and Celia before he continues.

"Gilderoy Lockhart, Chad Arnett and Bonnie Darling accosted us in the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Lockhart, I can sadly report, is lacking in his previous good looks. He's all sallow, and his hair is a mess. Chad, however-" There's laughter around the room, and Harry smiles too - he likes Lindon's sarcastic sense of humour, and he likes the way the man isn't afraid to flourish his sexuality, even if it makes Lucius fume in his seat.

"Lockhart's obviously been training," Celia interrupts, putting her hand over Lindon's and forcing him quiet. "He doesn't meet Arnett or Darling for skill nor flourish, but he did some damage. While they're not going to offer the same threat as the Death Eaters, or You-Know-You if the Lestranges find him, I don't think we can just brush them off. Lockhart was saying something about a list."

"A list?" Sturgis Podmore asks, leaning forwards. "List of what?"

"Names, we think," Lindon says, becoming a little more serious again. "He mentioned us, Mr Snape, a few Hogwarts teachers... As well as young Harry, of course." Harry sighs.

"Did he mention Hermione, or just me?"

"Just you," Celia answers. "But I'm sure he'll try and murder you too, dear, if he gets the chance."

"Thanks," Hermione replies dryly. "That does make me feel better. What are people doing about him? Anything?"

"We think he'll be drawn to Hogwarts this year," Bill says. Beside him, Percy gives a serious nod of his head, and Harry frowns at them, narrowing his eyes slightly. "For those of you who don't already know, they're going to be hosting the Triwizard Cup this year." There are a few gasps and hums around the room, and Harry and Hermione share an urgent look. "Given what a big event it's going to be, with the public allowed in during the events, both the Death Eaters and Lockhart's lot are probably going to try and use it as some kind of platform."

"Given that, um," Percy's voice shakes a little as he speaks, but he raises his chin, and says a little more firmly, "Given that the Tournament is already underway, it's far too late for us to draw back. Nonetheless, with foreign students at Hogwarts and the gates open to spectators, we'll have to be careful with security. For each event, I would suggest we have several Order members amongst the crowds, that we might act fast in the event of any crises."

"An excellent suggestion, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore says, nodding his head.

"With myself, Albus, Severus and Cecilia on the staff," McGonagall says from beside him, her arms crossed over her chest, "we ought be able to handle what goes on within the castle."

"Cecilia?" Harry repeats. "Why're you on the staff?"

"Oh," she says. "I'm your new Defence teacher." Harry turns his head, and he looks at Remus. The other man is quiet, looking down at his fingernails, but then he looks up.

"With the additional risk of foreign students in school, as well as various visitors, we thought it best I not retain my position for this year. Given my... Condition." It's obvious Remus is embarrassed, and he coughs quietly. Tonks is looking at him with a quiet, obvious sympathy on her face, and the silence in the room is... Awkward.

"Let us discuss added security to the Triwizard Tasks," Dumbledore says, and everyone tears their gaze from him. Everyone, it seems like, except Harry. Remus looks so sad once no one's looking at him, and it makes Harry feel a twinge of sympathy.

---

"You're coming to the funeral on Sunday then, lad?" Mad-Eye says, and Harry gives a nod of his head. He honestly can't decide whether the grizzled old man likes him or not - Moody tends to look at up with with suspicion, but he also laughs a lot at things Harry says. He doesn't yet know if that's something good or not.

"Yes, sir," Harry says. "I didn't know Mr Crouch all that well, but I'd written him, and he'd struck me as a pretty good man. Maybe a bit of a workaholic, but a moral one." Moody gives a nod of his head, but apparently that's the end of the conversation - he limps off to talk to McGonagall, and Harry lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lindon's violet robes, and he turns his head to see him being pulled into the kitchen after Sirius.

Frowning, Harry walks across the room, carefully opening the door and slipping inside.

"Leave him alone!"

"Leave him alone? I hardly follow the young man about, Mr Black." Harry creeps behind one of the cabinets of crockery, and then he leans around it. Lindon is sat in one of the kitchen chairs, looking utterly unruffled, but Sirius seems furious. "He and I are rather good friends."

"If you so much as think of touching him-" Sirius hisses.

"Oh, don't insult me," Lindon says, shaking his head. "The boy's a child. What, do you think I'm tiptoeing through the tulips, corrupting any boy I make my way by?"

"I'm sure you'd love to," Sirius growls. Harry ducks back behind the cabinet as Sirius glances back, and he doesn't risk leaning around it again - he just listens, staying as still as he can. "He's my godson, Sartorius. If you do anything untoward, I'll use you to carpet the stairs."

"He's hardly mooning over me, Black," Lindon replies, apparently amused by the threats. Harry wonders if the man has any idea how to respond sensibly to threats. "Unlike that Weasley, of course."

"What?" Sirius demands.

"Young William. Your godson is at no risk from me, but he positively salivates whenever Bill-" There's the sick sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Harry hears Lindon let out a grunt of pain. "I do believe you're being the slightest bit oversensitive, Black."

"Leave him alone." The kitchen door is thrown open, and Harry hides behind it as Narcissa enters the room, beginning to boil hot water for coffee. "Alright, Cissy?"

"What on Earth are you two doing in here, skulking in the dark?"

"Nothing, nothing," Lindon says, and he slips from the room, followed by Sirius. Harry watches after them, frowning, and then comes out from behind the door, going back into the dining hall. He'd not actually considered telling Sirius about his interest in blokes, but nor had he told him about his interest in girls: he doesn't know what to think of what he's just overheard, though, and he elects to just push it aside. There's no sense in thinking about it when he can't do anything.

Lindon doesn't seem bothered at all, and he settles into his usual chatter with Cecilia, his hand on her shoulder. He glances to Sirius, who speaks irritably with Remus, and he furrows his brow slightly.

Yeah, he doesn't want to deal with this tonight.

---

"How was it?" Hermione asks when Harry comes in, and he shrugs his shoulders. It had been a pretty modest funeral, and it had been surreal and odd - most of the attendees had been people from the Ministry, workmates of the man's. He doesn't know what to say. It had been a nice service, he supposes, for a dead man. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Harry murmurs. "Yeah, I'm fine. What's going on?"

"Fred and George are trying to listen in on Snape and Malfoy. They're talking in the library downstairs." Harry laughs a little, shucking open the collar of his robes.

Harry chuckles, and then says, "I'm just gonna go find Sirius, alright? Do you know where he is?"

"I think he's in the kitchen," Hermione answers, and he nods his head, heading down the stairs. Percy had been utterly quiet at the funeral - he'd stood beside Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking utterly out of place, and Harry remembers wondering what he'd do for a job, now. He'll find something, of course, but for the time being? He'd just seemed stuck.

He glances at the Owl Gazette open on the kitchen counter, which lists sightings of Azkaban escapees across the UK, and he looks to Sirius. His godfather is whistling to himself as he works, spelling the dishes in the sink to wash themselves, and Harry closes the kitchen door, leaving them alone. Sirius glances at him.

"What's up, Harry?"

"I wanted to ask you something," Harry says quietly. "I was thinking about it, at Mr Crouch's funeral... I know I'm young, but I think this is something I should start doing." Sirius frowns at him, concern obvious on his features, and he focuses on Harry's face.

"What, what is it?" Harry breathes in, preparing himself, and then he meets his godfather's gaze.

"I want to become an Animagus. I want you to teach me." He steels himself, wondering if Sirius is going to immediately refuse him, but the relief on Sirius' face is swiftly replaced with everything but a refusal.

He's never seen his godfather smile so wide.

It's coming up to one o'clock in the afternoon, and Sirius reaches out, shaking Harry's shoulder excitedly. He hesitates for a moment, though, seeming to think, and then says, "Have you got your broom?"

"Yeah," Harry answers, nodding his head. "It's up in my room."

"Let's go for a flight," Sirius says, and he heads up the stairs. Harry's quick about putting on his cloak and his gloves, and he heads down the stairs with his broom in hand. He hasn't flown since sometime last year, and he's excited to get on his broom again; Sirius comes down with a broom in his own hand, and Harry peers at it, curiously. "It's Lucius'," he answers, and Harry nods his head. The Firebolt is of a sleek design, and it looks positively wonderful, but Harry can hardly focus on it. Sirius murmurs a few spells to ensure they're not obvious to the Muggles, and Harry grins at him.

They mount their brooms together on the doorstep, and they fly side-by-side straight up from Grimmauld Place, heading out and away from London. For a little while, they just fly together - the Firebolt is fast, and it shifts at any bare thought from Sirius, but Harry knows his Cleansweep inside-out, and he still manages to evade Sirius despite the difference in their brooms.

It feels amazing, the wind in his hair, the feel of the broom beneath him, and he laughs as he drops into a tumbling roll in the air, hearing the whistle as Sirius tries to copy him - clumsily.

Once they're out and over countryside, they slow down a little, and Sirius says, "Thought it'd be better if we didn't talk about this in the house. Molly'd go ballistic." Harry laughs a little: Sirius doesn't seem to be scared of anything at all except, sometimes, for the wrath of Molly Weasley. "What about the funeral made you think about it?"

"Nothing particularly," Harry admits, adjusting his grip on the broom and looking out over the green fields brightly lit by the sun. "I dunno, I just saw this fox in the graveyard, all hidden. I think I was the only person who saw it." Harry had never seen a wild fox before, and he had been surprised at the size of it and its surprisingly sleek, reddish fur. It had wriggled under the hedge and out of the cemetery as soon as it had seen the group of people in it, but the image of it had stuck with him. "It went completely unseen, pretty much. With Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and Lockhart..."

"Well," Sirius says. "Obviously I have to tell you that if we do this, you should register." Harry glances at Sirius' serious expression. It lasts a few seconds before Sirius begins to laugh at his own joke. Harry shakes his head, trying not to be amused at his godfather's stupid sense of humour, and Sirius asks, "You think that's what you'd be? A fox?"

"Don't know," Harry answers. "My Patronus is a stag, and that's what Dad was, right?"

"You don't strike me as much of a stag, Harry," Sirius says, looking thoughtful. His long hair is whipped back from his head by the wind and the momentum from their flight, and Harry thinks of how shaggy it is in his dog form. Will Harry's hair be eternally messy, even when he's an animal? "But we can't know until you actually transform. I should say, though, it's dangerous and it's awkward, against the rules, blah blah blah..."

"Yeah, you're doing a great job of deterring me, Sirius," Harry retorts, and Sirius grins at him. "What exactly is the process?"

"We've got some books in the Black library," Sirius says, "but there's a bit of ritual magic involved. A bit of astronomy, some runes, some potions, some charms, some mental stuff... You'd think it'd be all transfiguration, but its a whole mess of magics, really. Starting out, you need to prime your body for transformation as you study. There's a lot of meditation involved, and you have to eat some pretty awful stuff. That's the first stage."

Harry sniggers at Sirius' fond smile as he talks, and he nods his head.

"The second stage is drawing in the necessary magic. You know how magic works in that respect, yeah, you draw a little in from the world around you, bend it to your purpose, and then send it back out?" Harry nods his head. "Well, the Animagus transformation involves drawing a lot into your body without sending it out again. You have to build up a tolerance to certain magic, draw it into you. That's one of the bits that can go horribly wrong. Then, the third stage involves partial transformation, bit my bit. More meditation's involved, and you have to try and change stuff like your skin a bit at a time."

"That can go horribly wrong too?"

"Oh, yeah," Sirius says. "James had to go to Madam Pomfrey to get his antlers shaved off in fifth year, and I had a tail for about a month in the summer of '76. None of us died, though."

"That is a pro," Harry agrees, and he grasps tightly at his broom's handle, dropping himself into a barrel roll. Sirius laughs, following him, and for a while they zoom back and forth, playing a game of tag in the air. They head down to the ground after a while, and Sirius grasps at Harry's arm to Apparate him back to Grimmauld Place. The two of them linger on the doorstep for a while, and Harry says, "You gonna tell Remus?"

"If that's alright with you," Sirius says. Harry gives a nod of his head, and then Sirius asks, "You going to tell Hermione?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Yeah, I think so. No one else, though." Sirius nods, and they move inside together. Sirius takes both of their brooms upstairs, and Harry slips into the library to take out some of the books on Animagi. He freezes as he puts his fingers on one of the leatherbound spines, utterly quiet.

"I'm merely saying, Severus," he hears Lucius say. "She's a very pretty woman." Harry tries to ignore the conversation the two men are having, scanning the titles in front of him - Order in Occlumency, Poisons For The Ideal Widow, Spiders And Their Uses, The Pride of Animagi, Dastardly Defences...

"I could not possibly care less about her physical appearance, Lucius."

"You're not that old," Lucius continues, apparently ignoring Snape's response. "There's more than enough time for you to marry. You have time to have children." Pressing his own thumb against his mouth to keep from laughing, Harry gives up reading book spines.

"I don't want children."

"Oh, come now. Your children would be so lovely, and she is a pureblood - with her good looks and your intelligence-"

"Lucius," Snape says lowly, in the dangerous tone that makes NEWT students shrink down in their seats. "Please remember that I could easily kill you." Lucius ignores him.

"Why not indulge, Severus? It's different when you have children of your own." Harry stays in his place, trying not to laugh - Snape is a very serious man, and Harry's never imagined him so much as having a heart, let alone having a love life for Lucius Malfoy to interfere in. "You could at least have her over for dinner."

"No," Harry hears Snape say, and Lucius' sigh is audible. "I am leaving."

"You won't at least think about it?"

"I will not," Snape retorts. "I will leave Aurora Sinistra to her tower." Snape sighs, and without being able to see him Harry knows that he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am not interested in such things, Lucius."

"But-"

"No," Snape says firmly, and Harry hears the other door open and close as Lucius and Snape leave. He lets himself laugh as he picks out the three or so books he can see with Animagi in their titles, and he's quick about dropping them onto the bed in his room, slipping out again and heading downstairs.

"What are you laughing about?" Hermione asks, and Harry leans towards her, whispering in her ear as he looks at Snape. Hermione laughs too, clapping her hand over her mouth, and Harry watches as Snape narrows his eyes.

"Potter-"

"Sir, can I ask you a question?" Harry interrupts before Snape can ask him anything. "What's Occlumency?"

"Where did you hear of Occlumency, Potter?"

"There are a few books about it in the library," Harry says innocently. Snape's knuckles whiten as he clenches his fists.

"It's a process of mental defence, Potter, against a magic known as Legilimency."

"What's Legilimency?"

"A process by which the attacker draws himself into the mind of his target, in order to understand his thoughts, his memories, and the like." Staring into Snape's furious, black eyes, Harry remembers always feeling like the older man could read minds.

"You think Professor Sinistra knows Legilimency, sir?" Snape scowls at him, and Harry offers his head of house a wide grin. He has no doubt that Snape's going to make his September Hell for this, but it's worth it.

---

"Are you seriously buying that many books?" Sirius asks, looking disgustedly from Harry's pile of volumes to Hermione's. Harry and Hermione glance from each other to their respectively modest stacks, and then nod their heads. They'd already picked out their school books for the year in Flourish and Blotts, and now they're perusing the shelves of secondhand books at Dawn's Break, the old shop where Harry had bought his Cleansweep a while back.

"Oh, here's one on Occlumency, Harry," Hermione says, passing it to him, and Harry adds it to his pile while silently handing her Miss Frizzy's Magical Guide To Natural Hair, 1981. Sirius sighs, shaking his head.

"Remus is going to be so proud," he says in a disgusted tone, and Harry laughs, picking up his stack of twenty or so books and bringing them to the counter. Despite his apparent disapproval, Sirius insists on paying for all of Harry and Hermione's books, and they step outside and into Slip's Crescent. Their books have been slipped into an enchanted satchel of Sirius', and with that bit of shopping done they're mostly finished with their school run.

"Sirius," Harry says in a quiet, wheedling tone. Sirius looks at him suspiciously.

"Harry," Sirius replies in an equally slow tone.

"If there was a shop with an ageline, but we were accompanied by an adult, do you think-"

"Oh, no," Sirius says, shaking his head. "I might be the cool godfather, but I'm not taking you into that sex shop on Fargo Alley."

"Oh, come on, we're fourteen, we're nearly adults-"

"We won't even buy anything," Hermione promises. "We just want to look-" Sirius shakes his head firmly, and Hermione and Harry both sigh. "You could maybe get us a catalogue?"

"I'm not going to peddle adult goods to my godson and his friend, Hermione. I'm not that cool. You guys need to go anywhere else?" Harry looks thoughtful. The Weasleys had split away from Sirius, Harry and Hermione, all going in search of the different things they needed, and the Malfoys had done the same: they're not actually scheduled to meet back up with everyone until five o'clock or so.

"Er," Hermione says quietly, with the slightest bit of anxiety in her voice. "If you guys don't mind, I'd like to have a look in Flockhart's Locks."

"What's that?"

"It's a hairdresser's," Harry says, leaning and looking for the sign on Slip's Crescent. Flockhart's Locks is a glass-fronted shop with sleek interiors and a neat, green tile covering its floor. It looks positively futuristic compared to the other shops along the street, and Harry glances to Sirius. "Do you mind?"

"Uh, no," Sirius says, shrugging his shoulders. "You kids go in - I'm gonna go grab Remus, alright?" Harry nods his head, and Sirius grabs his shoulder, looking at him seriously for a second. "Anything happens, Harry, and don't worry about the rules - just start hexing." The adults had all been a little more relaxed once they were all in Diagon Alley, but only Bill had gone into Gringotts, and none of them had been allowed to even go near the bank, at Mrs Weasley and Lucius' respectively stern commands.

Harry nods his head, and he lets Hermione go ahead of him into the shop. Around the room are a series of chairs in front of mirrors, and around several men and women are enchanted scissors, combs, curlers and brushes, teasing, tweaking and trimming the different hairstyles into shape. Harry watches curiously, interested - most of the children in Hogwarts have their hair cut by prefects, or cut it themselves, and Harry only knows of a few girls in the upper years who go to a more focused measures. He knows that Lucius' hair takes some more concentrated attention, and that they take appointments at a hairdresser's quite seriously, but it's never been something of Harry's concern.

His own hair keeps itself at the same length, never really growing past a length he dislikes, and he hasn't seen much reason to mess with it.

"Hello," says a friendly voice, and Harry glances up at the man in front of them. "I'm Joaquin, how can I help you two?" He's much younger than Harry had expected. He can't be that much older than Bill, in his mid-twenties, though his hair is dyed white. He wears rectangular glasses that look to be carved of some sort of bone, and his eyes are a deep, sea green.

"Harry Potter," he says, putting out his hand, and the man beams. Embedded in his right upper canine is a sparkling blue gemstone, and Harry can't help but stare at it as she shakes hands with Flockhart. "This is my friend, Hermione. She wanted to drop in."

"Oh, what beautiful hair!" Flockhart says immediately, shaking her hand excitedly. "I do hope you aren't planning to have it cut - it frames your face perfectly at this length." Hermione gives a little laugh, looking down at the ground, and Harry smiles. She isn't complimented on her looks all that often, Harry knows, but he doesn't think she's bad-looking at all, and he likes to see her smile like this.

"I actually, uh, I wanted to ask about products to straighten it a bit? Not all the time! But, uh, you know. Sometimes." Harry keeps quiet as Flockhart leads them over to a neat little coffee table before a cabinet of products: he goes through a dozen explanations, explaining charms and products, separating them by price and quality. It's not really something Harry's invested in, but he finds it interesting nonetheless - there are cabinets full of products for different kinds of hair, and he can't help but be curious about all the differences.

"And-" Hermione hesitates, her hand over her mouth, and then she says, "Do you do anything for teeth?"

"Teeth?" Flockhart repeats, tilting his head. "You mean like mine?" He points to the sapphire shining on his tooth.

"No, no," Hermione says, shaking her head. "My front teeth, they're a bit more prominent than I'd like. I'd just like a more even smile."

"Oh, of course," Flockhart says, though he seems a little perplexed by the request. "I can do that for you right now!" Harry watches as Hermione sits in one of the salon chairs, and it takes barely any time at all - Flockhart leans in front of her and murmurs a quiet charm, shrinking her two front teeth in line with the others. Hermione looks at herself in the mirror, and she beams.

"Thank you!" she says brightly, and she takes a catalogue for Flockhart's Locks from the counter as she pays. It's only a few Sickles, and Harry stops short as he peers over the counter.

"What other catalogues do you have?" he asks.

"Oh, we just have a fair variety there. People like to peruse while we do their hair," Flockhart says absent-mindedly, writing Hermione a receipt in flourishing handwriting. Behind Harry, he hears the door chime as Sirius and Remus enter, and he acts quickly, grabbing the purple catalogue at the bottom of the pile and slipping it into his bag.

He'd recognized the name of the shop embossed on its cover: Wizarding Delights: the sex shop on Fargo Alley.

"Oh, wow, I like your new teeth, Hermione!" Parvati Patil says as Hermione helps Harry pull his trunk up onto the train, and Hermione gives a little smile, letting go and standing back so that Harry can dip into a compartment and pop it up onto the luggage rack. Hermione's been receiving compliments on her teeth all week back at Grimmauld Place, but it's obvious she's enjoying the positive attention.

"You don't think my parents will be too mad, will you?" Hermione asks, sliding the compartment door shut and letting Crookshanks out of his basket. Hedwig had already begun the flight to Hogwarts by the time Harry had gotten up that morning, so her cage lies empty on the luggage rack above their heads.

"I don't think so," Harry says, shaking his head. "I mean, the other solution was to get braces, right?"

"Yeah," she answers, nodding her head. "They were always opposed to the idea of fixing it magically, but it's just so easy this way, and they look much better."

"I thought they looked fine before," Harry assures her, and by no means is he being untruthful: he hadn't really paid her teeth any heed, really, and although he'd had a vague awareness Hermione didn't love them, he'd never thought they were a big issue. Still, Hermione seems to be happier with them like this. He glances to the door as the Hogwarts Express starts to move, and then he leans forwards slightly. "Look, I didn't tell you back at the house because I didn't want Kreacher to see and tell Lucius," he murmurs, and he reaches up into his trunk, pulling out the catalogue he'd snuck into his bag from Flockhart's Locks.

"What?" Hermione asks, and then she gasps. The catalogue is about fifty parchment pages, bound with string and purple card, and she grabs for it. Harry lets her take it, laughing a little. He'd already looked through it - the catalogue itself isn't all too explicit, but tends to just imply things.

"They must have more than one," Harry says, "because this is all for sex books, lingerie and things like aphrodisiacs. I heard one of the lads talking about ordering some rope from them by mail order, and I know it's not in this catalogue."

"That one's probably a bit too dirty for a hairdresser's," Hermione says, and Harry laughs as she pages through the catalogue. At the back is a mail order form - Wizarding Delights, Harry knows, only takes orders made on its specific form, as usually only of age wizards and witches can get hold of one of their catalogues. "If we ordered something, though, we could probably get one of them." Harry and Hermione share a look, and then erupt into laughter.

It feels so ridiculous, having a catalogue full of pornographic booklets, enchanted posters, sex manuals and the like to peruse - but that isn't the least of it. "I've got a plan." Hermione glances up at him, tilting her head as she looks up from the manual. "We're going to need to work with Fred and George, but I think we'll be able to make a bit of money."

Hermione hesitates. She's normally opposed to anything that involves taking money from other students - Fred and George have been working on different creations over the summer, apparently intent on selling a few of them, and she'd expressed some disapproval, but even though she doesn't care for the profit, she normally enjoys the excitement of the plot. "Go on."

Harry grins at her.

---

"Here, let me help you, Colin," Harry says, shaking his head. Dennis, Creevey's little brother, is proving utterly useless, and Harry isn't entirely surprised by that. The little Gryffindor has managed to pin himself under his own trunk's weight while pulling it into his lap, and Harry pulls it off him.

"Oh, thank you, Harry! Thank-"

"Shut up," Harry says, and then adds, "Get one of the older kids in your house to cast a featherlight charm on it, okay?" He shakes his head, glancing around for one of the Slytherins in his year, but as he pulls himself out of the Creeveys' compartment, he staggers, clutching at his head. There's a sudden deep, burning pain that digs right into his skull, and he feels himself cry out, but he doesn't really hear it.

He goes faint for a few seconds, and when he blinks himself into seeing, Francis Drummond's hands are on his forearm, holding him up. He lets the seventh year support him onto the platform, and he lets out a quiet groan as a little more pain sings hotly through his forehead: it feels like it's coming from his scar of all things, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming as the pain digs deep.

It passes as suddenly as it had started, and Harry sways a little on his feet, clutching absently at his forehead and wondering what the Hell just happened.

"You alright?" Francis asks, and Harry gives an awkward nod.

"Yeah, er, I think so. I don't know what that was - just a sudden headache, I think."

"You eat a lot of sweets on the train?" Francis asks.

"Uh, a few, I guess?"

"Probably that," Francis says lowly, patting Harry's back. "You going to be alright to walk to the carriages, Harry?"

"Yeah, Francis, I'll be fine, I think." He watches as Francis walks over, catching a few seventh year girls and walking with them towards the carriages. Harry waves to Blaise and Draco, going with them towards one of the nothing-drawn carriages and pulling himself up into it. He rubes absently at his forehead, checking his fingers for blood, but there is none.

"What was all that about?" Blaise asks, and Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"Not sure," he answers. "Francis thinks it's from too much sugar." Draco and Blaise share a glance, seeming to think this is as good an explanation as any, and Harry sighs, leaning back in his seat to look out of the window. He'll make sure to drink a good deal of water at dinner, and hopefully that'll sort out his head.

---

"The Hogwarts Quidditch tournament will not be running this year." Beside him, Harry hears Draco groan, but he cranes his neck to try and get a good look at the Gryffindor table on the other side of the Great Hall - Ron and Ginny look positively dejected, and the chasers of the team - Alicia, Angelina and Katie - each look similarly disappointed. "Instead," Dumbledore says, "We will play host to the Triwizard Tournament." There are gasps of surprise around the room, and Harry glances at Draco, watching the excitement show on his features.

"You knew!" he accuses Harry immediately, shoving him in the side when he sees Harry's amused expression, and Harry laughs, not denying it. Sat at the table are a pudgy gentleman Harry vaguely recognizes as Ludo Bagman, and beside him Percy Weasley. Listening carefully to what Percy is murmuring to her is Amelia Bones, and Harry realizes with a sort of sick immediacy that she must be the new head of Magical Law Enforcement. At the very least, Percy isn't out of a job.

He zones out as Dumbledore explains about the Triwizard Tournament's new rules. Bill had already explained to Harry and Hermione that they were introducing a rule allowing only students of age to participate, and it had made a lot of sense to Harry: given the deadly nature of the Triwizard's usual tasks, putting forwards the name of a second year wouldn't exactly be fair.

He claps when Dumbledore introduces Cecilia as that year's Defence teacher, but despite himself he can't help but wonder what Remus is supposed to do in the meantime - Harry knows it must be hard for him to find employment, and with the danger abounding at the moment, he'd rather Remus was in Hogwarts with them than somewhere else. He thinks about Remus as he walks down to the common room that evening with the other Slytherins - everyone is talking rapidly and excitedly about the current Tournament, but Harry couldn't care less about it.

He's got a lot in his plate this year, with approaching his Animagus transformation and his studies, as well as devoting a little time to Occlumency and his scheme with Wizarding Delights. By no means is he going to waste any time worrying about the Triwizard Tournament.

---

He hears the clap and spatter of waves hitting the cliffside beneath them, and he looks around. His vision fails him, and he can barely see more than a few feet before the grey and black of the village and the sky merge together in blurs.

The bite of the chilly wind at Dover makes him shiver and huddle in the thick robe he's wrapped in: he has not felt such vulnerability, such weakness, for decades upon end, and it makes him angry. "Did I or did I not, Bella, order haste?" he snaps. She apologizes profusely, holding him that more tightly to her mercifully warm breast, and he feels the sensation of Apparition.

Malfoy Manor is as he remembered it years ago, when Abraxas first invited him: oh, how the light had shone from the moon that evening, illuminating the garden. He remembers clearly how Lucius, barely more than a babe in arms, had tottered in the garden after one of his beloved birds - how long ago it had been. He had killed the bird: the whisper of the Killing Curse had been a matter of ease, and oh, how the young boy's eyes had so swiftly filled with tears.

He tightens one of his too-weak fists as Bellatrix carries him into the Manor they have taken for their own. He will ensure the worthless slip of a Malfoy will pay for his disloyalty: he will kill the man just as he had that pheasant.

"Come, Bella," he orders. "To the drawing room: we have much to plan."

---

Harry wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling himself retch as he pulls himself out of bed: he's shaking with cold despite the pleasant warmth of his and Draco's dormitory, and he bends over, grasping at one of the posts of his bed as he steadies himself. Draco is fast asleep, buried under his blankets, and Harry sees the clock above his bed declares it to be coming up to four in the morning.

He swallows hard, stopping himself from retching again, as he considers what he'd just felt. It hadn't seemed like a dream, not at all - it had felt so real, and he had felt so weak, so strange, so... Not himself.

Barefoot and in sweat-soaked pyjamas, he coughs as he makes his way into the common room. Asleep in a little ball in one of the armchairs is a first year still in his uniform, and Harry taps his knee, gently coaxing him awake. The kid stares up at Harry, and Harry says, "You're Arden Tsui, right? Go to bed." The little first year drags himself up, rushing down the corridor, and Harry shakes his head as he slips into the corridor. He considers going to Snape, initially, but Snape is in a bad mood at any time of the day, and while he trusts his head of house implicitly he doesn't see the point in telling him this.

If it isn't important, Dumbledore will tell him so and send him back to bed. If it is, Dumbledore can tell all the right people directly.

The dungeon floors bite at his feet as he makes his way up to the entrance hall, and then begins to climb the stairs. The castle is eerily quiet, and the only people wandering the halls are the house ghosts, who peer curiously at Harry but apparently aren't interested in talking to him.

"Ooh, ickle Harry Potty!" Peeves cries with delight. "What-"

"What's the password to Dumbledore's office, Peeves?" Harry asks shortly. Peeves peers down at him with his big, ugly eyes, swaying in the air and seeming surprised by the question.

"I don't have to answer you, ickle Harry!" Peeves decides, and Harry pulls his wand out of his pocket, looking at Peeves with a grim expression on his face.

"You don't have to, Peeves," Harry replies. He doesn't feel bad about threatening the poltergeist - Peeves is a twat at the best of times, and Harry isn't interested in his stupidity. He's exhausted, and he's irritated, and he just wants to tell Dumbledore right now that Voldemort is back in the country. Or- maybe. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. "But you're going to be in a few more parts than one if you don't help me right now."

Peeves lets out a shriek, rushing off in the direction of Dumbledore's office, but by the time Harry gets to the gargoyle Peeves is nowhere in sight, and Harry sighs. The cool stone underneath him bites at his bare feet, and he wishes he'd put on slippers before he'd come this way. Besides, he didn't think this through - he has no way to-

With a quiet grind of stone, the gargoyle shifts to the side, allowing Harry to the stairwell, and he stares at it for a second. He frowns suspiciously at the stone monster, but the gargoyle remains utterly still - it can't be alive, can it? It can't have known he was here? Shaking his head, Harry rubs at his dry eyes and begins to walk up the stairs, his feet padding quietly on the stone.

Dumbledore's office is already warm, and Harry sees that he has a fire crackling away, but the headmaster had been asleep, Harry is fairly certain: he's wearing a long, star-decorated nightshirt and a matching hat, complete with silver tassel. "Mr Potter," Dumbledore says quietly, peering down at him from behind his glasses. "How might I help you at this hour?"

"I had a nightmare," Harry says. "And I think it's important."

---

Harry finishes speaking as soon as he says, "So I came to see you." The room is beautifully toasty now, and he can't help but bask somewhat in the wonderful heat, leaning back into the padded chair before Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore frowns, looking very thoughtful: Harry had done his best to include every detail he recalled of the dream, and of Voldemort, and he thinks he's included everything.

"You took ill this evening, did you not, Mr Potter?" Dumbledore asks, his eyes focusing on Harry's, and Harry, for a reason he can't quite fathom, recalls Snape's words in Grimmauld Place: Occlumency is a process of mental defence against a magic called Legilimency. He looks away.

"Yes, Professor, I did," Harry says, reaching up to ruffle his hair as if he'd turned his gaze away to scratch an itch. "Had a splitting headache as I stepped off the train." He feels like an idiot for not having connected it before - he dimly recalls the pain in his scar in first year when Quirrell got too close to him, and he says, "It must have started hurting when Voldemort came closer." Dumbledore is watching him carefully, his blue gaze almost piercing, and Harry traces the lightning bolt shape of his scar under his thumb.

Dumbledore reaches for a few pieces of parchment, writing down a rapid set of notes in his neat, looping handwriting, and he passes them all to Fawkes, who disappears with an immediate squawk and a burst of sparks. Harry watches as he begins to write a few more, and then he asks, "Is there any way I can stop this?"

Dumbledore pauses, glancing at Harry once more.

"It's just- this isn't like Quirrell being in the corridor, Professor. Malfoy Manor is in England, for Merlin's sake - it's miles away. I don't want to feel what he feels."

"For the time being," Dumbledore murmurs, looking at Harry seriously, "I think it best we bide our time. We must better comprehend the connection between you and Lord Voldemort before we can attempt to sever it." Harry shifts his jaw: it's not the answer he wanted, but nor is it an answer that seems unwarranted or untruthful, so he nods his head, pulling himself up.

"Sorry for waking you up," Harry says. "I'm gonna head back down to the dungeons."

"By all means, Mr Potter," Dumbledore assures him: there's no twinkle-eyed lightness in his face, nor his grandfatherly humour. "If you have even the slightest suspicion of Lord Voldemort's actions, feel free to come to me, Minerva or Severus immediately." Harry nods his head, making his way to the exit of the headmaster's office, and then he turns back, watching the old man.

"Do you think he'll come here? During the tournament?"

"I cannot say," Dumbledore says, which isn't actually an answer. Harry nods his head, slowly, and leaves the room.

"You wanted to talk business?" George asks, shutting the door behind him and Fred as the two of them enter the room, and Harry and Hermione share a glance before they meet the twins' gaze.

"We're offering our services and our help to you, as members joining your little company." Harry says, arching his eyebrows. He's tired, and he's fairly certain it's showed in the courses of his classes today, but he's alert enough to make his proposal to the Weasley twins. The both of them are watching him and Hermione with obvious intrigue. "This is a chance to expand your operation a bit, as well as to make a little extra. Besides, there'll be a lot of benefits to having me and Hermione involved."

"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," Fred says with a flourish, obviously enjoying the name of his and George's business, "is a family-owned enterprise, Harry. Why ever should we involve you two?"

"Well, my personal business plans aside," Harry says, "with me you'll get a direct route to sales within Slytherin house. You two are bastards to most of the other snakes, but I'm one of them. That'll add an extra quarter to your customer base. And you'll be able to get access to Parseltongue-locked rooms to hide your goods or work in."

"Plus," Hermione says cleanly, "You'll have me and Harry on your side if you need to take anything more questionable or suspicious out of the library."

The four of them are in an empty classroom on the second floor, but Harry's fairly certain they won't be disturbed for the time being. He watches as Fred and George each look pensive, sharing looks and communicating everything with microexpressions, or so it seems.

And then George asks, "What personal business plans?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Harry says. From her satchel, Hermione produces the catalogue for Wizarding Delights. Fred and George stare at it, obviously surprised and impressed. "Given that owl orders to Wizarding Delights can only be made from a particular form issued by the store or found in one of their catalogues..."

"We can order goods and sell them on in the school with an uptick," Fred says, grinning a little. "Very simple, but effective. Why don't you just do this yourself? Why do you want to join me and George?"

"Working as a unit will benefit us," Harry says. "I can bring access in the school to the table, but I couldn't order stuff from here in my name - they'll know how old I am. I kinda need your help with this."

"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is still going to be yours," Hermione says, and she draws out a piece of parchment, setting it down on the table. The contract isn't magically binding or somehow enchanted, but Hermione had spent a fair bit of time putting it together last night, and Harry likes the way she's crafted it. "Harry and I will just be like investors. We'll add to your capital and help you out - and we'll only take shares of the profit from the stuff we've brought to the table, like the catalogue." George laughs a little as he looks over the contract, taking it in.

"I like your terms," he says, nodding his head slowly. His expression is appraising as he looks at Hermione, and then he says, "Fred?"

"I think the two of you are sneaky, sorry little monsters," Fred says. "I'd be ecstatic to invite you to the team." He puts his hand out to shake, and Harry takes it, grinning. Within a half hour more, each of them has their own copy of the contract with all of their signatures written at its bottom, and Harry feels an immense satisfaction. Even with the worry of Voldemort on his mind, something's going right so far this year, and he and Hermione nudge each other as they walk out into the courtyard.

"Well, that's one thing down this year."

"Of course," Hermione says dryly. "Now you just have to become an expert in two extremely rare, difficult fields of magic."

"I don't want to become an expert," Harry mutters, shaking his head. "I just want to become an Animagus. And the Occlumency is just a- it's a hobby, an interest. I probably won't even be able to do any of it." Hermione laughs, shaking her head, and she puts her hands in the pockets of her robes as they walk to sit by the fountain. It's a little chilly outside, and the air is bracing, but it's not unbearable. "Aren't you picking up anything this year? You could put your name forwards for the Triwizard Tournament."

"I'm not seventeen," Hermione points out.

"There are ways around stuff like that. Bet you three Galleons you can't get your name in the cup."

"No," Hermione says, shaking her head. "No, it's not happening." She leans forwards as Cho Chang comes up the hillside. Two of the girls are also on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, Harry thinks, and the others he doesn't know - in all truth, the only one he cares about is Cho. She's grown a little taller, but Harry's thankfully grown a little more too, and they're about the same height: the skirt of her robes is right up to her calves, and she has ribbons in little bows sewn into the hems of them. A matching blue ribbon shimmers in her hair, and he feels his breath catch slightly.

"Hey, Cho," Harry says, and she turns away from her friends. All of them peer at him with owlish expressions on their faces, and Harry feels his face go hot, but he forces the grin to stay on his face. "You look really pretty today," he manages to say. "I love your hair." The Ravenlaws all titter, sharing looks, but Cho just beams widely. She's even prettier when she smiles.

"Thanks, Harry," Cho says, a little awkwardly, and she starts to walk off with the other Ravenclaws again. Harry watches them, and he glances at Hermione when he feels her gaze on the back of his head.

"What?" he asks, and Hermione shakes her head.

"Nothing, nothing. You've just managed to be a bit smooth, that's all. It's surprising." Harry scoffs. And then Hermione says, "You do know she's dating Cedric Diggory, right?" Harry thinks of Cedric Diggory, the blond, princely Hufflepuff with bright blue eyes and a jaw that looks like it's been carved of diamond. He's the perfect companion for a girl that looks like she could be the next model on the over of Witch Weekly, and Harry feels like an utter idiot.

"You couldn't have told me that before I told her she was pretty?"

"I didn't know you were going to!" Hermione says, and Harry sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the stone lion behind him. "You can always ask her out if they break up," she offers insincerely.

"Are you going to ask anyone out this year?" Harry retorts. Hermione tosses her hair.

"I might do. It's none of your business, Harry Potter."

"Of course it is," he says. "I'm going to be the godfather of all your children." Hermione laughs outright, throwing back her head, and he does his best to look mock-offended, but he doesn't quite manage it: he's laughing too, and they settle together in comfortable silence for a while. "Really, though. Are you?"

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe."

"Let me guess... Vincent Crabbe?" Hermione shoves him, and Harry sniggers.

"I haven't got anyone particular in mind," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "Unlike you, I don't want to snog anything that moves." Harry sighs, looking back to the entrance hall's doors - he thinks of snogging Cho Chang in a corridor, feeling her silk-smooth hair through his fingers as he cups her face. Yeah, he doesn't think he can compete with Cedric for her - or, for that matter, compete with Cho for him.

---

"Ah, she's back," Blaise says as he enters Harry and Draco's room that evening. Harry peers out of the curtains of his bedframe to look at him, and he smiles. Blaise waves, and Lixie Pott gives a flirtatious curtsy from her place on Harry's wall, pinned above his bedside table. "How I've missed her." Harry grins, shifting over a bit on his bed so that Blaise can sit next to him - Draco is out in the common room, playing an increasingly heated game of chess against Daphne Greengrass, and he'd settled on his bed to read for a little while.

Blaise pushes the curtain absently closed behind him: a little light filters into the square of comfortable silence, but most of the light is from a candle. Harry had finally figured out the right command to make the snake-shaped candleholder the Malfoys' had sent him in his first year shift its position, and it coils around one of the bed's posts, holding the candle aloft and lighting up his bed.

"This is cosy," Blaise says, sprawling beside him. Harry is already wearing his pyjamas, despite it not even being nine yet: he sits on top of his covers with a few books spread around him, and from a few different texts he's making notes on the initial practices of Occlumency. Blaise, although he's barefoot, is still wearing his robes, and Harry doubts he'll get ready for bed for hours yet.

"It is, isn't it?" Harry agrees, dropping his quill aside and leaning back against his pillows. "It's quite nice in here, without Draco snoring next to me." Blaise chuckles, showing off his teeth. He and his mother had spent the summer in Florence, so he'd said, and he's let his hair grow slightly - usually shaved right to his head, it's almost three inches long now, and the look suits him. Harry has no doubt he'll cut it all off soon: Blaise constantly despairs the other Slytherin boys' heavy use of shampoo.

"I heard you tried flirting with Cho Chang," Blaise purrs, and Harry groans, rubbing at his face. "A girl happily in a relationship, and you sow the seeds of discord."

"D'you think I should apologize?" Harry asks. "I didn't realize her and Diggory were together. I didn't actually ask her out, after all - I just told her she looked good, which was true." Harry pushes his books aside, mimicking Blaise's position and lying on his side across from the other boy. There's only a little space between them, but it doesn't matter: Blaise is freer with physical affection and close proximity than the other Slytherins, and Harry doesn't have to worry about propriety with him.

"I think she'll survive," Blaise says, and Harry glances at him. He examines Blaise's face, his deep brown eyes, the cupid's bow of his mouth, the broadness of his nose. "You have your sights set on anyone else?" It's asked with a sort of intensity, and Harry meets Blaise's gaze properly. Blaise's lips are parted, and he's close enough that Harry can smell the sweetness of his cologne.

"Nah," Harry says. His mouth suddenly feels a little dry. He doesn't think about Cho Chang in the corridor, now - he thinks of Blaize Zabini, feeling the short, thick fuzz of his hair under Harry's hand. "Nah, not really."

"Good," Blaise murmurs, leaning a little closer. "You'll be free to study with me, then. If I need it."

"Oh, yeah," Harry replies, utterly frozen in his place: he's unable to move as Blaise slips closer, and all he can do is close his eyes as Blaise's mouth presses against his. Blaise's lips are warm and slightly wet, and Harry leans into the kiss, feeling the quiet smack of their mouths against each other, the lingering taste of liquorice on Blaise's tongue, the scent of Blaise's cologne now even stronger: it feels amazing, and Harry suddenly feels too-hot with clammy hands and knees he had to press as tightly together as possible.

His heart is racing as Blaise comes a little closer, and he lets out a short, gasping noise when their tongues brush against each other, pulling him in by the front of his robes-

He hears the other bed creak as Draco throws himself onto it, and he hears the double thwack of Draco's boots hitting the floor. Blaise goes utterly still, and so does Harry, his hands still fisted in the other boy's robe.

"You awake, Harry?" Draco asks. Harry lets go of Blaise, grabbing at a book, and theyboth sit up, brushing themselves off slightly before Blaise pushes open the curtain. "Oh, hallo, Blaise."

"I'm just showing him some of the passages in one of my Occlumency books," Harry says, hyperaware of the slight huskiness to his voice that he can't quite push away, the blush on his cheeks, the new plumpness to his lips, but Draco is utterly oblivious.

"Oh," Draco says disinterestedly, and he goes in search of his pyjamas. Harry and Blaise share a glance, and Harry doesn't know how to communicate everything he feels - that he wants Blaise to kiss him again, that he's terrified Blaise will kiss him again, that he wants to know what cologne he uses...

He doesn't say anything, because Draco will hear. He just says, "Uh, good night, mate."

"Night, Harry, Draco," Blaise says smoothly, and he leaves the room in a sweep of casual movement. Harry pushes the curtain closed, lying down on his side again, and he reaches up to his mouth, touching his lips with the tips of his fingers. It hadn't been anything like kissing Hermione - it had felt like something more than just touching mouths. It had felt like everything.

Swallowing, he lies back, and forces his overexcited mind to recall the wand movement for the Dead Arm Charm.

Harry's feet dangle from the edge of the Astronomy Tower, watching as workers in the startlingly yellow robes of the Department of Magical Games and Sports rush back and forth, casting spells. The Quidditch pitch's grass has been covered over with a brown, dirt floor, and the six hoops lie on their sides in a pile beside the pitch. They're currently expanding the stands around the pitch to create an arena of sorts, and Harry doesn't envy the Triwizard competitors that are going to be in the middle.

"It looks like a wooden version of the Colosseum," Hermione murmurs, and Harry nods his head in agreement. The sun is shining, and it's surprisingly warm for a Scottish September: they'd elected to creep up to the Astronomy Tower to watch the proceedings, so that they'd be out of the way of any of the other students. Harry can see a few Ravenclaws have had a similar idea, because six of them are perched like birds on the roof of their tower, and he can see various students on balconies or hanging out of windows in the parts of the castle below them.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, swinging his legs a little. "You think they'll have to face lions?"

"If they're lucky," Hermione says grimly. She leans on the wall beside him, peering over - he hadn't managed to coax her into actually sitting on its edge, but she'll come around eventually. They've been out here for twenty minutes or so - they've finished with their classes for the day, and Dumbledore had said at breakfast that the contingents from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be arriving today. Everyone in the school that isn't hanging from a parapet is out on the grass of the grounds, pretending not to be excited. "Doesn't it seem barbaric to you?"

"A little," Harry admits, leaning back slightly. "But at least they're seventeen, now, the champions. I've read those stories about twelve and thirteen year olds getting killed while representing their school." Hermione twists her mouth, looking concerned nonetheless. Harry's heard different kids talking about ways to get their names into the Goblet of Fire despite the age limit, but Harry expects there'll be an ageline or a member of staff guarding it or something. "Would you sign up? If you were seventeen?"

"I don't think so," Hermione says, watching as Ludo Bagman yells indistinctly at a member of his staff. "Two thousand Galleons is a lot of money, but I don't know if it's worth my life. Even though they're going to try and ensure no one dies, there's a big element of risk, don't you think?"

"There's an element of risk in everything," Harry says noncommittally. He's been thinking about it every night, the Triwizard Tournament - would he participate, if he could? And despite the risk, the danger, he thinks that he would. It must be exciting, to be in that arena, facing some monster or performing a child, and he entertains idle fantasies of being the winner of the Triwizard Tournament, holding up the cup and being the talk of Britain for it.

He never did anything to be the Boy Who Lived, and it would feel so good for a title to be something he'd earned, but...

"I'm kind of glad I don't have the option," Harry mutters. "Either way, I feel like I'd make the wrong decision - decide not to bother, and miss an opportunity, or put my name in and get killed in the first task." Hermione snorts.

"Yeah, I get what you mean." They're silent for a little while, listening only to the whistling breeze that comes through the Astronomy Tower's huge pieces of equipment. Harry feels Hermione look at him for a few moments, and then she asks, "What are you going to do with Blaise?" He'd told her about the kiss the morning after it had happened, in desperately quiet words at the breakfast table, and she'd not mentioned it to him since. It's been several days, though, and she's given him enough a time - at least, in her mind, Harry expects.

"I'm not sure," Harry answers. It's true. He and Blaise had been acting as normal as possible at the dinner table and in the common room, but they'd not had any time alone together since. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do - had he kissed Cho, or Katie Bell, or Daphne Greengrass, or another pretty girl, it wouldn't be a problem, but Blaise is a bloke, and he knows how wizards respond to two blokes kissing. "I sort of want to tell him to never touch me again. I also kind of want him to drag me into a broom cupboard for an hour or so."

"Harry!" Hermione scolds, and Harry gives her a grin. "Don't you think we're a bit young for that?"

"I wasn't suggesting he bugger me, Hermione," Harry argues, and he's about to go on when there's an odd, low horn from the lake. Harry and Hermione turn their heads just in time to see a dark mast begin to slowly rise from beneath the lake's surface.

---

Harry and Hermione make their way over the grass - the twenty four Beauxbatons students are all in little groups, chattering away together in mostly French. Harry hears a little of what he thinks is German, and another language he isn't really familiar with at all, but for the most part it's French. Down by the lake, a few of the Slytherins have gathered to try and get a good look at the Durmstrang lot, but none of the students have stepped off the ship.

"Hi," Harry says, and the gigantic woman who'd been yelling orders at Hagrid a second ago turns around and peers down at him. "Harry Potter, Madame Maxime. It's great to meet you."

"Oh!" Maxime says, beaming, and she shakes Harry's hand with hers - Harry didn't know it was possible, but she's even bigger than Hagrid is, he's certain. He'd only written her a while back with a small note about the difference between Hogwarts and the other schools, and she'd actually replied to him - Karkaroff hadn't deigned to. "A pleasure to meet you, 'Arry. And who is your friend?"

"This is my friend," Harry says, letting Hermione put out her hand. "She's the best witch in my year, but don't worry - we're too young to give your students any extra competition." Madam Maxime lets out a laugh that is probably supposed to be a titter, but sounds more like a noise an amused elephant might make.

"Enchantée, Madame Maxime," Hermione says, "Je m'appelle Hermione - j'aime beaucoup votre, er-- carriage?" Maxime laughs again, patting Hermione's hand, and she smiles at the Beauxbatons students, who each share a little laughter, but it doesn't seem all that mean-spirited.

"C'est une calèche, Ms Granger," Maxime corrects, and while it's definitely a bit snobbish, her tone isn't nasty.

"Sorry," she says. "I only learned French at primary school. I've sort of neglected it since coming to Hogwarts."

"Ah!" Maxime claps her hands together. "By all means, Ms Granger, you must chat with our students. Fleur, Coralie, come here-" Coralie is a tanned, pretty girl with a silver ring through the side of her nose, but she doesn't compare to Fleur. Fleur is a tall girl with porcelain-white skin and shimmering blue eyes; her hair is a delicate silver-blonde that curls around her shoulders, and her face is impossibly beautiful. Harry feels himself struck dumb as the two girls introduce themselves to Hermione, and when Fleur turns to Harry, he shoves his hand out in an almost mechanical fashion.

"God," Harry says. "If you're as good a witch as you are beautiful, we don't stand a chance." Fleur laughs, and Harry feels like he's heard something not fit for human ears - it's like a peal of bells, and he feels the warmth of her hand in his.

"No," she agrees. "You do not."

---

"She's a part-Veela," Draco explains when Harry sits, dazed, at the Slytherin table later on that evening. Durmstrang students settle with the upper years further up the table, and Harry spared a glance to Viktor Krum, but hadn't otherwise gotten a good look at them yet. He and Hermione had talked with the Beauxbatons students for a while: it seemed like their students were from all over Europe, but all of them had a much better grasp of English than Harry and Hermione had of any of theirs. After a few minutes, Harry had been better able to focus on the conversation rather than just on Fleur, but he still feels a little out of it.

"Is that what it is?" Harry asks, rubbing the back of his flushed-red neck. "Bloody Hell. What does seeing a full Veela feel like?" Theo snorts, clapping Harry on the back, and Harry turns his head slightly, meeting Blaise's eyes. Blaise seems a little surprised by Harry's glance his way, but Harry just smiles at him, and appreciates it when Blaise smiles back.

The students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are introduced, and Harry glances up to the table: Madam Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff are sat up with Dumbledore at the table, and Harry listens with as Dumbledore proclaims that the Goblet of Fire will be revealed on October 1st.

The contingents usually come later in the year, apparently, but some Hogwarts staff had offered tutelage to the foreign students as well as that offered by their respective heads, and thus they'd come earlier. It's exciting, Harry thinks - even though all the students are a few years above them, the Beauxbatons ones seem really interesting. Those from Durmstrang? Harry isn't so certain.

All of them seem sour-faced, and he's heard that they study the Dark Arts at Durmstrang: he'll see how they come off in the next few weeks.

Harry puts his hands in his robe pockets as he traipses down to the Slytherin common room after dinner: he thinks he might have an early night tonight. He might just put one of his records and read for a little, he corrects himself. Putting himself to bed at not-even-nine o'clock is a bit too far, even for him.

"Oi!" he hears Blaise behind him, but as soon as he turns Blaise is pulling him into the darkness of a broom cupboard, and Harry shivers as a candle to the side of the room reluctantly draws itself into light. Ignoring the sweeps and cleaning supplies to the side of the room, Harry focuses on the other Slytherin boy, feeling his heart begin to race. "Hey."

"Hey," Harry says, quietly, against Blaise's mouth. "What cologne are you wearing?" Blaise laughs, his breath warm against Harry's lips.

"What sort of question is that?" he asks, his hands slipping forwards, and Harry leans into it when Blaise's hands brush his hips through the fabric of his robes. "It's called Del Rio. You like it?"

"Yeah," Harry admits, letting himself inhale as he closes his eyes, his lips brushing Blaise's. "Yeah. We're in a broom cupboard, huh?"

"That's right."

"Tight, enclosed space. Just us and some bleach."

"You've got it."

"I suppose I can guess what we're going to do, then."

"Can you, indeed?"

"Scrub a few floors?" Blaise laughs, the sound low and dark, and he turns away from Harry, blowing out the candle with a quiet hiss.

"Sure, Harry," Blaise murmurs against his mouth, and Harry feels himself quiver a little when he feels the other boy drops to his knees. "Scrubbing floors is precisely what we're doing."

---

"Drink some water," Blaise suggests, and Harry coughs a little as he takes the glass Blaise Conjures, drinking from it. They sit against the door of the broom cupboard in the dark, both of them a little ruffled but otherwise quite comfortable, and Harry lets himself lean on Blaise's shoulder. The other boy is warm, and the feel of his body beside Harry's is a surprising comfort. "Too big?"

"Oh, shut up," Harry says as Blaise laughs, and he shoves the other boy in the side. He swills the water in his mouth before he swallows again, rinsing his tongue of any lingering taste, and then he asks, "Are you gay?"

"Gay?" Blaise repeats. "Oh. You explained last year." Blaise is quiet for a few moments, apparently considering the question. Harry wishes the light was on so he could see whether the other boy is taking the question seriously or not, but then he answers, "Yes, I suppose so. Girls hold no draw for me."

"But I do?"

"Well, barely," Blaise says. "But one has to take what's available." Harry sniggers, passing Blaise the glass, and he listens to Blaise drink a little. "None of the other boys are in Slytherin. Just you and me." Harry breathes in, slowly, listening to Blaise's voice fill the small space. "The Gryffindors, too - Thomas is like you, I think, but Finnegan is like me."

"Why's it such a problem?" Harry asks in a whisper. He feels stupid for asking the question, but despite the distaste of the Dursleys he's heard gay people on the radio or on television. Hell, he's got an Elton John record in his collection, and he's fairly certain that Prince isn't straight.

"It just is, Harry," Blaise answers simply. "It just is." Harry hears him set the glass down, and when Blaise stands he does too, stepping out of the cupboard. They run quickly down the corridor and sneak into the common room, and for the rest of the night Blaise plays cards with the other boys.

Harry returns to the dormitory, fingering the spines of his Occlumency books before pulling them out and setting them down on the bed. He flicks through the records in his trunk, and then pulls out one, putting it under his turntable's needle. Cold as Christmas begins to play, and he sits on the bed, peering at his Occlumency book before closing his eyes and doing his best to clear his mind.

It's hard, but he's making his progress. He thinks he is, at least.

Like with everything else, he just needs time.

He is calm. He is utterly and completely calm. Heartbeat a quiet, background rhythm, he breathes in, and then out. Everything is an all-encompassing black, and the black continues on, and on. Sounds around him are distant, removed from Harry in his oasis of dark silence, and the next time he breathes in he tries to feel inside himself.

He feels a twinge of--

Something.

It's like a sudden breeze in the distance, or a whistle on the air, or a disturbance in the blackness around him: it's all of those things at once, and the excitement of feeling something makes excitement run through him, but he does his best to keep concentrating.

If he can just follow that feeling, get himself to feel it again-

There's a loud snap an inch from his nose, and Harry flinches back, glaring up at Snape, who merely arches an eyebrow.

"No meditation at the breakfast table, Potter," he says cleanly, seeming amused, and then he walks off to the staff table. Harry scowls, but Hermione comes into the room soon after, and she settles beside him at the Gryffindor table.

"What's put that look on your face?"

"I felt something," Harry begins.

"I can see why that would upset you."

"Shut up!" Hermione laughs. Her hair is constrained by a hair-tie at the back of her neck, but it looks like it might succumb to the sheer strength of Hermione's hair at any moment and snap. "I felt something. Here." He pats his sternum. "I was meditating, and, you know, for the Animagus transformation?" Hermione's expression becomes more curious, and she leans forwards. "Snape brought me out of it. No meditation at the breakfast table, Potter," Harry says in a passable impression of Snape's low tones, and Hermione laughs, reaching for some butter to spread on her toast.

The mid-October sky above them isn't sunny, but it's clear, and there isn't any sign of rain: there's a Hogsmeade trip today, and people are beginning to rapidly filter into the great hall for breakfast: Harry can see the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students are also filtering in from outside. Over the past month or so, it's been interesting having them around - some of them sit in with the NEWT students in their classes, but for the most part they have a few teachers giving them their own lessons. Harry knows Cecilia is teaching them some History of Magic as well as Defence, and Vector has been giving them a few lessons too.

They're lucky to have Cecilia as a teacher, he thinks: she has a way of explaining concepts that make them spectacularly easy to diagram, and Harry's notes for Defence are better than they've ever been. More importantly, she's actually really good at displaying the practical, and although he wouldn't rave about her teaching (decent as she is, she still doesn't compare to Remus), he's really glad to have her for the year.

Who knows what weirdo they could have ended up with if she hadn't joined the staff?

"Ah, it would seem the majority of you are here," Dumbledore says, interrupting Harry's train of thought, and he looks up to the top table. Dumbledore has a series of small ribbons braided into his beard, apparently to complement his robes, and the look is singularly distracting, but Harry does his best to listen to the man instead of just staring at his facial hair. "For the Hogsmeade trip today, please exercise caution. Various members of staff will be posted around the village, but do remember, children, that there are a number of prisoners from Azkaban still loose."

Harry frowns slightly, and Hermione chews pensively on a mouthful of toast before saying, "Do you think there'll be Order members too?"

"Probably," Harry murmurs. "Sirius said he'd come meet me, but that might be for protection, I suppose. You sure you're alright with me abandoning you?"

"I'm not a stray dog, Harry," Hermione says, making him grin at her. "The twins and I are going to pick up some different mail order forms, have a look at their formats and stuff. They've already started selling some of the stuff for their Skiving Snackboxes, but most of it needs refining." Harry nods his head, sipping at his drink.

"You think we'll be ready to start with the mail order from Wizarding Delights next month?"

"I think so," Hermione says, giving a nod of her head. "George said that it'll probably be better to offer after we sort out a customer base, and I think he's probably right." Harry laughs, turning his head away, and she furrows her eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," Harry says, "it's just that somehow when you say these things you make it sound like it's a real, proper business."

"It is a real, proper business." Harry leans back in his seat, watching the other Slytherins together. Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson are on the Ravenclaw table, speaking with a few Ravenclaw girls and two boys from Beauxbatons, and Draco is bent over something or other with Crabbe and Goyle. Theodore and Blaise are having a serious discussion - Harry can tell it's about politics, because Theodore looks furious, waving his paper around, and Blaise looks utterly impassive.

He and Blaise haven't been in a broom cupboard again, but Blaise and Harry have had a few moments here and there, snogging in corridors or in Harry's bed with the curtains drawn.

Harry absently bites the inside of his cheek - it's something he's going to ask Sirius about today, he's decided. Not Blaise specifically, or even men, but... Sex.

---

"Sex," Sirius repeats. He reaches up, stroking his hand awkwardly over his own jaw: there's a little stubble growing there, and it looks like he's considering growing out a proper beard but hasn't yet entirely taken the plunge. He doesn't know how he feels about his godfather with facial hair: he'd seen the horrible, patchy beard he'd grown during Azkaban, but even with a haler, healthier face Harry doesn't know if Sirius' beard will grow in in the full, dignified manner he's probably aiming for. They're walking together in the woods a little way out of the village, still in complete sight of Hogwarts and within the village's perimeters, but out of the way of the other students wandering around and doing a little shopping.

"Sex," Harry agrees. Sirius is thinking very, very carefully, shifting from side to side and looking mildly uncomfortable with the question. "You're thinking about what Remus would tell me," Harry says in a mildly accusatory tone.

"I'm not," Sirius argues, but after a moment he admits, "Yeah, I am." Harry had known Sirius had probably do this - Sirius has made a habit of looking to Remus for the "responsible" decision for him to make, and while it's endearing, it's not really what he's after at the moment.

"If I wanted advice from Remus, I'd ask Remus," Harry points out, not in an unkind tone. Sirius bites his lip, worrying the flesh under his teeth for a few seconds, and then he crosses his arms over his chest. The stroke to Sirius' ego does seem to motivate him somewhat, though, and he relents.

"What did you want to know?"

"When did you, er..." He hesitates. "I don't need all the details of the act. I just wanted to know when you... You know."

"When did I know what?" Sirius asks, frowning at Harry, and Harry suppresses the urge to huff.

"When did you do it? Shag someone?"

"Oh, right." Sirius coughs awkwardly, looking away. Harry had hoped he'd be a bit smoother about this, but apparently any guardian gets flustered over the talk of sex. At the very least, they do when it comes from their wards. "Well-"

"You're trying to remember what age Remus lost his virginity," Harry says, and Sirius gives him an irritated look.

"Stop doing that. You're meant to be learning Occlumency, not Legilimency." Harry laughs, and Sirius frowns, shaking his head and giving Harry a sideways glance before he shoves his hands into the pockets of his deep red trousers. They've got the same outdated flare as his ripped-up jeans, but worn with an embroidered waistcoat and a black shirt with ridiculously puffy sleeves, they actually look almost good. "I was fifteen when I actually shagged a girl, fourteen for some other stuff. But that doesn't mean-"

"Oh, good," Harry says. "We're about equal so far then." Sirius glances at him, and then his teeth show as he breaks out into a purely wolfish grin, ruffling Harry's hair and looking as proud of him as he ever could.

"That's my lad. What's her name? What's she look like? Is she pretty? Oh, take that back - she's probably about your age." Harry laughs, turning his head away: the transmission from responsible, sober father figure to "cool godfather" had been almost instantaneous, and Sirius lets out a little growl of noise. "You tricked me."

"I didn't trick you," Harry says. "Sex isn't evil, Sirius, you don't have to ban me from having any just because."

"You are young," Sirius says. "What'd do you do? Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know the sordid details." Sirius wrinkles his nose, shaking his head slightly, and then says, "Don't tell Moony I'm proud of you. Tell him I gave you a long lecture. Tell Molly that too."

"I wasn't going to tell either of them I'd done anything, to be honest, Sirius," Harry says, and Sirius narrows his eyes slightly, considering this as a course of action before he nods his head. Harry breathes in slightly - he feels relief that Sirius had, uh, matured, at about the same age, and the fact that Sirius isn't staring at him in horror is a comfort. Of course, if Sirius knew it had been another boy instead of a girl, he supposes that might be different.

"Was it, uh, good? You're- I mean, what I mean is, nothing hurt, and it was all okay?"

"Didn't taste great," Harry admits, and Sirius nods his head sagely.

"It differs person by person," he says, "though there are some great novelty potions for that. I remember, in our seventh year, a lass in Ravenclaw took one that made her taste of cherries, and for the whole week-" Harry starts to laugh as his godfather trails off, and they walk together. He glances up at Sirius: he's grown a little over the summer, and he's hoping he'll beat Sirius by the time he's done growing: Sirius stands at five foot ten, only a little taller than Snape, and Harry's dad had looked about six feet in the photos he'd seen. "You, uh, you know spells for-" Sirius makes a whistling sound.

"What?"

Sirius coughs. "For..." He whistles again.

"What the Hell are you going on about?"

"Contraception," Sirius hisses, as if it's dirtier to say the word than telling Harry how a girl's nether regions tasted.

"Oh, right," Harry says awkwardly. He realizes he hasn't spared the subject a single thought. Blaise had, after all, been his only immediate concern, but he feels a bit of an idiot for having forgotten about contraception entirely. "No. Didn't really occur to me, to be honest."

"I'll send you some notes by owl," Sirius says seriously. "Nothing to take lightly, that. Not that you should rush into anything, but you should uh, know them in advance, Harry. I'll send you some others, too..." Sirius frowns, as if making a mental catalogue of all the sex charms he knows that his godson could benefit from. If he ignores the oddity of the situation, Harry finds his dedication touching. "You know any already?"

"I know one for lube," Harry says. He speaks frankly: he sees no reason to be embarrassed with Sirius now that the conversation is underway, and given that he'd asked about this for a reason. "And I know the Dead Arm Charm."

"Ah, an old classic," Sirius says fondly, patting Harry's back. "Where'd you learn it?"

"Theo nicked a book off his cousin. Sex Charms For The Discerning Solo Artist. You know, if you'd just let me pick a few books from that shop in Fargo Alley-" Sirius wavers for a moment, and then an expression of determined sternness appears on his face. Harry had known he'd probably say no, but he had to keep up the act - Sirius would only get suspicious if Harry abruptly gave up asking about the sex shop, and what Harry doesn't need right now is for one of the elder Malfoys or the Weasleys to find out what he's doing with Hermione and the twins.

They walk on for a little while, talking about virtually nothing - Sirius points out a few birds in the trees, mentioning the names of them: apparently he and Harry's dad had had a theory that Sirius would be a bird, but obviously they were a bit far off in their estimation. "You felt anything yet, where the transformation's concerned?"

"Yeah," Harry says eagerly. The sex talk had been a slightly uncomfortable necessity, but the Animagus transformation he's actually excited to talk about, and he looks at Sirius. "I've been doing some of the meditation exercises, and sort of combining them with my Occlumency stuff. A lot of the guidance for the beginnings of the disciplines seem to be pretty similar. This morning I felt- I felt something."

"Felt what?"

"It's hard to describe. Like the air moved, but the air inside my own head." Sirius nods his head, a small, appraising grin on his face.

"That's a good start, Harry," he says. "That's early, too - we all struggled with keeping our minds clear enough to feel anything until we were about four months into it. You probably have better mental discipline than we did, mind." Harry grins a little, looking at the footprints his and Sirius' feet are leaving in the mulchy, orange-brown mess of leaves carpeting the woody path. "I've got something for you."

"Really?" Harry asks, and Sirius gives him a wry smile.

"Don't look excited," Sirius warns. "It's nothing fun." He draws a set of vials out of his satchel before pulling out a bottle of clear, viscous potion. Harry recognizes it from the diagram in one of his Animagus books, and he picks it up, holding it up to the muted sunshine to examine. The liquid shifts thickly against the glass as he moves the bottle slightly, and then he takes the set of vials.

"So, this is the Priming Potion," Harry says, holding up the bottle. He'd been reading about this part of the Animagus transformation - the Priming Potion allows a person to digest certain magical ingredients raw in a way they wouldn't ordinarily be able to, and the five vials hold the ingredients he has to eat: some powdered Mandrake leaf, pixie wings, doxy eggs, some finely chopped daisy roots and...

"What's that last one?" Harry asks, frowning at the final bottle. He's become pretty good at recognizing ingredients on sight - some of the more focused potioneers in the seventh year can identify them by smell alone - but the last one is unfamiliar to him.

"That," Sirius says, "is Boggart blood." The stuff is bubbly and black, but when Harry holds it to the light it begins to shimmer into one colour and then the next, shifting in the light.

"It never listed any of this stuff in my book," Harry says, thoughtfully. "I think it was a Phoenix feather, some powdered unicorn hair, some beetle eyes... The ingredients don't matter, though, right?" The Priming Potion's actual function seems simple enough to understand: when someone drinks a little of it before consuming whatever ingredient they need, it allows the body to try and digest some of its magical properties, leaving someone more able to try transformations later on.

"Yes, and no," Sirius says. "Virtually anything will work for this, if you use it in the right combination. Kids in some of the Central African schools take potions like this before they even start using the sort of magic you learn when you start at Hogwarts, but the ingredients they use are usually much less potent, and their effect is cummulative over a few years. It's an easier process that they follow."

"That makes sense," Harry says. "Why don't we do that?"

"We haven't got the right sort of ingredients, to begin with," Sirius says, shrugging his shoulders. "And then there's the fact that we learn theory of magic with wand usage to start off, whereas those kids will start earlier on with wandless magic. It's a different culture, a different way of teaching, you know? You'll find that wherever you go, where magic's concerned. We used gillyweed instead of Mandrake leaf, but... Well. We ended up having to chuck James in the lake when he grew gills and stopped breathing." Harry sniggers despite himself, shaking his head.

"The properties your body is going to try and take on are to do with transformation, latent magic and animal magic," Sirius explains, and Harry feels so much more comfortable asking questions now - he'd been a little less certain talking about sex, given that it'd been a conversation he wanted to have more out of necessity, but this is more stable ground.

"Aren't daisy roots a stabilizer?" Harry asks. He's used them in a few potions so far, but he knows they're especially important at NEWT level, where potions ingredients are more volatile and more likely to go wrong.

"You take the daisy roots on the third day out of three. As a stabilizer. It's just a precaution, because you should be fine, but it's recommended to take a stabilizer in the middle of your routine. The full moon is Thursday. The day of the cusp, you start your little prescription - a gulp of the potion, then the Mandrake. The next day, the pixie wings, and so on." Sirius is fairly sober as he speaks, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at the set of ingredients Harry neatly sets into his bag. "The potion's not difficult, but it needs fiddling with at odd times, so I thought it'd be better to do it for you rather than making you hide it in some toilet."

"Thanks, Sirius," Harry says, honestly, and he leans into it as Sirius pulls him into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "You're a great godfather." Sirius lets out a satisfied sigh.

"Yeah, I know."

"And modest, too," Harry quips. "So, I've got a week of drinking a weird potion and putting strange shit in my mouth, then."

"Bit like being a working boy on Knockturn Alley, really," Sirius says philosophically, and Harry groans, pushing the other man away.

"You're disgusting, Sirius," Harry complains as Sirius lets out his loud laugh, tossing his head back and laughing like it's the greatest pleasure in the world.

"Yeah," he agrees fondly, trying to ruffle Harry's hair even though he dodges out of the way. "I am."

Harry adjusts his bag on his shoulder, and he and Sirius turn and head back into the village. Harry sees McGonagall and Celia together, talking quietly, and Harry gives them a wave as they walk back onto Hogsmeade's main path. "Any trouble?" Sirius asks, and McGonagall gives a shake of her head, but her expression is serious, her lips twisted into a small frown.

They walk into the village again, and Sirius leads the both of them into Honeydukes. Sirius murmurs quietly to Harry about a trapdoor that leads into Hogwarts from the basement of the shop as he picks out a few bars of chocolate for Remus, and Harry considers this as he picks up a box of eight Chocolate Frogs. He's been toying with the idea of trying to build up a proper collection, trading cards with other students at Hogwarts to build it up - Theodore has a collection of four hundred, ordered obsessively neatly in alphabetical order in a specially decorated album, with no duplicates, and while Harry doesn't want to go that far, it looks like a fun hobby.

He turns his head to ask Sirius if he has any, but there's a loud scream from outside, and Harry drops the box before even thinking about it - brown frogs bounce animatedly over the floor as he rushes outside, leaving them wandering on the floor behind him.

Lindon Sartorius stands surrounded by a shield of bright, flickering flames. The heat that comes off it is amazing, and Harry gasps in a surprised breath as he stares at it: he can just see Sartorius' black-clad form silhouetted on the inside of the orange-red sphere, and as a spell is fired into it the flames let out a spark or two but remain surrounding him. Harry turns his head, and he recognizes the American from his photograph in the Prophet when he was arrested - Chad Arnett has black hair that shows blond at its roots, and it's moulded into a quiff with a strategically loose strand of hair artfully tousled over his forehead.

His robes are cream-white with pink ribbons twisted at his waist, sleeves and the sides of his legs, and Harry's certain he's seen the exact look in one of the fashion magazines he pretends not to look through when Daphne Greengrass leaves them in the common room. He holds his wand aloft and keeps casting at Lindon, but the wall of flames absorbs every spell.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry yells, but Arnett turns before the spell can hit him in the back, and he turns to face Harry, who doesn't stand out. He dodges a purple stream of light that flies towards him, throwing a Knee-Reversal Hex in his direction, and Arnett buckles, falling backwards. Harry throws up a shield as Arnett casts towards him, but a woman in lilac robes runs towards him, grabbing him by the shoulder before they disappear together.

Lindon drops his shield, leaving dark smoke filtering up into the air around him. A black ring marks the dirt path around him, and Harry can hear him yelling something indistinct to Cecilia, shaking a leather-bound book in his hands. Harry strains his ears as he walks forwards, but then he hears a, "Oh, Harry!" from behind him.

Harry turns on his heel in a split second, and he faces Lockhart with his wand held aloft.

Lockhart's hair is a little longer than before, in loose blond locks around his head, and Harry can see his Azkaban number tattooed on his neck, poking visibly out from under the Chinese collar of his robes. His eyes are filled with a cold fury, but of any wizard on Earth, Gilderoy Lockhart is probably one of those Harry would feel completely comfortable facing in a duel.

"How'd you like Azkaban?" Harry says sharply before Lockhart can say anything more, and the fraud's cheeks go slightly pink as he watches Harry, his mouth twisting into a snarl that could easily make its way into Witch Weekly's catalogue of evil snarls.

"Do you think I can't kill you, Harry?" Lockhart demands. Harry can see a few teachers coming forwards from the sides, pushing students behind their bodies to shield them slightly, but none of them try and cast in his direction. There are only two or three metres between him and Lockhart, and Harry knows none of them want to hit him with a hex when Lockhart's right in front of him.

"You can't even kill a pixie, you useless hack," Harry retorts, and he twists his arm before hissing, "Colei Novis!" The spell hits Lockhart directly despite the older man's attempt to dodge, and he lets out a cry, dropping his wand and cupping his crotch in horror, falling to his knees. Harry steps forwards to try and Stun him, but before he can manage Lockhart disappears.

"He had a Portkey," Sirius says, running forwards to put his hand on Harry's shoulder and frown down at him. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Harry says. "Annoyed I didn't catch that bloody twat-" He blinks as a flash is aimed at him, and snaps, "This isn't the time, Colin!"

"I got a picture of you casting that spell, Harry! What spell was it? What did it do? It looked like it hurt! Where did you learn it? One of them got me!" Colin proudly holds up his arm, and Harry groans at the little Gryffindor, horrified at the sight of it: Creevey's white-sleeved arm is thick with blood, and Harry grabs his wrist before he can hold up his camera, pushing up the sleeve. It's not a cut: it looks like he's just taken a harsh graze across the side of his forearm, and his Muggle shirt has made it look more dramatic than the wound is.

Harry ignores Sirius talking behind him, focusing on Colin's arm and murmuring a healing spell as Colin excitedly chatters about pushing Neville Longbottom out of the way of the man with the black hair and trying to cast a few spells but failing to hit with any of them. He murmurs a cleaning spell, but it only draws a little of the blood out of Creevey's shirt, leaving it with one pink sleeve and one white one. Despite the slightly annoying nature of Creevey's excited chatter, Harry can't help but be slightly impressed - he's definitely showing off his Gryffindor bravery on his first Hogsmeade trip.

"Go away, Colin," Harry says, patting his shoulder, and Colin beams up at him. "I want copies of those pictures, okay?"

"Yeah, sure! I can't wait to tell Dennis, Harry!" Harry watches after him as he runs off, shaking his head slightly. Hermione is talking with Ron Weasley, and Harry winces as he sees him - the Gryffindor has his head half-shorn, and Harry recognizes the effects of a Scalping Hex immediately. A few of the Gryffindors seem to have their own scrapes and wounds, Harry realizes as he glances around, but no one seems to be seriously injured.

"You alright?" Harry asks as he comes over. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees McGonagall and Flitwick rapidly talking. Flitwick looks ready to commit a few murders, and Harry's sure they'd be creative if he was permitted the license.

"I hit her with a Conjunctivitus Jinx," Ron says, "Darling, the lady in the lilac robes. Flitwick says they're going to call into St Mungo's to look out for a Splinching, because he doubts she's been able to Apparate both herself and Arnett without doing it."

"Well done, Ron," Harry says, and Ron gives him a grin. His lip is split, but Hermione fixes it up pretty quickly, and he stands up straight as they walk towards the teacher. "You think they'll be able to fix your hair?" Ron's head is shorn all up the left side, and while on the right he's got the same thick, red hair, the left side is nearly bald and a little bloody in places.

"Dunno," Ron says, giving a shrug. "Thinks it makes me look battle-hardened."

"It makes you look stupid, if anything," Hermione says, and Harry laughs.

"Thirty points to Slytherin, Potter, and twenty to Gryffindor, Weasley!" Flitwick says as soon as the three of them approach: his tone is stiff and his expression has a lingering fury, but neither of those seem to be directed at the two of them. "Excellent form!"

"Thanks, Professor," Harry says, and he watches McGonagall's deep frown as she glances around the village. "Where'd they get in?"

"They Apparated onto the roof of the Hog's Head," she says, "I'm going to have a word with Aberforth. For the time being- I think we'll get everyone back up to the castle. You three walk up to the gates: Severus will let you in." Harry frowns slightly, slightly surprised - he's seen Sinistra, Flitwick, McGonagall and Cecilia in the village, but he's surprised Snape was stationed at the gates.

"Is everyone okay, Ma'am?"

"There are a few glancing injuries, but nothing serious, Potter," McGonagall says. "Up you go now."

---

Hogwarts is awash with hurried conversation that afternoon. Harry sees Ron sat on the floor of the great hall, letting Lavender Brown coax his hair into its previous length again on the one side, and Luna Lovegood is examining a bruise on her face with a mirror. "You didn't get hurt, did you, Luna?" Harry asks. She glances up at him, apparently surprised at the question, and then gives him a smile.

"Oh, I didn't go into Hogsmeade today, Harry," she says with a small shrug. "I was walking with a unicorn in the forest, and took rather a tumble. It does give me a sense of the dramatic, I feel. Do you know any charms for bruises? I'll teach you one for fixing a broken nose."

"Sure, alright," Harry says, sitting down beside her. Luna sets her stone-framed mirror in her lap, and Harry cups her chin to hold her head still. Her skin is warm under his cold hands, and he mutters an apology as he soothes the thumb-sized bruise from the side of her cheek. He writes down the charm for her, and he takes the parchment she offers as trade. "Episkey," he murmurs under his breath, giving a nod of his head.

"Have you enjoyed your taste of battle today, Harry?" Luna asks, fingering the cool obsidian of her mirror's casing, and Harry sighs. He looks at the mirror in Luna's hands as he speaks: it's pretty in a rugged sort of way, like a mountain at sunset, and it looks too heavy to be held so easily between Luna's dainty-looking hands.

"I'd rather they were back in Azkaban, to be honest," he admits, and he glances up as a gaggle of Beauxbatons girls come into the room.

"'Arry!" Fleur Delacour says, clapping her hands together. "You are like a man on the duelling field, non?"

"I am a man," Harry says, and she laughs.

"A very petit man," she says, making a gesture with her hands, and Harry frowns at her as she and her friends giggle. They settle into eating some food, though, and Harry stays at the Ravenclaw table beside Luna, talking with her about the Quibbler's recent feature on Heliopaths and their infiltration of the Ministry of Magic. If he's honest, the conversation is utterly mad, but he'd be a liar to say he didn't find the Lovegoods' theories on the wizarding world to be interesting.

Besides, Luna's a nice girl, and Harry thinks she's quite pretty, too.

---

"Professor Hayworth?" asks Hermione, leaning forwards against her desk and peering up at her. There are twenty minutes left to the lesson, but they've finished the theory they need before learning a Knockback Jinx next lesson, and Celia doesn't want to start the practical just yet. "What was that book Lindon had in Hogsmeade on Saturday?" Immediately, most of the students in the room lean forwards, interested.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, and leans back against her desk. Sitting on the edge of it, her red boots swing on her feet, and Harry glances at their rainbow laces absently, wondering where she got them. "For the past few years, Lindon's been pursuing the stories of spell tomes."

Harry glances around: a few of the Slytherins look interested, but Harry's fairly certain he's only ever heard the term in one of Dudley's stupid video games. "What's that, a spell tome?" He's learned a lot about the wizarding world over the past few years, but he still often feels like he's missing the most crucial part of legends and popular culture, and he's always eager to pick up a few new bits of knowledge.

"Mr Nott?" Cecilia asks, and Theodore pulls his head out of his book, looking like a startled deer for a few seconds before Blaise hurriedly whispers in his ear, and then he pulls himself together.

"They're legendary magic - they were used in Ancient Egypt onwards, developed from scrolls in the times of Mesopotamia. You'd use the tome instead of a wand or a staff, and you'd be able to cast powerful magic at a second's notice just by brushing a page."

"And he's made one?" Ron says excitedly. "He can do that?"

"No," Celia says bluntly. "After scrawling runes over a hundred pages, he can cast one spell that barely works." Harry laughs. Despite Lindon's best efforts, a lot of his attempts at practical magic seem to go wrong - Harry likes the man, but he sometimes wonders if the academic would be better off being a Squib. Nonetheless, though, the shield had worked fairly well, and Harry had been impressed by it. "He can't move with it, and he burnt half of his eyebrows off." He laughs again: perhaps not he's that impressed.

"Aren't runes just an old language?" asks Pansy Parkinson, scrunching up her pug nose and seeming rather disgusted by the idea. Harry isn't alone in shooting her an annoyed look: Pansy Parkinson is a girl that pretends to be stupider than she is, and for all Harry's general understanding of his fellow Slytherins, he can't for the life of him understand why.

"Yes," Hermione answers, "but you can perform magic with them like you can with Latin or Ancient Greek. It can just be more complex and drawn out - Ancient Runes, the subject we study here, is all just reading and understanding the language, but people use it to cast complex spells on objects all the time. The best enchantments in clothes, shoes and furniture use runes to sustain themselves - it's why cheaper enchantments tend to wear out." Harry is quiet: he likes reading the runic passages they study in class, but he's never gone to too much effort to read up on the language's modern applications.

"Certain ward structures make use of runes, as well as various enchantments. Spell tomes likely used a written language similar to our runes, but that language is almost certainly lost. Trying to replicate it now is- It's insane. But he's making some progress, at least. It's a very complex form of magic - in the same way spell incantations require exact pronunciations, runic magic requires precise inscriptions. It's far too difficult to be taught here." Celia claps her hands together, glancing around the class; everyone likes her well enough, and it'll only improve people's opinions of her to end class early. "If anyone wants to see an example, you can check out the Goblet of Fire."

Harry does have a look at the Goblet of Fire that evening. Dumbledore had revealed it on Saturday, and he has to stand on a stool to peer down into its cup to see the shadows of carved figures visible under the soft blue flame. He stands down, and Lindon enters the room, looking around for something.

"She's in her office," Harry says. Lindon's eyebrows are burned, a little soot still clinging to their partly destroyed curve, and he tries not to laugh as he looks at the historian.

"Thank you," Lindon says, disappearing, and Harry watches him go. The spell tome is interesting, he supposes, but not something that needs to be his priority for now.

Harry stares with wide eyes as the third piece of paper shoots forth from the Goblet of Fire. It’s with the same dramatic burst of flame as the others, but somehow as it floats down towards Dumbledore’s waiting, outstretched hand, it moves down impossibly slowly, far slower than the others had. Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum are already waiting down in the armoury, and now it's time for the Hogwarts Champion to be selected. A sinking feeling makes itself known in his chest, chilling and nauseating, and Harry knows even before it touches the headmaster’s wrinkled fingers whose name is on it.

"Cedric Diggory!" Relief floods through him - God, how could he have thought it was going to be him? What a stupid thing to worry about. He shakes his head, giving a little laugh into his pumpkin juice, but then...

"What's he doing?" Blaise asks beside him, and Harry turns back up to the staff table as Diggory runs up and into the trophy room. Dumbledore is turning the parchment over between his fingers and talking hurriedly to Amelia Bones. Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

“Harry Potter,” the old man says quietly, and Harry shrinks down in his seat; as a protective reflex, the other Slytherins sit up straighter, leaning around Harry, surrounding him, and blocking the other Houses’ view of him. “Harry Potter,” Dumbledore repeats a little more forcefully.

“No thanks,” Harry calls back from behind the broad body of one of the Slytherin beaters, ducking a little lower. “Not happening.”

“Mr Potter, your name has been called by the Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore says. Whispering is becoming louder and louder all around the hall, and all of the Slytherins are looking at Harry with a mix of concern, irritation and upset. Theodore's hand is on Harry's shoulder, holding the back of his robes tightly as if it will somehow protect Harry from this nonsense.

“I didn’t put it in there, sir, so I’m not coming up.” There is muttering around the other tables, some from the other Hogwarts students, but mostly from the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, all of whom are leaning right out of their seats in an attempt to get a look at Harry’s face.

“It’s your handwriting, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore says, in what Harry’s sure the old man thinks is a reasonable tone, and Harry’s never hated this school more than he does in this moment.

“I didn’t put my name in the Goblet, sir. I refuse. I rescind whoever’s offer it was. I decline.”

“You can’t,” Celia’s voice says quietly from the table, and although Harry can't see her, he can imagine her serious, concerned expression. “It’s a magical contract, Harry, the runes on the inside are intricate but binding. Refuse, and it’ll kill you.”

“Who says the tournament won’t kill me anyway?” Harry demands, and he loses his patience, standing up. Bones is staring at him with her eyes wide and a hand over her mouth, and Ludo Bagman looks ready to throw a party, the fat bastard. “I’m fourteen. You just said I couldn’t participate. There was an age line, and we already have a Champion! It's not happening, Professor, I won't do it!”

“The cup doesn’t know, and it doesn't care,” Celia maintains in a quiet voice that rings through the room, and Harry feels all the eyes in the hall on him as he makes his way to the middle of the floor, sweating and doing his best to remain calm. “Your name is on it. It’s your hand. The contract is signed.” Harry’s gaze flits past the staring eyes of McGonagall, Dumbledore, Celia and the rest of the teachers, and he meets Snape’s black stare. His head of house very slowly stands and, almost imperceptibly, gives a nod of his head.

“I hate this fucking school,” Harry snaps, loudly enough for the Ravenclaw first years to his left to hear him and gasp in horror, and he stalks up to the staff table, pushing past Dumbledore and following Snape down and into the trophy room. He heads straight for Diggory, shoving the older boy hard in the chest, and Diggory's blue eyes and handsome face contort themselves into an expression of surprise.

"Hey!" The Hufflepuff says, as if Harry doesn't have any reason to be mad.

"You put my name on the other side of your parchment," Harry snaps. "You twat, how the Hell did you even-" He grabs for his wand, but Snape's cold, clammy hand is suddenly tight on Harry's wrist, pulling him sharply away from Diggory and stopping Harry from doing any damage. "Let me-"

"No," Snape hisses at Harry like he's giving an order to a badly behaved puppy, and shoves him to stand against one of the trophy cabinets. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, twisting his mouth into a scowl, and Diggory has the gall to peer at him.

"What is 'appening?" Madame Maxime asks, a mild note of anxiety in her voice. "Why is this boy 'ere?"

"He put my name in the Goblet of Fire!" Harry says sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Cedric.

"I did not!" Diggory argues, a pink tinge appearing on his handsome cheeks. "Why would you think-"

"Mr Diggory," Dumbledore says in a delicate tone, "Mr Potter's name was on the other side of your parchment." Cedric's cheeks loose their blush, turning a little pale, and he looks from Dumbledore to Harry, shaking his head rapidly. "You had nothing to do with this?"

"No, no, I'd never do that, I swear."

"Hogwarts is to have two Champions, then?" Karkaroff demands. "How-"

"Shut up," Harry snaps, and Karkaroff stares down at him, curling his lip. "If you so desperately want a fourteen-year-old boy on your team, Karkaroff, hand me a contract and I'll join your school right now!" There's an awkward pause as Karkaroff turns his dark eyes away from Harry's, and Harry feels the gazes of Maxime and the other teachers on him as he keeps his focus on Karkaroff. "What? Don't want me after all? You-"

"Calm down, Potter," Snape orders, and Harry sits down. He listens as Amelia Bones and Ludo Bagman talk quietly about the rules of the tournament - Bones seems harried, but Harry can't bring himself to feel sorry for her only having had a month or so to familiarize herself with the rules of the Triwizard Tournament. He wants to yell and scream and kick, for all the good it's going to do him: it makes no difference that he might have put his name into the Goblet, had the choice been offered to him.

It's that he didn't have the choice.

"It would seem, then, that Hogwarts will have its two Champions working in conjunction: Mr Diggory, Mr Potter, you will work together."

"When I get killed by a dragon or something," Harry says icily, "does the title of Hogwarts Champion revert to just him?" Bagman actually laughs, and Harry feels like trying to punch him.

"Indeed, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says pleasantly, "though I'm sure it will not come to that."

"I want Sirius," Harry says. "Right now - I'm not of age. I don't have the- I can't sign a legally binding contract like this, can I? I'm not old enough."

"The Goblet of Fire has worked for hundreds of years, Harry," Amelia Bones says tiredly, wiping her brow. "It doesn't see the difference between a fourteen year old and a seventeen year old - that was something we just added in."

"It's not fair!" Fleur says sharply, "he is a boy! He will be killed!" Cedric nods his head, standing beside Fleur and looking concerned for Harry's welfare - Harry knows he's going to have to apologize, but for the time being he doesn't want to. He just wants to scream.

"It's an unfair advantage," snaps Karkaroff. "He's just faced a grown wizard in combat, and faced the Dark Lord himself, has he not?"

"I want Sirius," Harry says again, and Dumbledore seems to realize that no number of pleasant smiles or twinkling glances will calm him down. He inclines his head, and Harry leans back against the trophy case, crossing his arms over his chest. Krum has been silent throughout this endeavour, but when Harry turns to look his way he gives Harry a short look. His expression remains as grim as Harry's ever seen it, but he gives Harry a minute nod, a steadfast expression of... Something or other. Harry guesses it's meant to be some kind of comfort, so he offers the Bulgarian a small, stiff smile smile.

---

Sirius can't actually do anything for him. Harry, on one level, had known that, and so he isn't all that disappointed as he listens to Sirius talk to Dumbledore and Bones. On the other, Harry feels nothing more than a desperate desire to go back to Grimmauld Place and lie in his own bed, where none of the Slytherin boys will be able to ask how he got his name into the Goblet of Fire.

"Headmaster," Harry hears Snape say, and he doesn't bother looking at the older men as they speak, a listening silently and messing with his wand. "Every Hogwarts entry has Mr Potter's name on its back."

"What?" Sirius demands.

"Obviously one individual was suitably desperate for the boy to participate," Snape murmurs, and Harry glances at him. His Head of House's expression is mostly neutral, but Harry can see the slightest twist of his lip showing his irritation, and he's holding his hands stiffly; it's virtually impossible to glean what Snape is feeling if he doesn't actually spell it out for you, but at the very least Harry can see he's annoyed. Whether it's at him, at Dumbledore, or at the general state of his life, Harry can't discern. "They were each crafted in invisible ink - I don't recognize the brand, but it's a goblin-made product."

"A goblin wanted me in the Triwizard Tournament?" Harry asks, arching his eyebrows at the sheer ridiculousness of it, and the twist of Snape's lips disappears, ironed out like a wrinkle in a skirt of Aunt Petunia's.

"Presumably, Potter, you are as well-loved among the goblins as you are here." Harry laughs. Sirius looks annoyed, but Harry stands up before he can have a go at Snape. The other Champions had all been permitted to go to bed - Cedric had actually offered to stay and argue with Harry, even offered to let all of the Hogwarts names be drawn again, but it hadn't been possible, and even if it had been, Harry doesn't know that he would have taken away Cedric's chance to participate by taking the offer.

"You alright?" Sirius asks quietly. His anger is obvious in his face and the clench of his fists, but Harry doesn't point it out - he just nods his head. The great hall's lights are dimmed, and Harry walks from the room with his hands in his pockets, feeling tired. "I'm sorry, Harry. If there was anything I could do, you know that in a second-"

"Yeah, I know, I know," Harry says, nodding his head. "It's not your fault. I just wish it wasn't me every year. Why does it have to be me?" Sirius reaches out, gently patting Harry's back, and he sighs, stopping in the entrance hall and standing with his godfather for few moments. "Where's Remus?"

"He's in bed," Sirius answers, shaking his head, "He's caught some cold, and because he needs his Wolfsbane on next week he won't take anything for it. He's a mess." Harry feels a pang of sympathy for the werewolf: Remus always seems to be unlucky, and Harry wishes they could do something for him. "Lucius made him a chicken soup and wouldn't let me have any." It's said with such a natural petulance that Harry smiles, trying not to snicker as he looks at Sirius.

"What? Why are you smiling like that?" Sirius demands, utterly oblivious, and Harry just shakes his head, putting his hand on his godfather's arm.

"I'll see you later," Harry murmurs. "Thanks for coming."

"I'd knock down the walls if you needed me, kid," Sirius promises, and Harry gives him a nod, heading down and into the dungeons. At the very least, he thinks, it can't be Voldemort who wants him in the Triwizard Tournament - not unless he's added goblins to his ranks.

"Someone wrote my name on the backs of all the pieces of Hogwarts parchment," Harry says as he enters the Slytherin common room. Dozens of his fellow Slytherins are settled around the room, and all of their eyes are on him, their expressions serious. The younger children - the first and second years - don't look like they have the best grasp of what's going on, but they look worried nonetheless, and the solemn expressions of the seventh years only compounds Harry's lingering anxiety. "Invisible ink - goblin stuff."

"You'd think you'd be dead at this point," says Francis Drummond, his chin on his hand as he looks at Harry. "In some ways, we could say you're doing quite well." The sardonic, slightly depressed phrasing makes laughter ring around the room, and Harry chuckles a little, shoving the older boy in the back of the shoulder. There's talk back and forth for a while - Harry explains that he and Cedric will be joint Champions, working together in the tasks, and it's met with mixed approval and irritation on Harry's behalf.

He's allowed to head off soon enough, though, and Draco walks with him to the dormitory.

Harry flops back onto his mattress, watching as Draco combs his hair, and says, "You think the Hufflepuffs will hate me?" Cedric is a good man, but Harry had seen some of the glares the Hufflepuffs had sent his way as he'd walked up to the trophy room, and he considers them now with a sinking feeling. It's not as if Harry has close working relationships with the Hufflepuffs as it is, but they barely ever get any glory to themselves, and he doesn't really want to have to deal with their ire.

"Probably," Draco says, tossing his head and sneering. "As if their opinions matter. Did Sirius say what Father said?"

"No, actually," Harry says. "Remus is sick - he's been making him soup." Draco glances at Harry, seeming impressed. Given Lucius Malfoy's general focus on food, Harry can only assume it's some kind of compliment in Draco's eyes.

"It's good, his chicken soup. There are all sorts of ingredients in it that invigorate you," he says, "I used to feign illness when I was eight or nine just so he'd make me some." Harry laughs, kicking off his boots and lying down properly in bed. He'll get up to change in a few moments, but for the time being he doesn't really want to go to the effort of actually moving. "I'm sure he'll make you some when this competition nearly kills you."

"I hope so," Harry says lightly. "I'm hearing good things." Draco smirks at him, and Harry turns away as he begins to get changed for bed, reaching for a book from his shelf. He feels wide-awake, and he knows he won't be able to sleep for a while yet. He grasps at an as-yet untouched book called An Eye Into The Mind: The History of Legilimency, setting it on his pillow before reaching for his pyjamas.

He can always close his curtains, so it's not like Draco can complain about the light.

---

Harry stands quietly in the empty room with Cedric Diggory, his wand in hand. They're waiting for Fleur and Krum to come up for the Wand Weighing ceremony, and for the time being it's just them and Professor Sprout, who'd come to collect them. She's looking at Harry with a little sympathy on her face, and Harry breathes in slowly, exhaling with the same diminished speed. He needs to be calm, and he doesn't want to panic here.

"I'm sorry about this," Harry murmurs, and Cedric looks down at him, surprised.

"What've you got to be sorry for?" he asks, expression serious. "It's not your fault, Harry - we can work together, alright? And we'll win." Cedric's brightness and utter sincerity is, if Harry is honest, mildly off-putting: he's used to other Slytherins and their dry, sharp-minded humour, and the Hufflepuff intensity is mostly unfamiliar to him. Nonetheless, Cedric's general demeanour is endearing, and despite his oddity Harry likes the other boy.

The door opens, and Harry glances back. Fleur comes into the room with her hips swaying, and she airily ignores the desperate, hungry gaze of the bearded photographer that follows her inside. Madame Maxime stands between them immediately, setting her gigantic hand on one of the part-Veela's dainty shoulders, and Harry frowns at the photographer as he aims his camera at Harry, letting out a flash.

"Bozo, over here!" says a terribly-dressed woman with draconically long, green fingernails. She meets Harry's gaze, and she's obviously thinking he'll look away, but he doesn't. "Harry Potter, isn't it?" she says brightly. "I'm-"

"Rita Skeeter," Harry finishes for her. "Yeah, I know who you are." He's seen her name more and more in the Daily Prophet over the past few years - her articles are normally dripping with inflammatory imagery, and he doesn't really like their focus on stirring up controversy, but he knows that Rita Skeeter is the idol of Romilda Vane in the year below.

"Oh, good!" Skeeter says, clapping her hands together with a disconcerting click of her claws, ignoring Harry's lacking enthusiasm.

"Morning, Viktor," Harry says when Krum enters the room, and the other boy gives him a small nod of his head. Harry is unsure if the two of them are developing a rapport or not - Viktor's general lack of verbal input makes it difficult to tell. Karkaroff opens his mouth to bark something, but when he sees Bozo's camera, he quiets himself. Ludo Bagman accompanies a familiar, white-haired old man with disturbingly bright eyes, and Harry offers Ollivander a small, polite smile.

The Wand Weighing isn't nearly as complicated as Harry had expected - it goes simply as Ollivander tests each with a few simple charms, and as Fleur does a small interview with Rita Skeeter to the side of the room and Bagman talks excitedly to Krum and Cedric about Quidditch, Harry stands beside Ollivander and looks curiously at the old man. He isn't sure whether he can leave just yet, as Skeeter hasn't started her interview with Cedric or Harry yet, and so he's left awkwardly standing.

"Do you have an assistant or something holding the shop?" Harry asks, feeling the need to make some kind of conversation, and Ollivander looks down at him, seeming surprised by the question. The old man's dry, wrinkled lips twitch in something like amusement, and he shakes his head.

"I have no assistant, Mr Potter," Ollivander says in his strange, quiet voice. "The shop is closed for the day. When I return, the walls will thrum." Harry furrows his brow slightly, and Ollivander quickly explains, "Wands dislike to be left with no magic about them. An unused wand is an unhappy one."

"But they're not- they're not sentient," Harry says, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Of course not," Ollivander agrees immediately, and Harry feels the same uncertainty he usually does when he's been sent a letter by Xenophilius Lovegood: he feels like he lacks the necessary footing in this conversation, and isn't entirely sure where it's leading. Vaguely, he wonders if the Ollivander and Lovegood family trees are linked. "The nature of magic, Mr Potter, is to flow. The nature of a wand, however, is to cast. They wait to be used, settled on the shelves, and pray their owner will come along soon." Ollivander widens his eyes, shifting his silver eyebrows.

"Is it hard? Making wands?"

"No," Ollivander answers smoothly. "It's easy. Though at many times, it is impossible. Wand-making is a delicate science, where magic, craft and comprehension must each be balanced: one uses the correct wood, the correct core, and one channels magic into the wands themselves." Despite himself, Harry is interested, and he watches Ollivander's face as he speaks: the old man, seeming to enjoy a focus on his work, continues. "It is a very ancient craft, Mr Potter, that requires both exactitude and luck in equal measure."

"You've never taken an apprentice?" Harry asks, and Ollivander gives a small, short shake of his head. "Why not?" Ollivander smiles down at Harry, the expression making his old face appear even more ancient. Ollivander leans in, and the smell of wood-shavings and ozone clings to his silver robes: Harry wonders if he could pursue wand-making, one day. Could he be like Ollivander, a bizarre genius? He doubts it.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter," Ollivander murmurs as if it's a terrible secret, and then adds, "But so too does the wand-maker." Ollivander abruptly stands straight, and Harry opens his mouth as the man walks away, patting Bagman's shoulder, but he doesn't know what he'd want to say to bring the older wizard back, or even if he'd want to.

He elects to stay silent.

"Harry!" Skeeter says, putting her hand on his shoulder; through the fabric of his robes, her nails dig into his shoulder. "Why don't we go have a little interview in there?" Harry glances to the door she points to, and he shakes his head.

"In a broom cupboard? I think I'm fine," Harry retorts, twisting his arm from her grip, and she presses her lips together.

"Well, out here, then. What do you think your parents would say about this occasion, if they were alive?"

"They'd probably say someone has it in for me," Harry says dryly.

"Why did you put your name in the Goblet?"

"I didn't." Levitating in the air beside her, Rita Skeeter's venomously green quill moves quickly over her notebook's page, and Harry grabs for it, scanning the page. Tears shining in his eyes, the interloping Faux Champion lies once more, leaving this reporter- Harry doesn't read any more of it: he laughs, incredulously, and tears off the page, ripping it into pieces. When he looks at Skeeter's face, her expression is a parody of innocence, and he clucks his tongue, shaking his head. "Actually, for the afternoon, Ma'am, you can just take a no comment from me." The angry flush that comes to Skeeter's cheeks is barely visible under the red powder already caked on the skin, and she presses her lips as tightly together as possible. By no means does he want to be the focus of some sensational article, and so he leaves quickly, running quickly down the corridors to catch the start of his Ancient Runes class.

He's not missing another lesson today because of this stupid competition, and by no means is he going to waste any more time on Rita Skeeter.

---

INTERLOPING BOY WHO LIVED STEALS SPOTLIGHT

Harry spends much of breakfast the next morning with his forehead pressed against the surface of the Gryffindor breakfast table. Hermione sits beside him, scanning the article and frowning at its contents. She runs her hand through her hair, and says, "It's not that bad."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, she does call you attention-seeking, stupid, witless, selfish and an interloping snake," Hermione says. "But she also said you had nice hair and that you were dressed well."

"Well," Harry mutters. "So long as she liked my hair." He looks at Hermione as she sighs, shaking her head and frowning down at the page. The interviews of the other Champions had been given a half-page inside the Prophet - the front page is all Harry and his terrible, traitorous ways. "I tried writing Yolanda Hartbrook last night - she writes for the Prophet a fair bit, but she wrote me back this morning and said she's not allowed to do anything on the Triwizard Tournament. The head reporter on it is Skeeter, and she won't let anyone else get in on the action."

"She's probably going to keep on you," Hermione murmurs, "I've seen a lot more Prophets than usual this morning. I can't believe she can do this - it's all lies, and she's just made half of it up."

"It's not like there's a fair press authority in the wizarding world, Hermione," Harry says. "Else the Quibbler wouldn't exist." Hermione huffs, looking angry, and the two of them look up as Fred and George come over.

"Interloper!" they yell together, pointing their fingers at Harry, and he laughs sarcastically at them, letting out three forced "Haha!"s.

"Get back at her," Fred says immediately as he straddles the bench. "Do an interview with somewhere else."

"Like who?" Harry asks. "The Owl Gazette isn't going to be that interested, and-"

"Oh, Harry," George says, shaking his head and admonishing him with a kipper. "You sweet, stupid boy. Stop thinking about newspapers. Write Witch Weekly or Wizard's Staff - not a paper, a magazine. Pose naked for them and tell them all your troubles: you'll get a pretty penny for it, and you can drop in a word about Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."

"We'll give you a Skiving Snackbox to pose with over your todger," Fred says wisely, and Harry snorts, but the idea isn't actually stupid. As light as George's tone is, Harry can see the thought is posed in all seriousness, and the thoughts click in Harry's mind.

"Hey, Harry," Cedric says, putting his hands on George and Fred's shoulders and leaning on them as he looks at Harry. Fred seems mildly annoyed, but George pats Cedric's hand affectionately, obviously amused. "I just wanted to apologize - I didn't say anything about you for Skeeter, and-"

"Don't worry," Harry says. "There's a way you can make it up to me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Harry nods his head as he stands, coming around the table and gesturing for Cedric to follow him. "We just need to grab Fleur and Viktor."

"Both of them seems a bit ambitious," George says. "Neither of them are really in your league, mate."

"Shut up, George," Harry says. "I'll let you know how it goes."

The offices of Wizard's Staff are located in Cardiff's Royal Arcade, where a turn in the arcade's corridor leads to an unassuming looking door without a doorknob. Harry had watched with interest as the Wizard's Staff editor had drawn the tip of his wand over the wood, ushering all of them through once a doorknob had appeared, offered a greeting in Welsh, and allowed them inside. They're currently in a large, glass-ceilinged studio, spread all around, and Harry sits on the edge of a desk beside the editor.

"How old are you again?" Victor Langley asks. Harry grins at him as he looks over the room. Fleur is dressed in a periwinkle set of delicate, lacy dressrobes, and she poses with her head held high and her hair loose on her shoulder. She looks beautiful, and she laughs when the camera flashes so that it records the animation of her features.. Cedric is talking animatedly with a pretty reporter with a glossy black bob, and Viktor occasionally adds to the conversation, mostly remaining quiet.

"Fourteen," Harry answers. Langley had met their party at the Hogwarts gate when Harry had Flooed him to offer the interview, and he'd been surprised that the whole thing had been so... Well, so easy.

"And you got all this for a little revenge?"

"Not just revenge," Harry answers. Victor Langley has been the editor of Wizard's Staff for six years, and when Harry had Flooed his office that morning, he had spoken to him personally, ecstatic to be offered an opportunity to interview and photograph each of the Triwizard Champions. Fleur is posing in three different sets of dress robes, and each interview is set to be longer than the Daily Prophet ones had been, taking up a six page spread in the magazine. Harry is pretty certain three of those are just going to be pictures of Fleur, but he doesn't mind, and Fleur looks very pleased about the arrangement. "She gets to keep the robes, right?" Langley chuckles.

"You didn't engineer this so the French girl could get some new clothes."

"I don't like Skeeter," Harry says frankly, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm not ashamed to admit it, Mr Langley." Langley's lips twitch. He's a tall, dark-skinned man with green eyes and a silver ring through his lower lip, and he's exactly what Harry hadn't expected as the editor of a wizard's magazine. Harry had made his offer plainly: an exclusive interview from Harry Potter, as well as interviews and photographs of the other Triwizard Champions, and the others had been more than willing to do it.

They're each being paid a hundred and fifty Galleons, and Fleur is getting three new sets of robes on top of the deal, so Harry thinks he's negotiated their cause quite well. Talking quietly and seriously to the side of the room, Karkaroff and Maxime are having some kind of argument, but it's all in French, and Harry doesn't even try to understand it - he expects it's about Viktor, who Karkaroff had tried to stop coming. Viktor had grimly insisted he would come, thank you, Headmaster, and while he doesn't really look happy to be here, he doesn't look happy to be anywhere.

"I won't complain," Langley says. "I've obviously won here. How are you feeling about your odds?"

"My odds?" Harry asks, arching an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the goblins seem to have faith in you, but a lot of the wizard betting agencies are betting on you to die in the Tournament." Harry laughs. Langley is studying his face intently, whether to glean what bet he should make or just to see his reaction, Harry isn't certain.

"I'll tell my godfather to put a few Galleons on me to snuff it," Harry says, for some reason finding the idea funny. "I didn't really want to do this, to be honest, but I'm gonna do my best not to die."

"Always a good plan," Langley says approvingly, with a small nod of his head, and he reaches for a pad and paper, setting a quill to run over the page as he looks at Harry expectantly. "Now, Mr Potter," he says, voice utterly changing in its level of professionalism and taking on an almost fruity tone, "How does it feel to be the youngest competitor in a competition that's killed dozens of its players?"

"A bit daunting, to be honest," Harry says, watching the quill slide over the page, "but I'm pretty sure V- er, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, isn't going to be one of the tasks, so you could say it's looking up for me." Langley lets out a quiet, slightly nervous little laugh, looking appreciative at Harry's not saying Voldemort's real name. Or- well, actually, it isn't his real name, is it? Harry frowns slightly, suddenly distracted by the idea: he'd never spared it any thought, but Voldemort an't possibly be the actual man's name.

"Mr Potter?" Harry glances back to Langley. Langley's eyes are focused on his face, a slight concern obvious, and Harry shakes his head slightly, trying to make himself concentrate.

"Oh, sorry, I got distracted for a second there. Could you say the question again?"

"Do you think you'll win the competition, you and Cedric Diggory?" Langley repeats. Harry glances around the room: Viktor is now posing for photographs instead of Fleur, wearing a set of violet Quidditch robes embroidered with Hickory's Quidditch Gear on the breast, and Fleur and Cedric are standing behind the photographer, peering at Viktor as he's photographed in one stern, dramatic pose after another.

"Yeah," Harry decides, as Cedric laughs at something Fleur whispers in his ear. "Yeah, you know what? I think we will. We will."

---

"Get your posters here!" George says, clapping his hands together. "Slytherin heart throb, Harry Potter, blown up to grin on your walls - and with the sexiest snack box over his snack box!" Harry laughs as he holds the poster Fred had blown up from the Wizard's Staff article: it had only taken up a quarter of the page, as well as pictures of Cedric and Viktor, but it's the size of a normal poster now. The poster Harry laughs as he shakes the Skiving Snackbox in his hands, and although Harry had elected not to do the photoshoot without his clothes on, George is set on his method of salesmanship.

It wouldn't be so bad, except that people are actually buying them. George is selling them at ten Sickles apiece, and he's already got twenty Galleons or so: Cedric laughs when George offers him one, and buys two, the bastard.

"It's good that you two get on," Hermione says lightly as they sit in the library that afternoon. Harry has spent about twenty minutes arguing his case to Irma Pince to be allowed a book on one of the upper shelves of the library: it's not in the Restricted Section, but it's considered semi-restricted, and she'd been reluctant to hand it over until he'd said that if he died in the Triwizard Tournament, he'd know who to tell his godfather to blame.

She'd looked horrified at the comment, and had just stormed off - Harry thinks he'll send her something as an apology, as she had looked really upset, but at least he has his book now.

"Me and Cedric?" Harry asks, glancing over the title page of his book. Ensnaring The Mind is about different sorts of mind-based magics, including Occlumency and Legilimency, but it covers much of the theory: how magic can be used to strengthen the mind, and why it's been used that way over the years. All of the books on practical mind magic are in the Restricted Section, but Harry already has most of the texts he needs in his room.

"Yeah," Hermione says, "are you listening to me?" Harry closes the book shut, pushing it away and looking at Hermione properly with a mildly mocking expression on his face, and she kicks him under the table. He laughs, and he sits back in his chair. Across the room, he can see Viktor Krum with his curved nose in a book, flanked by a dozen girls who keep whispering over him, though not loud enough for Pince to chuck them out. "He's there again, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Harry says, arching an eyebrow. He leans forwards, waving to the other Champion, and Viktor seems pleased to have been invited over; he shifts forwards, and Harry murmurs a quiet spell under his breath as the girls come towards them. "Hey," he hisses to his Conjured three snakes, "I'll give you lots of rats if you chase those girls away." The snakes titter, and quickly make their way off, slithering past Viktor as he sits with them and making the girls scream and yell as they run out of the library. Harry recognizes Romilda Vane leading the group and suppresses a tut of noise, shaking his head. "You okay, Viktor?"

"What was that?" he demands, nodding to the snakes.

"Oh," Harry says. "Guess you wouldn't know." It's odd: he's become so used, over the years, to any given stranger being aware of random facts about him, and speaking to Krum is a welcome change.

"Harry's a Parselmouth," Hermione says quietly, and Viktor turns to look at her seriously. Despite his eternally grim expression, he seems a little softer than usual, and Harry's lips twitch as Hermione meets Viktor's gaze.

"Viktor," Harry says, "this is my friend, Hermione. She's pretty, huh?" Hermione looks ready to snap at him, but she goes quiet when the Quidditch player responds.

"Da," Viktor agrees absently, and then whips his head to the side to stare at Harry as Hermione stifles a quiet chuckle.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione says. "It's nice to meet you, Viktor."

"And you- Hermy-own...?"

"Her-My-Oh-Knee," Hermione says, and although she speaks quietly, she enunciates each syllable. As she does so, Harry sees Krum's lips move as he follows the pronunciation, and he pulls his book towards himself as Hermione and Viktor begin to talk about what Hermione's studying.

Hermione's way too distracted to admonish him for smirking at her. As he reads, his head begins to twinge now and then, but he doesn't let on as to what's happening, and tries to focus on his book.

---

Harry waits outside of Snape's office, leaning on the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets. His head is beginning to feel like it's been split down the middle with a meat cleaver, and he closes his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth. The pain had slowly worsened over the past hour or so, and he's beginning to feel slightly dizzy with it - far too dizzy to make the trek up to McGonagall's office or Dumbledore's. He's already knocked, and he can hear sounds from inside, but Snape hasn't told him to come in yet, and Harry knows better than to walk in uninvited.

"Come in!" comes a lyrical, amused voice, and Harry frowns a little as he reaches for the door handle, turning it. At his desk, Snape is resolutely ignoring his two guests: artfully arranged in two chairs are Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks. Sat together as they are, Harry can see that they're sisters - Narcissa's eyes are a deep blue rather than brown, but they have the same heavy lids, and he can see the similarities in the curves of their jaws and their mouths.

"Hi, Dromeda," Harry says. "Mrs Malfoy."

"What do you want?" Snape demands before Harry can say anything, and Harry closes the door quietly behind him. Andromeda and Narcissa are just wearing fairly normal robes, and although Andromeda has a Muggle plastic bag in her lap, it's not really enough for him to figure out why the two of them are here. Harry hesitates for a moment nonetheless, wondering if he's interrupting something, but then he looks to Snape. He sways just slightly on his feet, but he tries to keep himself in place.

"My scar hurts. Dumbledore said to tell you if my scar was hurting." He doesn't hold back the words with Andromeda and Narcissa there - the both of them are in the Order, and while he doesn't know why they're here to see Snape, he knows that he trusts the both of them.

"He told you to inform me specifically?" Snape prompts with a sneer, and Harry has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

He can't stop himself from dryly replying, "Not specifically, sir, but you always make me feel so safe and well looked-after, given your nurturing nature."

"Twenty points from Slytherin," Snape says as Andromeda lets out a loud belly-laugh and Narcissa stifles her snort of laughter half into her hand and half into her sister's shoulder. Even if Harry hadn't said anything, he has no doubt his Head of House would have done so out of habit. "Sit down." The two lone visitor's chairs are occupied by Snape's existing visitors, so Harry sits on the edge of a side table. Snape, very slowly, looks away from the parchment on his desk and stares Harry down.

Harry resolutely stares back.

"Is he always like this with you?" Dromeda asks, sounding proud and slightly incredulous. Where Narcissa sits straight-backed, her hands neatly on her knees, she kicks back in her chair, one ankle crossed over the other, and she grins between Harry and Snape. "I always thought they were all scared of you, Severus."

"The intelligent ones are," Snape replies in an icy tone, and Harry lets out a curse as the table snaps at left leg, sending Harry and a stack old old textbooks tumbling to the floor. He pulls himself up, piling up the copies of Advanced Potion-Making, and mutters a Reparo under his breath. The damaged leg draws itself back together, and this time Harry sits down on the damned dungeon floor, crossing his arms over his chest. The sudden movement had made his head lurch, and although Snape's wand rests on the table, a foot away from his hand, Harry knows that he somehow snapped the leg.

"Bless," Drom says, reaching out and patting the top of Harry's head, and he winces as her fingers brush his hair. The physical touch sends the strangest wave of tingling nausea through him, and he reaches to grasp at her wrist, but that's even worse: the urge to vomit is sudden, and he releases her immediately, putting his hand tightly over his mouth. "Harry, love? You alright?"

"Harry?" Narcissa asks, and Harry sits on the cold stone floor with his eyes closed tightly shut, drying to stem the broiling sickness in his stomach.

"Don't touch me," he mumbles hurriedly, "I think- I think I'm going to be-" With a quiet clank, a disused, iron cauldron is dropped beside him. Narcissa is kneeling in front of him, her eyes flickering over him with an obvious concern, and while Snape isn't showing anything as plebeian as human emotion, he has made the effort to stand. "See, Drom?" Harry croaks. "He does take care of me."

"If you miss the sides of that cauldron, Potter, we will see that I take care of your corpse." Harry laughs, but halfway through he retches, and he grabs at the edges of the cauldron before bending over it. The pain in his scar is pulling at him, and sickening waves of nausea and shivering cold run through him as he grips tightly at the black metal.

"Expecto Patronum," Harry hears Snape say, but when he opens his eyes his vision swims, and he groans as he watches the silver shape run out of the room, holding Snape's message to Dumbledore: "Come now. It's his scar."

Harry retches until nothing comes up anymore, and once he begins to dry-heave, shaking in his place on the floor, Dromeda pulls the cauldron away, Vanishing its sickly contents before offering it back. Harry feels a cold sweat soaking into his robes, and he shivers violently, keeping his eyes mostly closed. He knows Narcissa and Dromeda are both moving back and forth, talking with Snape, and he feels a blanket thrown around his shoulders, but he can't concentrate enough to focus on what they're actually saying.

He feels himself pulled slowly to stand, and just the touch of Narcissa's slim, slender fingers leave a burning agony on his skin, even through the fabric of his robes. He cries out, sharply, and he stumbles slightly.

"Don't touch him, Cissy," he hears Dromeda say in a quiet, urgent voice, and she gets him into the corridor, where Dumbledore meets them. The loud, orange fabric of his robes makes Harry's eyes suddenly twinge, and he closes his eyes tightly. "You're going to fall," he hears Drom say, and he frowns, because while he feels worse than he's ever felt, he's standing.

"I am not," he hears Snape say, and when he looks, squinting at him with his blurry, teary eyes, and he sees that Snape looks a little grey, his left hand over his mouth. He sways, just slightly, and when Narcissa touches his elbow, he winces. Harry coughs, trying to blink the wetness out of his watering eyes to see Snape better, but Dumbledore murmurs something Harry can't quite make out, and gently pushes him to move down the corridor.

At the stairs, Harry feels himself lifted from the floor, and despite his mumbled, barely coherent protests and Snape's sharper, more profane ones, the both of them are levitated up to the Hogwarts infirmary on conjured stretchers. Lying pale and still on his back on one of the beds, Harry can see a blurry figure: it's only by squinting at the thick, black muss of his beard and hair that he knows it's Igor Karkaroff. He wants to ask questions, and he wants to ask what's happening, but all of a sudden the ache in his head sharpens suddenly again, and he drops against one of the beds with a hoarse scream.

Clinging tightly to the metal bedposts, he heaves in his breath, but even with his eyes open he no longer sees the infirmary swimming around him: he sees drapes of black, a sunset on the hill, and when he looks down at his hands, they're so white they're almost blue, and thick, red blood is slicked over the fingers. "Voldemort," he feels himself say, but the voice is not his own. It's high and it rings through the air and his own skull. Heaving in a gasp, he blinks desperately, and despite his panic, he tries to focus on clearing his mind of anything at all.

Blackness surrounds him when he closes his eyes, and he embraces the darkness and its lack of scent or colour or sound. He lifts himself away from the too-fast beat of his own heart and the working of his lungs, even from the agony pulsing through his head and dancing thickly over his chilled skin, and he drowns himself in darkness, sinking himself into it.

The last thing he feels is the buckle of his own knees as he drops to the floor.

---

Harry sits up on his bed, watching Karkaroff. His dark eyes are closed, and he lies mostly still on the bed, but every few minutes he'll violently shiver or let out a sharp, pained noise. The curtains around Snape's infirmary bed are closed, but when Harry had peeked in, he'd just seen his head of house asleep. He's not comatose like Karkaroff, and just looks like he's chosen a slightly odd place to sleep, laid on his side with one hand under the pillow and the other carded in his own hair. He breathes evenly, his expression quietly serious even while he's unconscious, and Harry had quickly crept back to his own bed and let Snape's curtain fall shut again.

The sight of Severus Snape looking so peaceful had actually unsettled him far more than Karkaroff's shaking, obviously ill form.

"What's wrong with us?" Harry asks quietly when Dumbledore slowly approaches his bed. The infirmary is empty except for the three of them, and although Harry had asked to be let out, he's not surprised Pomfrey had refused him. Sweat still soaks into his hair and drips coldly down his skin, and he has not only his own quilt but two more from other beds wrapped around his body. He sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing away from Snape's curtained-off bed and watching Karkaroff intently, even as Dumbledore makes his way over and settles on the edge of Harry's bed. His hands fold neatly in his orange-draped lap, and for a few moments he watches Karkaroff in silence. "Is it contagious?"

"There is a reason we've quarantined the three of you somewhat," Dumbledore answers in a quiet voice, "I wish I could share with you every detail, Mr Potter, but I confess I'm lacking in them."

"I saw Voldemort," Harry says. "That's why I went to Snape, because my scar started hurting. I was just about to talk to him when I started feeling sick, all of a sudden." He breathes in, shifting under the insufficient warmth of his hoarded blankets and swallowing hard to stop himself from retching again. It's worse than he's ever felt - he's had colds over the years, where Madam Pomfrey will usually give you a Pepper-Up potion and fix you right up, but even the illnesses he spent locked in his cupboard to keep from passing anything onto Dudley hadn't been this bad. At any moment, he feels like he might just crumble into sweat-soaked dust, and he groans quietly, rubbing at the side of his face.

"What did you see, Harry?" Dumbledore asks. His tone is kind, and when he looks at Harry, Harry knows that the old man is taking him seriously. Despite Dumbledore's sometimes irritating calmness, Harry appreciates that he usually gives the impression he's taking what Harry says to heart.

"I was him. Voldemort. I saw things through his eyes, and said his name, but in his voice. There was blood on his hands - my hands - and he, I, was outside." He frowns, trying to remember what he'd seen in detail despite his hazy, feverish memories, but no clear visuals come to mind. "I think I saw people," Harry says. "Black robes. I didn't see any masks, though." Dumbledore nods his head, taking in the details.

"Is your scar still hurting?"

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. There's pain in every part of his body, but his scar doesn't have the same affected twinge to it anymore, and nor can he feel the utter agony of something pressing on it. "I used some of the Occlumency I knew," Harry says, in almost a whisper, "When I was in his body, I panicked, but then I cleared my mind. I haven't tried any of the other stuff, like adjusting memories or anything, but I think I pulled away."

"With your sudden sickness, Harry, I believe your mind was in a weakened state; Voldemort, too, is weak at this time." Dumbledore pauses for a moment, and then murmurs, "You have truly affected yourself to studying Occlumency, have you not, Harry? I have noticed your focus since August: it is now November, with the First Task of the Tournament looming over you, and you have not grown bored." Harry glances at the old man, and then he shrugs his shoulders.

"It's hard, but it's easy to fit in. I can work on it before bed. It's not like other stuff," he adds, thinking about trying to get in the time to learn new hexes, or, most of all, the more complex mental exercises he has to do for his Animagus transformation - let alone the potions.

"Which other stuff would that be?" Dumbledore asks, and when Harry looks at him, the old man's gaze twinkles. He knows. Harry's sure that he knows, even without using Legilimency or something - he knows what Harry and Sirius have been talking about, but it doesn't make him feel threatened, and he doesn't get defensive like he would with Snape or McGonagall. He just grins.

"Oh, you know, Professor. Just school things." Dumbledore gives a slow nod of his head, smiling innocently, and despite Harry feeling sick as a dog, he keeps on smiling a little as Dumbledore stands and slowly leaves the room. He coughs slightly, shivering. Talking to Dumbledore had distracted him for a little while, and now with no one awake to talk to, Harry is left with his own thoughts and the sickly feeling permeating his body. He lies down, making his body small to curl it under the thick quilts, and he presses his head into his pillows.

---

"You alright, sir?" Harry asks when Snape pushes open his curtain and stands on the floor. His head of house's hair is lightly tousled around his head, but it's nothing like Harry's after going to sleep, and Snape gives him a stare. Madam Pomfrey had dressed him in the same infirmary pyjamas as everyone wears, and the sight of Snape in a blue and white striped nightshirt is just bizarre. Harry's never even seen the man in an outfit that wasn't at least eighty percent black cloth; Snape's feet are bare and inhumanly pale, and Harry can see pink scars on his feet and around his ankles.

Snape doesn't answer.

He shuts the curtain closed again, and when he next comes out it's with his usual robes on, his hair brushed back from his head, but Harry still feels terrible, and he expects Snape does too. His skin has an even more unhealthy pallor than usual, tinged green, and despite his having slept so naturally there are dark circles under his eyes.

Harry watches him from under his blankets, and he expects Snape to leave, but is surprised when the other man murmurs a diagnostic spell he hasn't heard before. Snape reaches out, and Harry braces himself, but the touch doesn't hurt him like it had the other night: Snape's fingers are pleasantly warm as his knuckles touch the sweat-slick skin of Harry's forehead.

"Ninety nine degrees Fahrenheit," he declares, and Harry shoots him a look, pulling away from his hand.

"You cannot tell that from touching my head," Harry objects, and adds, "That's bull." Snape's lip twitches, and he seems mildly amused as he steps away from Harry's bed, drawing his silver watch from his pocket and glancing over it. Harry still can't read a wizard's watch - he's looked at those of the older Slytherins, reading their complex clock faces, but they're not as simple as a normal, Muggle watch.

"Severus! Get back into bed, immediately!"

"I will return to my office, Poppy," Snape says in a quiet, measured tone. Madam Pomfrey looks nothing less than furious.

"You are not fit to roam-"

"I will hardly roam, Poppy: I will return to my office, and then to my quarters, to bed."

"You are ill-"

"Indeed."

"You need bed rest."

"I quite agree."

"In the hospital wing!"

"Here, we diverge." Madam Pomfrey turns red with anger, but she doesn't actually stop Snape as he neatly turns on his heel and exits the hospital wing, stepping out of the room and making his way silently down the corridor. As if to make up for having lost one of her patients, she comes to fuss over Harry, taking his temperature with an old-fashioned thermometer that hovers in Harry's ear. "Higher than I'd like," she murmurs when she plucks it from the air, and Harry looks up at her face.

"Ninety nine degrees Fahrenheit?" She furrows her brow.

"Precisely." Harry laughs, and lies back for a little while, drinking the bitter potion Pomfrey presses against his lips. Karkaroff begins to stir, soon enough, and Harry sees when he sits up in bed that his sweat has soaked through the flannel fabric of the pyjamas, leaving him shivering with the cold moisture. When he sees Harry watching him, he shoves the curtains around his bed closed with a sharp growl, and Harry closes his eyes to try and sleep.

---

"How long was I in there?" Harry asks as he pokes half-heartedly at his porridge.

"Four days," Blaise answers cleanly, reaching for the honey and drizzling a little over Harry's breakfast. "Snape left after two. Karkaroff's still in there, right?"

"He didn't look good," Harry murmurs, shaking his head slightly. After Karkaroff had dragged his curtains shut, Harry had only caught glimpses of him, but when the headmaster wasn't sleeping fitfully, he was vomiting, and he still couldn't keep any food down when Harry had left the hospital wing. He looks across the room, where he can see the furry edge of Viktor Krum's cape: he's speaking almost animatedly with Hermione over a breakfast of various fruits, and Harry smiles a little. "Krum seems to be enjoying his respite."

Blaise chuckles. "He's been spending a lot of time with Granger." Blaise's foot hooks around Harry's under the table, and Harry smiles a little "Want to take a little detour before we go to Potions?"

"We'll be late," Harry murmurs, shifting his boot against Blaise's.

"It's not Snape," Blaise says. "Hayworth's friend - Sartorius - has been covering his lessons while he's been ill. It'll be fine." Harry grins a little, thinking of the new spells Sirius had sent him. Three had been more practical - two contraceptive charms and one for hiding hickeys - but another had been a little more... Fun.

"Yeah, alright," Harry says. He still feels a little weak, but he feels much better than he had yesterday, and the idea of a little private time with the other Slytherin is wonderful. "Sure."

"Is there a reason, Mr Potter, Mr Zabini, that the two of you are nine minutes late for my lesson?" Harry hovers in the doorway, tongue stuck in his mouth, and he inwardly curses. Snape's eyes still look dark, but he's standing up and glaring at the two of them.

"Harry had a slight wardrobe malfunction, Professor, caught the back of his robes on the stairs," Blaise says smoothly. He coughs, delicately, and then murmurs, "I was assisting him in repairing the, ah, rip. Didn't really want to come to Potions with his modesty on show." There's a chuckle or two around the classroom, and Harry feels his cheeks burn, but it's a better excuse than the truth. He's just glad Sirius had taught him that spell for hiding hickeys.

"Sorry, sir," Harry says. When Snape meets his gaze, Harry does his best to clear his mind, and says, "Even if it wasn't embarrassing, I'd think it'd be a bit dangerous with potions about, you know. Don't want any Bubotuber pus on my sensitive areas." Snape doesn't wince. Harry thinks a wince would be a bit too close to a normal human response for Snape, but his eyes do narrow slightly, and there's the slightest wrinkle to his nose, just for a second.

"Sit down," Snape says, rolling his eyes, but to Harry's surprise he doesn't take any points off them, and he settles at a desk with Blaise, where they both set out their cauldrons. Hermione looks like she's trying not to laugh as she stops Neville from killing them all, and it's obvious from his mildly put-out expression that he thinks she's laughing at him. They'll make it up to Longbottom soon enough, Harry thinks, and concentrates on his potion.

"Mr Potter," Snape says as Harry gets up to leave, and Harry frowns at him, but he stays as the last of the Gryffindors filter out of the room. Harry stands before Snape's desk, and Snape says, cleanly, "Detention with me on Saturday, at seven."

"What? Why?" Snape meets Harry's gaze.

"Wardrobe malfunction?"

"Wardrobe malfunction," Harry agrees. "Tore the back of my robes, sir, had all my bits on display." Snape remains unconvinced.

"While I have no doubt that your bits were on display, Potter, you will take detention with me at seven o'clock on Saturday. Mr Zabini will be joining you. Get out." Despite himself, Harry can't help but smile a little as he exits the Potions classroom - Snape had known what they'd been doing, and while it's horrifying that Snape knows, it also makes Harry want to laugh. He has a free period now, and so he makes his way meanderingly up to the Great Hall: Cedric waves at him once he enters, and Harry steps over to the Hufflepuff table.

"Nine days, Harry!" Cedric says, clapping his hands together. He has a disconcertingly wide grin on his handsome face. "Are you ready?"

"To die? No," Harry replies, and Cedric laughs, clapping Harry's shoulder affectionately.

"You'll be fine," Cedric says in his ultra-serious, earnest way, and Harry gives him a slightly awkward smile as he makes his way over to the Gryffindor table and sits next to Hermione.

"I promise, Neville, I wasn't laughing at you," Hermione says, and Neville sits still across from her, looking down at the tabletop. They're the only ones sat at this part of the table, and Neville looks sad to say the least. Harry glances up and down, seeing no one in sight, and Harry elects to make a decision.

"Neville," Harry murmurs, leaning forwards slightly and saying seriously, "She was laughing because Blaise and I were in a broom cupboard. There wasn't a wardrobe malfunction." Neville's head shoots up, and he stares at Harry, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a round O of shock. Beside him, Hermione seems surprised that Harry had told the other boy, but he trusts Neville: the other boy isn't exactly popular with his schoolmates, but he's never struck Harry as a bad or cruel boy.

"Oh," Neville says, awkwardly.

"Keep it under your hat, would you?" Harry asks smoothly, and Neville gives a shy, little nod of his head. His face is the face of a boy who isn't used to being entrusted with secrets, and Harry feels the slightest inkling of sympathy. Then, Ginny joins them, and Neville's expression becomes warmer, more contented. He smiles at Ginny like she's his only friend, and Harry makes a mental note to maybe include Neville a bit more, where they can. Or- well, maybe not: he's a nice boy, but he's not exactly an exciting one.

They settle into more usual conversation, chatting as they wait for lunchtime: Ginny's upset about not being able to try out for the Quidditch team, but at least she'll be able to next year. Harry's seen her on a broom, and he has no doubt that she'll win the Seeker position easily, and Ron had been great in front of the Quidditch hoop on the Weasleys' pitch.

"Are you excited for the First Task, Harry?" Ginny asks, and Harry considers the question. Is he excited? He'd made a few dry jokes to Cedric and to the Slytherin lads about being killed, but he's at least reasonably certain he isn't going to die, and a part of him is looking forward to it. The idea of the crowd is daunting, but it's also exciting: it sends a little thrill through him, to think of all those people watching him and Cedric as they face whatever the First Task is made up of.

"I think so, yeah. Scared, but excited," Harry says, and Ginny grins at him. Now that she's gotten over the crush she'd had a few years back, it's great to talk to her - Ginny has a wicked humour, and it's obvious to Harry that Fred and George are her brothers just from the way she acts.

"What do you think it'll be?" she asks, giving him a wink. "A dragon?"

"Okay, now I'm less excited, more scared," Harry says, and she laughs. Neville smiles slightly too, and Hermione chuckles.

"Surely we'd have known if it was going to be dragons," she says. "You can't exactly put them in a cupboard until the task, can you?" Harry grins a little, and he follows Neville's gaze as he looks over Harry's head, meeting the gaze of Luna Lovegood. Luna settles slowly on Harry's other side, and Harry smells the rhubarb from her necklace.

"Hello," Luna says. Her hair is braided behind her head today, and in her hair are flowers with ugly, thorny stems that keep them stuck to the braid. Their petals are a sickly brown, and when Harry inhales, they actually smell quite good - like hard-boiled sweets in a jar, surprisingly sugary.

"Hey," Harry says as the others offer their greetings, and Luna offers him a smile; like Harry, she doesn't really join the conversation as Ginny, Neville and Hermione begin to talk about practical Herbology, and the two of them are mostly silent as the other three begin to talk. Harry enjoys Herbology: the animated, often argumentative plants are polar opposites to the dull, homogenous flowers Aunt Petunia had always wanted Harry to plant in her garden, and while Herbology comes with its share of bruises and odd injuries, Harry enjoys it.

But no one enjoys Herbology like Neville Longbottom.

The Gryffindor is transformed as he speaks, gesticulating with his green-stained, calloused hands. "And it's so amazing, honestly - you'd think the Venomous Tentacula would be a vicious plant, but it can be almost affectionate with the right care and diet!"

"But it's a plant," Hermione says. "I mean- it doesn't have a brain, Neville, it's not like an animal."

"Magical plants don't need brains," Neville says, and on any other subject Harry knows the other boy would never have contradicted Hermione so easily and so smoothly. "These plants have evolved under a magical strain, Hermione: thinking of a Venomous Tentacula like it's not that different to a daisy is like saying nymphs are just like humans, but green and without any clothes on." Ginny laughs, and Neville remembers himself enough to flush slightly pink. "They're not the same," he says again, shrugging his shoulders.

"Do you have any plants at home, Neville?" Harry asks, and he blinks, seeming surprised at the question.

"A few," he says, "But nothing like here. I love the greenhouses here - Professor Sprout has such a good range of plants, and they're all so great. I'd love to plants like this at home." Neville gives a dreamy little sigh, and Harry smiles at him.

"I don't know about the plants," Harry says, "but I wouldn't mind a library like we've got at home. What would you take home if you could, Ginny?"

"My bed," Ginny says decisively, and all of them laugh, before she turns to Luna. "What about you?"

"Me?" Luna asks, raising her thin eyebrows and tilting her head just slightly to the side. Her skin is the colour of porcelain, and her lips are the softest pastel pink Harry's ever seen: she's the polar opposite to Blaise, with her pretty features and her strong hands, her dreamy voice and her deep, blue eyes, but something about her makes Harry's breath catch in his throat. "I think I'd take home the Giant Squid, if I only had the space." The latter is said with such a mournful honesty that Harry momentarily wonders how to react, but then Luna smiles, and he hears Neville and Ginny laugh.

"I'm going to walk some. Would anyone care to join me?" Luna asks as she stands from the table, a half-eaten carrot in her left hand. Harry stares at her, and doesn't actually respond until Hermione shoves him in the back. The question hadn't been specifically directed at him, but Luna meets his gaze as she takes a small bite of her carrot.

"Yeah, sure," he says, and he scrambles to stand. He has another free now, before three lessons in the afternoon, so time is no issue: they walk in silence through the courtyard and out onto the grounds. The grass is wet with dew, but the cold isn't unbearable, and as they walk down the hill, Harry spares the arena a glance.

"I shouldn't be frightened, Harry," Luna says lightly, apparently taking note of his gaze. "I imagine if you are to die, it won't be at least until the Third Task." Harry snorts.

"Cheers, Luna," Harry says, and he looks down at her boots. Unlike Harry's plain, black ones, hers are a silvery blue, and he recognizes the dragonhide. "Are they from a Swedish Short-Snout?"

"Yes," Luna answers. "Dad did an article about the secret societies of cobblers last September." She looks down at her boots, and Harry wonders how much smaller her feet are than his: wizards and witches don't have sizes on their clothes or their shoes, but he'd estimate her feet at possibly a three or a four, and he wears a six. "Do you like them?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry says. "They go with your eyes."

"They look best on me when I'm not wearing anything else," Luna confides, and Harry coughs, but Luna doesn't actually seem like she's being flirtatious. It's just a fact, and she's stated it. "Come this way," she says, and Harry lets her take his hand. Hermione's hands are soft, as are those of Draco and Blaise, but Luna's hands have callouses on the palms and scars around the fingers.

"Do you climb trees a lot?" Harry asks as she leads him into the Forest, and she nods her head absently.

"Oh, yes. I break bones all the time."

"Ditto," Harry says, and she smiles.

"Of course, I break nails, too," she says, and she shakes her head slightly as the breeze catches her hair and the petals of the sugary flowers. "Not to mention bubbles." Luna leads Harry through the Forest paths like she has them memorized, stepping smoothly over this fallen branch here or this ditch there, and when she stops, Harry is quiet. A brook babbles quietly before them, water running in three streams through the clearing, and a willow tree bows over a wooden bench.

"Oh," Harry says quietly, stepping over the book and towards it. The bench is carved of a purple wood Harry doesn't recognize, and it's covered in ornate designs of ivy leaves and red flowers. Harry sits slowly down on it, and when he turns to look, Luna has slipped off her dragonhide boots and is stepping barefoot into the brook, her robes hiked up around her knees and her wand behind her ear.

Harry sees the silver bodies of fish shoot through the water, dozens of them circling her feet before heading further downstream, and Luna smiles her self-contented smile as she makes her way over to Harry, sitting with him on the bench. They sit together as the minutes tick by, and the longer they sit still, the more Harry sees around them. A small, lilac frog clambers onto a rock, letting out a noise that's more like a caw than a ribbit, and all manner of birds with colourful plumage and bright eyes fly past. Most exciting, though, is the unicorn that steps slowly forwards, leaning to drink from the brook before it slowly makes its way off again.

"I come here when I- Oh, look at that." She points, and Harry follows her finger. For a second, he doesn't see anything, but then he realizes: in an ash tree, three bowtruckles are dancing back and forth across a branch together, and Harry laughs. They don't seem to notice Harry and Luna at all, and Harry smiles. "It's ever so good, in the night time. The nymphs will dance then."

"Nymphs?" Harry repeats, glancing at her.

"And in the spring, all sorts of funny things come down the stream: big fish, frogs, toads. Even a feathered boa." Luna sighs, shaking her head. "It hadn't been very happy about all those feathers, I don't think. I thought it looked quite nice."

"A snake with feathers," Harry says. "Sounds good to me." Luna turns to him, and her expression is pensive as she considers his face. Her eyelashes are thick, but they're such a light blonde they're almost silver, and her blue eyes are like water. They seem almost transparently blue. "What?" Harry asks.

"You've ever such a lot of Wrackspurts around your head, you know, Harry," Luna says, and then she kisses him. He leans into the kiss, going slowly, opening his mouth just slightly. Luna's hands settle on Harry's hips as she leans into him, and Harry is grateful for the slight height he's gained over the summer, so that she leans up and into him. The kiss isn't hurried, and nor is it awkward, like kissing Hermione - it's slow, and measured, and Luna's lips taste of... Parsnips? "Do you like my lipgloss?" Harry stares at her, and then he grins.

"Did you make it yourself?"

"My own recipe." Harry dips to kiss Luna again, cupping the side of her cheek, their eyes closed, their noses brushing each other. Luna's hair tickles the side of his face, and Harry finds he likes the sensation. They kiss for what feels like hours, and when Luna finally stands and says they'll be late for class, Harry is reluctant to stand from the bench and leave the curtain of the willow tree.

As they walk, hand in hand, Harry thinks of Transfiguration, and how he'll be sat next to Blaise. A thick, guilty feeling twists in his belly, and he wonders if he should have come down to the romantic little clearing, with its bench and its willow tree.

"I do hope you don't die, Harry," Luna says, and she brings his hand to her mouth, drawing her lips over the backs of his knuckles. The skin tingles. He feels even guiltier.

"I'll try not to, Luna," he promises, and he walks with her up to the courtyard again.

Harry lies back on his bed, the curtains drawn around him. Above him, his candle burns, and beside him is Winston, Theodore's cat. Winston's sleek, inky body is sprawled on the sheets, his paws in the air and Harry's cheek warm against his furry belly. The cat's got an obscenely powerful purr, and Harry can feel it vibrating through his skin. Cats like Harry. Most of the cats in the castle will approach him and let him give them a scratch behind the ear - barring Mrs Norris and a pure white monster of a short-hair that wanders the dungeons now and then, Harry likes every cat at Hogwarts.

But only Winston will clamber into his bed and purr beside him when he can't find Theo instead.

The curtains shift, and Harry reluctantly opens his eyes. Blaise slips into Harry's bed, barefoot and wearing just his pyjamas, and he leans forwards, hands either side of Harry's hips.

"Not now," Harry says, leaning away from the other boy's mouth. He's been thinking about his kiss with Luna since this morning, and he hasn't told Blaise about Luna - nor has he told Luna about Blaise. Blaise frowns at him, tilting his head slightly to the side as he examines Harry's face, and then he shrugs. No concern shows in his face, but Harry knows the other boy feels it, and he does his best to ignore it.

"You worried about the Tournament?" Harry feels a slight lump in his throat, and he shifts slightly, sitting cross-legged with Blaise across from him. Winston stands up, kneading his paws painfully into Harry's knee, and Harry absently scratches the cat's ears.

"Not really," Harry says. It's maybe the tenth time he's been asked today, and with each repetition he's felt less excitement, less panic, less feeling where the looming First Task is concerned. "Are you?"

"No," Blaise answers. It's a lie. Harry knows it's a lie like he knows water is wet. "If it's just that you don't want the cat watching, Harry, I can-"

"I'm just not in the mood," Harry says, his tone a little stiff, and Blaise won't display concern, but he will display offence. His jaw shifts, clenching slightly as he looks at Harry, but Harry doesn't say anything. He turns his head to the side, looking at the cat instead of at Blaise's face, and he wonders if he's the sort of person to date two people at once. He isn't even- all he's done is kiss Luna, as yet, and yet... "Sorry."

Something in Blaise's expression changes, and he leans back.

"Good night, Harry," he says, with an edge of something cold in his tone, and he slips out of Harry's bed. Sighing, Harry lies down again, extinguishing his candle with a muttered command and burying his face in Winston's fur. Winston doesn't mind. Winston wouldn't mind if Harry pet every cat in the castle, so long as he slept in the same bed and Winston could still climb over his face in the middle of the night.

---

Harry spends the next week avoiding Luna and Blaise both. He goes to classes early and to bed late, wandering the castle at night and lingering in corridors when he knows Blaise or Luna will be crossing his path. One night, he even finds a bedroom on the seventh floor, and he sleeps there to keep from having to go to the Slytherin common room - unfortunately, he can't find it again the next day, and he writes it off as one of the Hogwarts things that only appears on Thursdays, or between the hours of eight and nine, or because you've stepped on twelve flagstones in exactly the right sequence.

Despite the pains he takes to keep himself isolated, though, he's well-rested on the morning of the First Task, and he meets Cedric in the Hogwarts courtyard. Down the hill, Harry can see hundreds of people filtering in through the gates and being lead into the arena's numerous stands, and he swallows slightly. The idea of that sort of audience is...

Well. It could be worse, actually. Harry feels excitement, his heart beginning to beat a little faster, but it just makes him want to bounce on his heels: by no means is there the slightest inkling of fear in him.

"You ready?" Cedric asks, and Harry can see by the grin on his face that he's feeling exactly like Harry right now, primed and excited to get into the arena to do something.

"Fuck no," Harry answers, and Cedric laughs as they jog together down to the arena. Through a wooden set of doors, they're brought into an antechamber beneath some of the stands. Fleur and Maxime are talking rapidly in French, and Harry guesses from the way Fleur keeps nodding her head as she speaks, her fists clenched, that Maxime is quizzing her - Hermione does the same thing when she demands help with her revision. Krum sits alone: Karkaroff had only been able to leave the hospital wing the night before, and Harry suspects he's barely up to spectating, let alone pushing his competitor.

"Hello!" Ludo Bagman says once all of them are inside, and he claps his hands together, grinning. He's got a face that might have been handsome once, but now it's ruddy, and there's something in Bagman's grin that's ugly to Harry. "Now, Champions, your task is simple: climb the pyramid and retrieve the mirror." He draws a set of three strws from his pocket, putting them out. "Shortest straw goes first, and longest last." Cedric draws the longest straw. Krum draws the shortest with a grim expression and a slow, decisive nod of his head, and Fleur sits down as Krum leaves.

Fleur doesn't seem nervous in the least, but she doesn't seem excited either. If anything, she seems bored. Harry can hear the screams and cheers of the crowd outside, echoing through the huge stadium, and he breathes in, shifting on his feet. For forty minutes, they stay in their places, listening to the crowd as they yell and cheer and laugh: they know he's grabbed his prize when the crowd goes silent for a few long seconds, holding their breaths, before breaking out into a huge, ridiculously loud cheer that must ring through Scotland, let alone the school.

"Good luck," Harry says when Fleur stands, and she grins at him.

"No need, Harry," she says, and pats his cheek before she runs out and into the arena to loud cheers from the crowd. Fleur takes only twenty five minutes, and Cedric and Harry share a look as the silence comes once more, before the loud cheer.

"Well then," Harry says, holding out his wand, and the both of them walk out into the stadium together. Harry might die, or he might not, and either way, he's buzzing with feeling.

"And our final Champions, hailing from Hogwarts, are Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter!" The announcer has his wand held to his own throat, no doubt using a Sonorus Charm - Harry guesses the little antechamber blocks out amplified voices, just so that later champions don't get an unfair advantage. He and Cedric run up to the starting platform, and when Harry sees the challenge laid out before them, he begins to laugh.

He laughs long and hard, bending over at the knee and smacking the side of his own thigh, and when he stands up properly, Cedric is glancing between him and the pyramid before them, an expression of horror on his face. The Mayan-style pyramid spans across the whole of the arena's dirt floor, and on every single level are more and more of the exact same creature: snakes. "Why are you laughing?" Cedric hisses, and Harry claps his hand on the other boy's back.

"Those are snakes, Cedric," Harry says. "And I'm a Parseltongue." Realization dawns on Cedric's face, and the two of them approach the pyramid's base. "Excuse me! Would any of you like some rats?"

---

"And with an utterly legendary three minutes and thirty nine seconds, with forty nine points awarded, the Hogwarts Champions are the winners of the First Task!" Harry grins as he grasps the side of the silver mirror, lifting it high with Cedric holding the other side, and the two of them exchange a grin. Harry lingers as Cedric heads back into the antechamber with the mirror in hand, and he feels the euphoria sing through his chest. Of all the tasks it could have been - dragons, Boggarts, dementors, monsters - and it was snakes.

Harry watches as a beautiful, rainbow-scaled snake begins to slowly make its way down the side of the pyramid. It has a thick plumage of red feathers as a crest, and Harry kneels on the ground as it comes towards him. "Why," the snake asks, "Is there noise?"

"It was a competition," Harry explains, bowing his head slightly and letting the snake coil itself warmly around his body. It's at least as thick as his thigh, and Harry guesses the Phoenix Snake is forty foot long at the least, but he doesn't mind: it had complained about the cold when Harry and Cedric had reached the top of the pyramid, and Harry feels a little bad for it. He strokes over the feathers on its neck, feeling its heavy weight on his body. "They were excited that Cedric and I won. You helped us win." The snake hisses. Harry gleans from context that it's meant to be like a derogative snort. "You're so handsome."

"Yes," the Phoenix Snake agrees, basking in Harry's heat and compliments, and Harry watches as handlers coax different snakes into different containers. "I will be returned to my homeland?"

"Yeah, soon," Harry promises. "Egypt, right?"

"Yesssss," it says, and Harry laughs as it flicks its tongue over his eyebrow. "You taste bad."

"Good," Harry says.

"Hey, hey there," says a grinning man with copper-brown skin and a thick scar down one of his cheeks. "You're the Parseltongue?"

"Yeah," Harry answers. "I'd stand and shake your hand, but this one's kind of heavy." The man laughs. He's American, Harry thinks, but where in America he's from Harry has no idea. The only American wizard he knows anything about is Chad Arnett.

"It is Takoda. Have him take me."

"It wants you to take it," Harry says, and he leans forwards, letting the snake slither from him and wind its way around Takoda's neck. Despite its hefty weight, Takoda doesn't so much as bend his knees, and Harry can't help but admire the strength that must be involved. "It's beautiful."

"Oh, yes," Takoda agrees. "By the way, I'm-"

"Takoda," Harry says. "Yeah, it knows your name." The man laughs again, and he kisses the Phoenix Snake on the nose. Its tongue flicks over his nose in retort, and Harry smiles, stroking over its colourful scales. "Do you work in the snake sanctuary?"

"Yes, I do," he says, nodding his head. "You should give us a call when you finish school, kid. It'd be great to have a Parseltongue around." Takoda walks off, and Harry is left slightly pensive as he steps out of the arena: the crowd has mostly been ushered out, the last of the audience meandering towards the Hogwarts gates, and Harry gives Sirius and Remus a wave as they keep walking.

He can't believe it.

He and Cedric did it - not only is Harry alive, but they're first place. He can't help but grin so widely he feels like he might split open his face as he walks into the castle, thinking about the mirror, and the Triwizard Cup, and Phoenix Snakes, and the feeling of victory. He feels so good, he forgets to feel bad when Blaise grabs him by the collar and pulls him into an empty classroom: Blaise prioritizes their private celebration over the party that will no doubt shake the dungeons, and Harry lets himself enjoy it. He'll worry about Luna in the morning.

Is he a bad person? He wonders this as he drags his teeth over Blaise's neck, pressing his thigh between the other boy's legs and grinding against him. Is he bad? Duplicitous? Does he deserve this? Does he deserve anything?

"I kissed Luna Lovegood," he blurts against Blaise's lips.

"Okay," Blaise says. "Let's get back to me."

"What?"

"I don't care," Blaise says, enunciating each and every syllable. "Now, Harry, please. Suck my cock."

"No, no, wait-" Harry says, and he puts his hands on Blaise's shoulders. Blaise rolls his eyes. "Is that- you don't care?"

"I couldn't possibly care less," Blaise says. "Now, please, let us celebrate your victory, and-"

"But I kissed her! While I've been kissing you!"

"I'm sure I would have noticed, were that the case." Harry stares at him, studying Blaise's face, and Blaise asks, "Is this why you were being funny the other day?" Harry doesn't need to nod for Blaise to see the silent confirmation in his face. "Potter, look. We're men. This isn't cheating - it's not the same. I don't know what those Muggles have taught you, but this arrangement... It's purely physical. Seeking out a romantic connection with a girl is to be expected. Perhaps a better girl than Lovegood, but a girl nonetheless."

"But-"

"Stop," Blaise orders. "Either one of our mouths is put to work, or I'm exiting this cupboard." Harry hesitates, just for a second, and then he leans in, kissing Blaise on the mouth. He does it solidly, pouring his heart and his lingering euphoria into the embrace, and when Blaise draws away, he says in a slightly dreamy tone, "Not what I had in mind, but nonetheless quite satisfying. For that, my friend, you can come first."

Harry leans back against the wall, closing his eyes, and doesn't think about Luna as Blaise pushes up his robes.

The store cupboard at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower is the perfect base for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Sat at a desk on one edge of the room, Hermione counts that week's earnings, and on each of the room's now clean shelves are stacks of merchandise: Skiving Snackboxes, fireworks, fake wands, owl order forms for Wizarding Delights, and even posters of Harry rolled into tubes and kept tied with twine. The room is of a modest size, and with four chairs, a desk and the shelves everywhere, it's just right for them to conduct business out of the way of the rest of the school, with privacy assured. The only ones to come in and out are Harry, Hermione, Lee Jordan and the twins.

Hermione sorts the coins quickly into piles of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. She does it with a silent, focused efficiency, and Harry takes the stacks of coins in tens, dropping them into the moneybox that's to go to Gringotts that evening. The two of them are waiting for the twins, and for the meantime they're just counting what money has come in that week: Hermione had organized a schedule at the beginning of the year for money to go to Gringotts on Saturdays.

The moneybox is interesting to Harry: it's a round, silvery ball with a leather loop at its top, and if Harry puts his eye right to the orb's surface, he can see the coins stacking in circles inside. On its outside it proclaims its contents in Knuts, Sickles and Galleons, and on its base is its serial number and the name of the goblin that had made it: Redkey. The Gringotts moneyboxes can't be opened by anyone but a Gringotts goblin, and despite the weight of the coins, it weighs barely anything at all.

"Okay, that's everything that's going," Hermione decides, setting aside the shrapnel they're keeping at Hogwarts. "What's it at?"

"For this week," Harry says, "Twenty Galleons, forty Sickles, ninety Knuts." He sets the moneybox on the desk as Hermione notes it down in her accounts book with a quill, and Harry can't help but smile a little. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

"Running a business? Yes!" Hermione has a satisfied grin on her face.

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "Being an accountant." Hermione sticks her tongue out at him, and Harry laughs, turning his head as he hears the knock on the stone. He hisses out an open, and Fred and George quickly come into the little room, the stone sliding shut behind them. "What's wrong?" Fred has a foul expression twisting his face, and George just looks resigned. He hands Harry a letter, flopping into one of the wooden chairs they'd pilfered for their office, but Fred stays standing, drumming his fingers irritably on the desk.

Ludo Bagman's handwriting is barely legible, but Harry can make out some phrases - "just can't oblige", "oh so sorry", "that's just how things go", and he frowns, furrowing his brow.

"We bet all of our savings at the World Cup," George says tiredly, rubbing at the side of his face. "On Ireland winning, but Krum catching the Snitch."

"God," Hermione says, seeming impressed. Despite her faux-disapproval for gambling, Harry knows that she loves a good bet, and he suppresses the urge to laugh. "How much did you bet?" Fred slams his hand down on the desk, and Hermione arches an eyebrow. "That much?"

"We've been hounding him since the match," Fred says, tone full of acid. "He keeps saying he hasn't got the funds, and that he can't oblige, but he won't even give us our original bet back, the bastard. I just want to-" Fred holds up his hands, clenching them into fists, and George shakes his head, taking the parchment back from Harry. "We're earning more money now than we had, selling everything, but it's still-"

"No, it's an honour thing," Harry says, shaking his head. "If he was taking bets, he should have honoured the win." This is only another reason to add to Harry's list of why to hate Bagman, and he frowns slightly, crossing is arms over his chest. "You could drop a tip to Skeeter. She'd love to disgrace someone so involved in the Tournament."

"We don't want any reason for that hag to get any bonuses," George says as Fred comes around the desk, leaning over Hermione's shoulder to look in the accounts book. Fred's sour mood seems to dissipate a little bit, if not by much, and he reaches for the pad in the corner of the room. It's a Muggle A3 sketchpad, with plain pieces of paper, and the first thirty pages are full of complex, brightly coloured diagrams of future WWW products. Harry's fascinated by most of them - there are plans for breeding Puffskeins, for making hats and scarves with protective spells weaved into their cloth, for love potions and daydreams and all kinds of things. Fred and George are geniuses. After all, this is the sketchpad they've not finished yet - in the corner are six more that are full of diagrams and notes.

"Me and Harry added a few things today," Hermione says, and George looks at her, a bright smile on his face. Hermione raises her chin, looking pleased with herself, and Fred sets the book on the floor, turning to the latest pages. There are a few simple notes of Harry's that are just business plans rather than actual products - notes on the cost of hiring Colin to take a few architectural shots of the castle and then selling them as postcards (as well as an explanation of what postcards are, as the wizarding world doesn't yet use them) as well as on selling specialized ribbons, badges and the like to customize one's Hogwarts robes, like Cho Chang does - but Hermione's diagrams are more like Fred and George's, albeit without the use of so much coloured ink.

"Oh, I like this," Fred says, tracing the animated image of a knitted bobble hat changing colours, thanks to its enchanted yarn, and he takes a quill, crossing out some of Hermione's notes on the charms and adjusting them. Harry and Hermione both lean forwards to watch him, and while Fred doesn't actually offer explanations as to what his adjustments are doing, Harry expects a lot of it is to do with how long the enchantments will last once embedded in the yarn.

The next page had been Hermione's idea, but the notes are in Harry's handwriting - she'd been too excited, walking back and forth and calculating prices, to actually sit down and write.

"Oh, Merlin," George says, and the both of them lean over the page.

"The proprietors of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes are proud to present...
Hogwarts: A Guide."

Harry hadn't enchanted animations into any of the diagrams, but it's a very stripped-down version of the Marauder's Map. The only people that would be marked on the map would be the individuals buying the product (and, for an extra two Galleon charge, their toad, cat or owl). Synchronized to class schedules, it would tell students which classes are in session, as well as holding the office hours of staff, and Harry had written down the four common rooms, as well as the Kitchens, to include directions to.

"Sirius and Remus have said they'll help us out," Harry says, and Fred and George look at him and Hermione as if Harry's just declared he's going to start growing Galleons on a tree in Hagrid's garden. "When I go back to Grimmauld Place for the holidays, I thought we'd start work."

"You can't go back for the holidays," Fred points out. "What about the Yule Ball?" Harry blinks at him.

"The what?" All three of them are staring at Harry.

"Harry," Hermione says, "You know how we were meant to bring dress robes for the year?"

"Yeah," Harry says.

"That's so we can go to the Yule Ball. It's on Christmas Day - it's a big celebration, with the Triwizard Champions at the middle of it. You, Fleur, Viktor and Cedric have to open up the dance." He thinks of Daphne, Pansy and Blaise chatting that morning about dress robes, and dancing partners, and dances. He thinks of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil giggling over dance steps in the Great Hall. He thinks of the plum-red dress robes he has in his trunk, which he had utterly forgotten about.

"Shit," he says, closing his eyes, as George says affectionately, "You're an idiot, aren't you, Harry?"

---

"Hello, Harry," Luna says, sitting beside him at the lunch table.

"Hi," Harry says, trying his best not to be awkward about it. On the Hufflepuff table, where he's sat beside Hannah Abbot, Harry can see Neville glaring daggers at him. Luna takes a piece of lettuce, shredding it into small squares with her knife and fork. It's a dedicated exercise, and once every inch of it is in pieces, she pours a little vinegar over it and begins to eat. "How are you, Luna?"

"Oh, fine," she says, looking into the middle distance. "I've misplaced a scarf, unfortunately, but I'm sure it will come back to me. How are you?"

"I'm fine too," Harry says. Neville is staring at him, now, his jaw clenched, and while Harry has no doubt he could beat the other boy in a duel or a physical fight, he doesn't really want Neville to challenge him to either - he wishes he hadn't told Neville about him and Blaise. "Er, look, about- going for a walk-"

"Would you like to?" Luna asks, raising her eyebrows slightly.

"Yes," Harry murmurs, "But-"

"Oh, good," Luna says. "There aren't so many Wrackspurts around your head today, you know, Harry."

"Aren't there?" Harry asks weakly, and he shuts himself up with a piece of his sandwich.

---

Harry walks slowly through the dungeons, feeling the tingle in his lips. Having abandoned her parsnip flavouring for the day, Luna's lipgloss had tasted of mint, and it had made Harry's lips tingle coldly when they'd kissed. It sounds odd, but the sensation is actually great.

Harry has to hope Luna doesn't hate him by the time the year is through - he's going to ask Fred and George if her recipes would be good for the shop.

"Blaise," Harry asks when he comes into the Slytherin common room, "Could you come help me with this Charms homework?" It had been drizzling outside, but the curtain of the willow tree had made an umbrella for him and Luna. Despite the wonderful romance of it, his heart beating fast behind her, Harry had felt guilt, but moreover, he'd felt... Worry.

The Yule Ball is in just a month.

"Certainly," Blaise says smoothly, and he deals himself out of the poker game, standing up from the table and ruffling Daphne's hair as he goes. Daphne slaps his arm, but she laughs as she does it, and Blaise follows Harry into his and Draco's room. Immediately, Blaise has Harry pinned against the wall, and Harry groans into the kiss.

"I actually wanted help," he complains, and Blaise laughs, patting Harry's cheek.

"With Charms?" Blaise arches his eyebrows, obviously surprised, and Harry emphatically shakes his head.

"No," Harry admits. "I don't know how to dance." Blaise stares at him, and then he chuckles.

"You want me to teach you to dance?" Blaise asks, all but crowing the words. He leans forwards, putting one hand on the wall behind Harry, and usually Harry rather enjoys the other boy being a few inches taller than him, but for the time being? It's irritating. "What next, dear Harry? Elocution lessons? Table etiquette?"

"I know table etiquette." Blaise sniggers.

"You do not." Blaise leans in, cupping the side of his face, and Harry pretends to be about to kiss him before he draws back. "Oh, is that it? Without teaching you, I aspire to no reward?"

"Exactly," Harry says. Blaise smirks, and blows air over the tip of Harry's nose, making him groan and knee the other boy in the thigh.

"Is there something on your mouth?" Blaise asks, touching his own lips.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Harry asks, and Blaise gives a little nod of his head, expression pensive, and Harry smiles. Guilt twists in his stomach as he wonders what Luna would say, but he pushes it away and grabs one of his Celestina Warbeck records and putting it on the turntable.

"Put on Pixies At Midnight," Blaise says. "It's a Waltz." He stands in the middle of the room, his chin high, and Harry moves the needle.

"Thanks," he says. "For this." Blaise smirks.

"I'm only doing this for my reward, you know. Come here, and straighten your back."

It is the twelfth of December, and Harry is waltzing. The turntable sits on the edge of a desk, and he holds George close to him as they go through each of the steps. George lets him lead, and although he keeps waggling his eyebrows and making kissy faces at Fred over Harry's shoulder, Harry does his best to focus on the one two three four, one two three four...

"There," George says with a flourish, clapping Harry's shoulders, and Harry grins as they draw apart. Fred is copying Hermione as she moves, and Harry can't help but laugh at the exaggerated movements of his hips and his arms. "What dance is that?"

"It's the cha cha," Hermione says, shifting on her feet and turning in a smooth movement as her and Fred come together again, feet moving to mirror each other on the floor. "Dad wanted me to do ballet when I was younger, but I hated it, so we went to a local dance class instead." Harry tries to imagine Hermione in a tutu and a set of ballet shoes, up on her toes with her arms held above her, three books balanced on her head. He grins.

"I like it," Fred says, but he's cut off before he can say more. There's a loud bang in the corridor, and Harry pulls the needle off the record, setting it on its holder as he opens the door and peers out into the corridor. Covered in green dust and cackling at the top of his lungs, Peeves flies past at speed, leaving three Hufflepuff first years dazed and dusty in the corridor. "We'd best scarper, Fred. They'll blame us for that." Fred and George run down the corridor, and as Hermione puts the record in its case and closes up the turntable, Harry walks down the corridor to the Hufflepuffs.

It doesn't take much - cleaning charms are easy, and removing the mint-scented, green icing sugar isn't different to getting rid of regular dust. He doesn't even think of why he does it - the three of them just look a little shocked and surprised, and it's his instinct to go and clean the little idiots up. They're only first years, after all, and he knows if Snape sees them he'll take points off them for the state of their robes.

"Are you a prefect?" asks one of them, a fat little girl with round glasses like his. The dust clings to her hair, and Harry can't quite get every speck of it off, but he tries his best.

"Nope," Harry says, tapping her on the bridge of her glasses and ridding the dust from the glass. "No badge, see?"

"You're Harry Potter," says another one in an authoritative tone. He has four Weird Sisters badges pinned to the front of his robes, just under his Hufflepuff crest. They come to Hogwarts with plain black robes, but adding crests and coloured bands is the norm - it's very rare that Harry sees children with no indication of their house other than the colour of their under robe. His Slytherin crest sits proudly over his heart, and Hermione's crest does the same. "You took the spotlight off Cedric."

"I took the spotlight off Voldemort, too, if you remember," Harry points out in a dry tone, and he gasps, astonished at Harry's saying the name. Harry gives the Hufflepuffs a once-over, making sure he has the last of the dust off them. "There you go."

"Thank you," says the last of them. She's taller than her friends by a few inches, and wears a golden badger pendant around her neck. "Are those spells hard?"

"Nah," Harry says. "Sprout'll teach you this one for cleaning up soil, if you ask her." He turns away, heading back to Hermione, who's holding the turntable's case in her left hand and smiling at him in an extremely irritating way. He sticks his tongue out at her, and is about to say something, but then he feels a tug at the back of his robes, and he turns. The fat one with the glasses is holding out her hand, and he stares at it. He takes the Chocolate Frog card, and he looks down at its animated image: the man is pale, with a neatly trimmed black beard, and he's inspecting his fingernails. "Salazar Slytherin," he murmurs quietly, and his lips twitch in slight fondness - Slytherins know the history of their Founder better than any of the other houses know their own, and while he knows he was a terrible man, elitist and and too focused on the nonsense of blood purity, Harry can't help but find an affection in himself for the history of the man.

"I've got two, so you can have this one," she says. He smiles at her, mildly surprised: first years in Slytherin house will often ask upperclassmen for help, but said upperclassmen are rarely Harry, and it's never the case that first years of the other houses will come and talk to him. The little Hufflepuff displays her confidence plainly, but the gift surprises him, and his smile is honest.

"Thanks," Harry says. "What's your name?"

"Beth, Beth Wei," she says, "and that's Ned Buttress and Artemis Henderson." When she smiles, her slightly uneven teeth are all on show, and Harry arches his eyebrows at Hermione as the girl runs back to her friends. He slips the card into his pocket, and he walks in line with Hermione down the corridor. With just two weeks left until the Yule Ball, they've been practising dancing with the twins regularly, and Harry's actually getting a little bit excited. At the Malfoys' Christmas Gala a few years ago there'd been no dancing, but it's not actually that hard.

The waltz isn't, at least - he's not planning on having a go at the cha cha or the Hippogriff.

Harry takes the record player back from Hermione as they make their way to the Hall of Staircases, and despite keeping his gaze forwards he can feel her glances at him, becoming more and more disapproving as the moments tick by. She hadn't brought it up in front of the twins, who Harry hasn't yet explained his arrangement with Blaise to, but he knows she wants him to do something.

"Well?" she demands, and Harry sighs as they wait for one of the staircases to slowly come and meet the landing they're standing on.

"Blaise is fine with it," he says evasively.

"Of course he's fine with it," Hermione says sharply, but not in too loud of a voice. "He thinks gay people belong behind curtains. What did Luna say?"

"Nothing."

"Because you haven't told her."

"I don't want to tell everyone that I-"

"So just tell her it's a girl, and-"

"Hermione, I don't see a reason to-"

"Well, Neville's going to do something, I hope you realize."

Harry sighs, rubbing at his eyes. Hermione's doesn't actually like Luna all that much, from what Harry can usually see, but she's also sort of protective over her. Apparently, she often overhears the other Ravenclaws speaking nastily about her in the library. "I'll explain when I ask her to Yule Ball."

"It's dishonest, Harry," Hermione says. "How would you feel?" Harry doesn't know how he'd feel. Luna's feelings on most subjects are very different to Harry's own, but even with that disparity laid aside, he has no idea how he'd feel. He doesn't even know he feels from his own end, let alone from Luna's.

"Did you say yes to Krum?" Harry asks before Hermione can ask him anything else, and Hermione coughs. She looks away, her gaze innocently scanning the portraits hung around the hall of staircases.

"Er, yes. Yes, I did." She doesn't say anything more for a long few moments as they make their way down the stairs, but by the time they reach the entrance hall, she breaks. "Do you think my dress will be okay? And my hair? I mean, I know I normally don't care about that sort of thing, but I'll be opening up the ball with you and the others, and everyone will be looking at me, and I don't-"

"Stop worrying," Harry says quietly. He nudges her gently in the shoulder, and she gives him a worried look, biting on her lip, and he says, "You've got that hair stuff, and those dress robes. You should focus on how Viktor feels about you, and he wouldn't mind if you showed up in nothing but bodypaint." Hermione laughs. "I'll help you with that, if you want to go for it. I think we could put some puffskeins over your boobs, maybe a dragon on your back-" She thumps him on the shoulder, and he grins.

"I think I'll just go with my dress, thanks," Hermione says, shaking her head, and she nods her head. In the doorway to the great hall, Luna is talking with Ginny, a smile on her face and a look of polite confusion on Ginny's. Ginny looks grateful when Harry and Hermione approach: Hermione and Ginny walk into the great hall together, settling at the Gryffindor table, and Harry stands alone with Luna.

"I like the hair," Harry says: Luna's hair is loose around her shoulders, but a hairpin with a blue dragonfly draws her fringe back from her eyes, and she offers him a smile.

"Thank you." Luna reaches out, adjusting the collar of Harry's robes, and says, "I fear you've come to invite me to the Yule Ball, Harry." Luna's gaze is focused on Harry's neck as she speaks, and Harry elects to wait rather than asking questions. "But I must decline. Neville's already asked me, you see, as friends." Harry blinks, staring at Luna's porcelain-pale features with his lips parted.

"Did he?" Harry says, tone mildly stiff. "Right. Well, don't worry about it, Luna. So long as you get to go, right?"

"Right," Luna says sweetly, and she reaches up to pat the side of Harry's face, walking off to the Ravenclaw table. Harry walks to sit with the Gryffindors, sitting with Hermione, and he tries to force his expression into something more neutral, but Hermione and Ginny both know him too well to let him hide his irritation entirely. Of course Neville would do this - the other boy's downright terrified of confrontation at times, but wouldn't want to tell Harry's secrets to Luna either, and this was obviously his solution. The Gryffindor is nowhere in sight, and Harry sets his turntable down at Hermione's feet, wondering which greenhouse Neville will be in at the moment. It's early in the lunch hour, and when Neville works in the greenhouses on a Saturday Harry knows he often eats food with Sprout or gets something from the Kitchens, so he'll probably be out there right now.

He's about to stand to go and find out when there's a harsh cry of sound from the staff table, and they all whip their heads around. Aurora Sinistra has her hand clapped over her mouth, and is staring with obvious horror down at a piece of parchment in her hands. Tears are rolling down her cheeks, the wetness shining in the candlelight, and Harry stares in shock and confusion as she tries to stand and crumples slightly on shaky knees, leaving Snape to hold her up. He puts one of his arms around her, supporting her, and at a nod from him Flitwick snatches the parchment out of Sinistra's hands, folding it up and placing it out of sight.

Snape moves quickly to support Sinistra out of the room, but she's sobbing - normally, Sinistra is as upright witch, and although she'll occasionally offer a tight smile to a student who knows their astronomy, she's normally as emotionless as Snape is. She shakes violently, clinging to Snape's robes and leaning heavily on him, despite his being a good four or five inches shorter than her, and even as Dumbledore tries to call attention to the staff table, every student watches her get all but carried out of the room.

Harry looks to Flitwick, who is seriously looking at the parchment with McGonagall: the both of them are pale, and Harry frowns as Dumbledore stands.

"Professor Sinistra has been taken ill," he says, and the parchment in McGonagall's hand abruptly Vanishes when Harry next looks to her. "Please, children, return to your lunch." Harry frowns, standing up from the table, and he slips out of the great hall, heading out and down onto the grounds. He heads down to the greenhouses, and he hovers in the doorway of Greenhouse Two: on one of the platforms suspended about twenty feet above the rest of the building, Neville, Sprout and a Hufflepuff girl called Hannah are trying to coax a thickly flowered plant to drink something.

All three of them are talking quietly to it as it shivers and lets out strange, whining sounds, but it finally relents, letting the petals of its huge flowers part so that the three of them can pour the liquid into its... Throat?

"Professor Sprout," Harry calls, and she leans over the edge of the platform.

"Potter?"

"I think Dumbledore's going to want you, Ma'am. Professor Sinistra just got something nasty in the post at lunch - she was sobbing in front of everyone, and Snape's taken her out." Sprout's face, round and rosy and spattered with dirt, becomes serious, She carefully makes her way past Neville and Hannah, rushing down the stairs and clapping Harry on the back as she makes her way up to the castle. Neville has the keys to the greenhouse in his hands as he and the Hufflepuff make their way down the stairs, and his expression is quietly serious as he looks at Harry.

Harry wants to yell at him, but he can't in front of Hannah, and yelling at Neville always feels like yelling at a sad puppy anyway.

"What did she get?" Hannah asks. There are pieces of petal and soil in her hair, her robes dirty, but she doesn't care - Neville's in the same state of dishevelment as he pulls off his dragonhide gloves.

"I don't know," Harry says. "I doubt it was good. Could I, uh, have a second with Neville please, Hannah?" She stares at him, narrowing her eyes just slightly, but when she glances at Neville he nods her head, and Hannah walks quickly out of the greenhouse to make her way up the hill.

"I need to put some stuff away," Neville says quietly, looking resigned to his fate, and Harry nods, taking up a watering can at the bottom of the metal stairs and following Neville into the next room. The greenhouses are all huge, with high ceilings and ridiculously wide floorplans, but Greenhouse Three has the most dangerous plants, and Harry is careful not to get too close to any of the pots as they approach the storecupboard.

He sets the watering can on a shelf as Neville hangs up trowels and tools and potions bottles, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the archway.

"You're angry at me," Neville says. "But I don't care." He speaks firmly, his voice quavering slightly. "It's not fair to her, Harry - she's such a nice girl, Luna is, and people are already horrible to her, and carrying on with both her and- and Blaise... It's wrong." Neville isn't looking at him: instead, he's turning bottles around on the shelves so that all of their labels face outward, his head down and his shoulders raised slightly, like he's waiting for Harry to try and hit him.

"I know," Harry says simply. He doesn't say anything else: he doesn't need to. "I know, Neville." Neville looks like making different conversation is momentarily beyond him, so Harry asks, "You think Sinistra's going to be alright? I've never seen her upset before." The relief on the other boy's face is positively palpable, and he sighs as he sets his gloves on a work surface, grabbing for the keys and leading Harry out towards the exit.

"I dunno," he says. "I hope it's nothing too bad, though. With Lockhart, and with the Death Eaters around-" he shakes his head, seeming almost tortured for a second, and he goes quiet before he says, "I'm sure she'll be okay." Harry nods his head, pulling the doors to the greenhouse closed so that Neville can lock up, and the two of them walk up to the castle in silence, saying not another word between them.

Astronomy lessons that week are cancelled. Sinistra's quarters are on the fifth floor, adjoining the Astronomy Tower, and she seems to mimic Professor Trelawney: she's not to be seen in the rest of the castle at any time at all, and apparently takes her meals in her quarters. It's unnerving for Harry - despite the fact that Sinistra has never been a favourite or least favourite teacher of his, night-time Astronomy lessons with the Ravenclaws have been a simple truth of his school weeks since he was eleven, and seeing Sinistra silently making her way down one corridor or another, or chatting with Pince in the library, is normal.

Her absence is strangely palpable.

The day after Sinistra's breakdown, it's reported in the paper, and when Theodore pushes the paper in front of Harry, Harry doesn't initially understand why. "Belle Rosier Killed In Brutal Attack," he reads, and he glance at Theo perplexedly. He sees Chad Arnett's name in the paper, and a quick scan of the page tells him that Belle Rosier had been a shop assistant in the American's haberdasher's, but had publicly spoken about his obsessive adoration of Gilderoy Lockhart and his snap after Lockhart's imprisonment in Azkaban. It's horrible, and it's tragic, but it doesn't really surprise him - Belle Rosier is the third person he's heard of Lockhart's lot murdering. "So?" Theo, Blaise and Draco are all looking at him seriously; Draco and Blaise are sat together on the floor beside Draco's bed, and they seem to understand immediately.

"Belle Rosier was Sinistra's sister," Blaise says emphatically. "Sinistra is her married name."

"Oh, God," Harry says, staring at the page. The photograph of Belle Sinistra is printed in black and white, a smile on her face as she poses in a set of well-accessorized dress robes, and now he looks at it he sees the similarities in the shade of their skin, the shapes of their noses and their lips. "What did they send her, then? Why did she break down like that?"

"They haven't printed them," Theodore says, "but my cousin Nyx works at Witch Weekly, and they sent them photos."

"Photos?" Harry repeats, and he leans forwards in the same way Draco and Blaise do when Theodore pulls a set of glossy, full-colour photographs. Draco snatches them to look at them first, but immediately he pales a little, and he drops them into Blaise's lap before running out of the room. Blaise frowns after him, but Harry says, a quiet dread settling in his belly, "He's squeamish sometimes. Can't stand the sight of gore." Blaise's expression is completely neutral as he looks at each of the pictures: they're about the size of a postcard, and there are six.

"Merlin's beard," Blaise says quietly, and he turns his dark eyes to Theo. Theo looks slightly overwrought, and Harry reaches slowly for the photographs.

He wishes they were in black or white. In full colour, the thick, bright shininess of the blood on the floor and the walls is sickening: Belle Rosier's eyes are unseeing as she lies suspended in the air on her back in just a silken black nightdress: holding her between the posts of her bed and the top of a dresser are dozens of intricately braided, colourful ribbons, and on her skin in little blossoms of blood are pinned badges and buttons. Needles stick out from her cheeks, and Harry sees the thin, ragged slit in her neck. The animation of the photo shows blood that drips to the puddle beneath her like a dribble of water from a faulty tap.

The other photographs are worse. In the other photographs, Belle Rosier is still alive.

He passes the pictures back, turning is head away and reaching for the glass of pumpkin juice on his desk. He feels sick. Not like he'll vomit - Harry's had his share of grisly injuries, and he's seen similar pictures to this one in some of the Dark Arts books in Grimmauld Place - but in a horrible, cold way. He feels sick of the world, of people like Chad Arnett.

"You think she got sent one of these?"

"Yeah," Theo says, and Harry shakes his head. "Nyx said they're not publishing the pictures, but they're publishing the letter that came with them - it's all Lockhart talking about facing up to criticism, and how they're going to show the wizarding world how impressive Gilderoy Lockhart can be."

"Is his new ambition to be the next Dark Lord?" Blaise asks dryly, arching an eyebrow. When Draco comes into the room, he sits on the edge of Harry's bed, looking green, and Harry pats him on the shoulder.

"If we're lucky," Harry murmurs, "He and Voldemort will just fight each other. At least that'll take Lockhart out of the equation."

"You never know," Blaise says lightly. "Lockhart could win." Harry laughs, and he ignores the way Draco and Theo look between him and Blaise, scandalized, and he lies back on the bed, putting his foot against Draco's knee. Draco looks a little ill, still, and Harry watches him for a moment as Blaise and Theodore start to talk about Lockhart's plans. They're not best friends, he and Draco - for the most part, Draco spends his time with Crabbe and Goyle, who Harry's never managed to hold much of a conversation with, and no one could match Hermione in his life at this point, but still... Harry feels upset to see him like this.

Especially when a quiet, niggling thought reminds him that if photographs of a woman Draco didn't even know have affected him like this, what must Sinistra be feeling?

"You sketch, right, Draco?" Harry asks. Draco's head turns suddenly to look at him, and his silver brow furrows slightly as he meets Harry's gaze. Notebooks are stacked in Draco's bedside cabinet, due to the way he documents his life in diaries and writes down everything he's ever told, but Harry knows the journals will occasionally have an illustration or two.

"Yes," Draco answers. "Why?"

"Do we have sympathy cards in the wizarding world?" Harry asks, directing the question more to Blaise and Theo. The two of them exchange a glance, and then shake their heads. "Right. Well, Draco, grab some parchment..."

---

It ends with Harry climbing the stairs to the fifth floor with a wicker basket in his hands. Blaise had dryly pointed out it might be best to remove the ribbons braided around its handle, and Theodore had winced as he'd hurriedly moved to cut them away. Blaise had picked some lilies from down by the lake and wrapped them in paper, laying them down to accompany the card, but at that point, Daphne Greengrass had asked what they were doing, and wanted to somehow assist, and then Francis Drummond had offered a small box of Honeydukes chocolates, and then Terrence Higgs had put in some chamomile tea bags, and...

Well. The basket is full, and Harry has discovered that while Professor Sinistra is not one of his favourite teachers, she is the favourite teacher of several students in the years above.

Sinistra has no door on her office, but merely an archway, and so Harry walks neatly into her office before approaching the door to her quarters behind her desk. Sinistra's office is bright and airy, like her classroom, with windows all along one wall, with celestial diagrams embroidered in the wide rug covering the floor. He knocks gently on the door, only loud enough to be heard, and waits with his feet on Cassiopeia.

He is surprised when the door is opened not by Aurora Sinistra, but by Professor Snape.

"Sir?" Harry says.

"Potter?" Snape says, with similar bewilderment, and Harry looks past him. At a chess table in a muted set of blue robes, Sinistra is rubbing at her eyes, wiping her face with a handkerchief. A pang of further sympathy makes itself known in his chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought some things for Professor Sinistra, sir. From Slytherin." Harry has never seen Snape's expression soften. He usually focuses on keeping his expression utterly neutral, but now Snape's black eyes do soften the slightest bit, a downturn to his mouth appearing that's utterly unexpected.

"Let him in, Severus," Sinistra says. Her usually ringing voice is hoarse and thick from crying, and Snape steps back as Harry comes into the room. Sinistra's quarters are decorated in deep blues and creamy whites, with more wide windows and an abundance of hard furniture, and he approaches her at the little round table. The chess game is halfway complete, and white - Snape's side - is winning by a mile. "What is this, Potter?"

"We're sorry about your sister, Ma'am," Harry says, and he holds out the basket. Arlene Snodgreen in the sixth year had got a hamper from Flockhart's Locks for her birthday, and had had it spare: it's wide and deep, and after a Saturday full of snakes running back and forth, it's nearly full, with Draco's card on the top. He'd done a careful diagram of a constellation on the parchment, using a lot of blue ink, and Sinistra stares at it for a long time before she reads the inscription on the inside: With deepest condolences for your loss, Slytherin house is thinking of you, Professor, and wishing you peace and comfort in this difficult time.

"Eridanus," Sinistra says quietly. "A fitting choice." She looks at the basket, then, letting Harry set it on the edge of the table, and she scans its motley contents: chocolates, tea, sugar quills, coffee, and overtop of it all, Blaise's delicately arranged bouquet. Sinistra puts her handkerchief over her mouth and lets out a sob, and for a second Harry is terrified she's going to yell at him to get out, and tell him that they should never have tried to comfort her with sweets and hot drinks, but she stands and pulls Harry into a hug.

Pressed against Sinistra's chest, her chin on his head (she has to lean down, because she must be six feet tall at the very least), Sinistra hugs him so tightly that Harry feels like he might start crying. "Thank you, Potter," Sinistra whispers. It's strange: Sinistra's dark cheeks are tear-streaked and shiny, and her usually calm expression is utterly gone. Harry offers her a small smile, and, still teary-eyed, Sinistra smiles back.

"I hope you feel better soon, Professor," Harry says, and he steps back towards office. On one of the walls, beside a full colour photograph of Belle Rosier and Professor Sinistra laughing around a fishbowl cocktail, there's a picture of Snape and Sinistra playing chess at a Christmas dinner. Sinistra is wearing a Santa hat, and Snape is almost smiling as he takes her queenside rook. The picture must be ten or fifteen years old, and Harry thinks about it as he steps back into Sinistra's office. Snape, who he'd almost forgotten about, is behind him, and he closes the door in a neat motion.

"Potter," Snape says, and Harry glances at him. Snape's expression is indecipherable as he looks at Harry, and then he says in a crisp, business-like tone, "Fifty points to Slytherin." Harry stares at him. "Tell the others."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees, trying not to show his shock, and Snape returns to Sinistra's quarters with the quiet click of the door latch.

---

Professor Snape goes to the funeral with Sinistra, as well as Professor Burbage and Professor Flitwick. Harry sees a photograph of those in attendance at Rosier's burial in the paper, and Snape is in the photograph beside Sinistra. He also recognizes Joaquin Flockhart, Florean Fortescue and Dawn Finchley from Diagon Alley, as well as Dromeda, Nymphadora and Ted Tonks. The photograph obviously hadn't been taken with permission, because Dromeda looks ready to pour bleach down the throat of the photographer as she notices the flash, and Snape's hand is on his wand.

Dromeda writes him about the funeral, and how Sinistra had mentioned the sympathy basket - all of the staff this week have been unusually tended to reward where the Slytherins are concerned; Flitwick had awarded Blaise twenty points to Slytherin for handing a book to him, and Sprout had dropped a (sealed) bag of sugar mice in Draco's Mandrake pot. It's strange, being rewarded - it had never crossed Harry's mind that they'd get points or the like for this, and it gives him a lot to think about.

Mostly, he thinks about Snape, and the strange realization that he actually has friends other than Lucius Malfoy, who treats Snape as something between an adopted son, a rescued bat, and a drinking buddy.

Snape is sat at the lunch table that day, and he is in deep conversation with Filch. Usually, Snape doesn't seem to speak much in the conversations he has with other people - he usually listens to them talk, dryly commenting at one point or another, but with Filch the roles seem somewhat reversed. Barely anyone seems to actually talk to Filch, from what Harry has seen, and nobody likes him, but he and Snape are almost friendly, in the strange, emaciated way "friendly" can be applied to either of them.

"Harry?" Hermione says, and Harry glances at her.

"Yeah?"

"It's five days to the Yule Ball. Have you got a date?" Harry stops thinking about Snape abruptly.

"No," he admits. "I asked Fleur. She said no." Hermione laughs, and Harry frowns.

"Oh, that's alright," George says as he slides to sit beside Harry. "She's going with me." Hermione and Harry both stare at him, and Fred gives a gleeful little laugh as he settles beside Hermione. "What?"

"You're going to the Yule Ball with Fleur Delacour?" Hermione demands, slightly shrilly.

"Well, yeah," George says. "I was gonna ask you, Hermione, but I thought a threesome with me and Krum would be a bit embarrassing, you know. A seeker's just not got the same measurements as a beater, and I wouldn't want to upset him when he couldn't match me." Harry chokes on his pumpkin juice, and George cheerfully pats him on the back as Hermione's cheeks darken.

"Oh," Hermione says, trying not to look embarrassed. "Right."

"If anyone cares," Fred says, "I'm going with Angelina. Who're you going with, Harry?"

"No one, so far," he says grimly. George pats his hand sympathetically.

"There's always faith."

"Faith?" Harry repeats.

"That's the name of the anatomy skeleton in the Transfiguration cupboard," Fred supplies, and he and George laugh. Sighing, Harry shakes his head, and he glances back as Draco approaches the Gryffindor table. He puts his hand on Harry's shoulder, doing his best to disguise the movement as friendly, but Harry can feel the other boy leaning on him.

"So, Granger," Draco says, "Do you want to go the Yule Ball with me?" Harry's eyes go wide as he stares at Hermione, who seems shocked speechless. Fred and George, to their mutual credit, don't say anything either: they just stare at Draco with similar expressions of shock.

"Uh, no," Hermione says. Fred snorts. "I mean- Sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that, I just meant- no, sorry, Draco, I'm, um, I'm not interested in you. That way." Hermione speaks awkwardly and hurriedly, words tumbling over each other, and Harry mouths an apology at her - had he known, he'd have warned her, but Draco had given no clue that he was going to do this.

"Well," Draco says, sticking his nose in the air. His cheeks are a dusky pink. "It's hardly my trouble if you go alone. I was merely trying to be charitable." Harry winces.

"She's going with Viktor Krum, mate," Fred says lightly. "And if she decided to go with you, you definitely wouldn't be the one showing charity." Draco's pink cheeks darken to a plum red, and he looks between the twins and Hermione. It's one thing for Draco to occasionally look at Hermione too long or talk to her in the library, but asking her to the Yule Ball? Given Hermione's complete disinterest, he's not surprised by her reaction.

"Would have been embarrassing to attend with a Mudblood anyway." Fred, George and Harry stand at the same time, but Draco is already leaving the great hall at speed, the back of his neck as red as the Gryffindor banners on the wall, and they watch after him, scowling.

"He's disgusting," Hermione says quietly, revulsion twisting her features. Harry doesn't say anything as they sit down again, and he tries to think not about Draco Malfoy, but about who he's going to take to the Yule Ball. It's when Hedwig brings him a letter from Leicester that he thinks about it, and he smiles at the page as he pets her head.

He's going to have to make some kind of entrance, and he knows one way to do so.

---

Draco is in their bedroom, and subsequently, Harry is sat in the common room where it's safe. They're talking about Snape, and Theodore is openly wondering if Sinistra is going to let him take her to the Yule Ball. Blaise, leaning against the wall, is openly shaking his head as he stands with his hands in his pockets.

"I don't think they're interested in each other like that," Harry says, thinking about what he'd overheard between him and Lucius back during the summer. The chess table had been set up between them, their chairs back from the tables, and the distance between them had looked like it would be almost professional, and certainly not romantic. "I heard Lucius nagging him about it in the summer."

"Is Lucius still trying that?" comes a voice from behind him, and Harry whips his head around to stare at Professor Sinistra. She's in a set of her usual brown robes, wearing her hat, and she looks amused. Everyone in the common room is staring at her, and she says archly, "He started it when Severus and I joined the Hogwarts staff, so it's gratifying to know he retains hope for his and I bearing him a few dozen godchildren, unlikely though the fantasy is." Harry laughs. He's one of the only people in the room that does.

"Do you need anything, Professor?" Theo asks, and Sinistra looks around the room. Her expression has returned to its usual quiet neutrality, but then she smiles, her dark lips quirking into the expression.

"I wanted to thank you, all of you," she says, and despite the quietness of the words, they ring through the room. "Slytherin is a house that looks after its own, but I thought that familial spirit had ended upon my completing my education. It is heart-warming to know that the code of honour still applies. Thank you, children." There's a long, silent pause.

And then Blaise says, "If he's not taking you, I don't suppose you're free?" Sinistra laughs. The sound is rich.

"I will offer you a single dance, Mr Zabini," Sinistra says charitably, but then she leans forwards, patting the top of his head, and says, "Though as a partner, I would routinely recommend choosing someone more appropriate to your age and, indeed, your diminutive height." Theo and Harry laugh at Zabini's affronted expression, and laughter rings around the room. Blaise is the tallest of the Slytherin fourth years, but they're all still a little shorter than Snape, let alone Sinistra.

"You are going, though?" Harry asks. He still feels sympathy for her, of course, but as Sinistra is probably the only attractive member of staff at Hogwarts, he also feels that he wants to see her in a set of tight-fitting dress robes.

"Yes," Sinistra says quietly. "She'd have wanted me to. Good night, children." She bows her head before exiting the common room, and Harry watches after her, frowning.

"Can't believe she never remarried," Blaise says, "Though I suppose that means there'll always be room for me once I'm of age."

"Dream on, Zabini," Theo says, shaking his head, and Harry grins a private smile at Blaise, who winks at him. "Bloody sad, though, isn't it? Apparently she and her husband were only married for two years or so before he got killed - he was a Mediwizard, died right on a battle field. My father said Flitwick killed the woman who did it, caught her with an Oppugno and she fell into a ditch and broke her neck."

"Ironically," Blaise murmurs, "Had Maxwell Sinistra been alive, he likely could have saved her. But to lose her husband in the war, and to lose her only sister to a madman like Chad Arnett? That's tragedy."

"Especially given that her best friend seems to be Snape," Theo says, and despite himself, Harry laughs. He shakes his head, leaning back on the sofa, and he thinks of the upcoming Yule Ball.

Now that he has a partner sorted, he actually feels sort of excited. It's going to be great, he's decided: the Yule Ball is going to be the best party of his life so far.

"Those are just the same robes he wears every day," Hermione says, staring at Snape. Harry stands with her in entrance hall, leaning against the wall, and tries not to laugh. Snape talks quietly and in a serious tone to Igor Karkaroff, who still looks like he's recovering from his illness weeks ago - he looks pale and drawn, his skin tinged green despite the warm firelight. "It's just a shinier fabric. It's the exact same design."

"I know," Harry says. "Funny, isn't it? He wore the same ones to the Malfoys' Christmas Gala least year." Hermione chuckles, smiling, and when Snape looks over to them, Harry gives him a cheerful wave. He rolls his eyes and stalks into the great hall, leaving the two of them laughing together and waiting for their respective dates. Hermione looks beautiful in a set of periwinkle dress robes with ruching at the skirt and a carefully cut neckline, and her hair is drawn up over her head, thick but only slightly wavy. All of its usual tight curl is eliminated for the evening, and there are flowers woven into the hairdo.

"Are those the robes they bought you last year?" Harry nods his head. They're a sweet, plum red, and the birds embroidered on the sides of the robes and on the long sleeves are in golden thread that moves animatedly across the fabric: the birds dance one way and then the next, as excited about the Yule Ball as he is. "They're nice. Oh, there he is." Hermione smooths down the imaginary creases in the front of her skirt, and she moves forwards gracefully, offering Krum her arm.

Harry knows she's spent weeks walking up and down the Gryffindor dorm steps in those steps, making sure she won't fall over in them.

"Ah, Her-my-own, you look- you look very nice," Krum says, softly, and he bows to kiss the top of her hand. His robes are silver, thick with accents of black fur, and Harry envies them as a nice coat for the winter. "And you, Harry."

"What, I don't get a kiss as well?" Krum laughs, his head tipping back.

"Perhaps ven you have a shorter skirt." Harry grins, leaning and kissing Hermione on the cheek.

"You guys go in - I'm just going to go into the courtyard to wait for her." Krum frowns, furrowing his thick eyebrows in confusion, and Harry hears Hermione begin to explain to him as they go into the great hall together. The courtyard is decorated with roses and icy silver ribbons and the like: despite the night chill, it's actually pleasantly warm outside, and he has no doubt if he looked under the rose pots he'd find enchanted heaters and the like. He sees Draco speaking irritably with Pansy Parkinson, who seems uncharacteristically bored with him, and he elects to step towards the path and avoid being drawn in.

Hermione is completely uninterested in Draco, and Harry has no idea how many more times she'll have to turn him down for it to sink in, but for the meantime it's awkward and Draco is positively hateful. Across the grounds, fairy lights linger in the air, illuminating the grass with subtle golden light, and he sees the Beauxbatons students and the Durmstrang ones coming up toward s the castle in dribs and drabs.

"'Arry, go inside," says a teasing voice. "It is too cold out 'ere for a little boy!"

"You go inside, Fleur. Go stand with the other ice sculptures." Fleur laughs, patting Harry's cheek as she walks past him, and he grins, shoving her hand away. He puts his hands in his pockets as he sees a coach approaching from down the path, and his grin grows as the nothing-drawn carriage draws to a close, and Afifa Lanjwani steps from inside, her chin held high as she stands straight. The fabric of her dress robes is a deep, shining blue, and embroidered around the neckline and the waist are numerous gem stones and bronze threads; her earrings are a similar colour, and the braids of her hair are shining with bronze thread.

"Ravenclaw colours?" he demands. "You're joking me!"

"You've no leg to stand on, Potter," Afifa says, arching an eyebrow at him. He's found he's kind of missed Afifa Lanjwani's judgemental eyebrows. "You're bedecked like a Gryffindor." He offers her his arm, and she smirks, taking it in hers. Harry finds himself relieved she's wearing flat shoes: he's grown taller, this year, and Afifa is only a little bit taller than him. With heels, he's sure she'd tower over him.

"Thank you," he says quietly as they walk slowly through the courtyard. Her dress jangles quietly as they move through the magic-warmed night air, and Afifa smiles at him. They've kept in contact via Harry's letters, and Harry knows she keeps herself busy at her parents' shop. "For this."

"Harry," Afifa points out in a measured tone, "You've just invited me to the party of the century. To open a ball. Do you really think you need to be thanking me?" Harry considers this.

"No. I guess not." Afifa's hand smacks hard upside his head, and Harry laughs as she ruffles his hair before taking his arm again. "You ready?"

"Completely," Afifa says, and he leads her into the great hall.

---

"Well done, Harry," Afifa murmurs as the opening waltz is slowly faded into another song by the orchestra; George is talking quietly to Fleur as he leads her off the dance floor, and although Cedric, Cho, Hermione and Viktor are still dancing, Harry's more than content to step to the side. The great hall is decorated in silvers and golds, a huge Christmas tree dominating one side of the room, and there are thick, golden cloths over the two tables pushed to the edges of the room.

"Ms Lanjwani," comes a voice, and Harry arches an eyebrow at Percy. Percy's dress robes are a burnished gold, the same colour as some of his lighter freckles, and he does his best to look airy and casual; he'd entered with Amelia Bones, and from what Harry can see she's now in conversation with Madame Maxime. Percy looks nervous and out of place, holding himself even more stiffly than usual, but Afifa doesn't seem to be put off in the least.

"Percy," Afifa replies dryly. Percy seems slightly surprised by her use of his first name, jolting back slightly. Harry doesn't miss the nervous way the tip of his tongue flits over his lip, and he tries to ignore the twinge the movement sends through him.

"Would you- er, that is to say-"

"Of course I'll dance with you," Afifa says, cutting through Percy's bluster. "How nice of you to ask." She gives Harry a wink as she takes Percy's arm, and Harry grins, putting his hands in his pockets as he makes his way to the side of the room to get something to eat. His mouth goes dry when he sees Luna sipping at ice-coloured punch: her dress robes are white, the skirt in several dozen lacy layers, and she looks beautiful.

"Hello, Harry," Luna says, smiling at him. He smiles back. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

"It's only just started," Harry says, "but yeah, I guess I am. What about you?"

"Oh, yes," Luna decides, giving a nod of her head. "I'm having such a good time. We should dance, later."

"Sure," Harry agrees, and he watches as she walks away. The layers of her skirt sway as she moves, and Harry breathes in before letting out a small sigh. He shakes his head, turning to get himself some food, and he sits with George and Ron at the edge of the room. Ron had come to the ball with Padma Patil, who seems less than pleased at Ron's lack of interest in the dance and at his hideously ugly dress robes. Harry finds he enjoys the actual dancing, though - he dances with Padma and Parvati, with Fleur, with Afifa again and with Hermione throughout the evening, as well as assorted girls in the years above, and from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. It's not as awkward as he expected - they make small talk and talk about the people dancing around them, about the party, about the upcoming tasks.

And Snape, Harry realizes as he copies the bow a Durmstrang girl had given him, is dancing. Harry isn't the only one staring as he sidles to the edge of the room: Sinistra dances with an impossible grace, seeming to glide over the floor without actually touching it, but Snape... Snape's dancing is technically perfect, and seems to completely fit the rhythm of the waltz, but his body is stiff, and Harry feels like he's watching a clockwork doll dance rather than a man. His steps aren't anything like the smooth steps he takes down any of the corridors, seeming to flow with the shadows of the castle, but they're good.

Sinistra and Snape give each other short, polite bows as they draw apart, but before Snape can finish turning on his heel to move back to the side of the room, where he'd been watching the evening's proceedings, Afifa intercepts him. Snape arches a single, dark eyebrow at her as she offers him her hands, and then he smirks at her. He smiles a little as he sees the two of them begin to dance. The room is warm, though, and he feels a need to be outside, so he slips towards the entrance hall and then out into the courtyard, his hands in his pockets.

He sees Bill Weasley in a set of red dress robes, who'd been invited to the Yule Ball thanks to his volunteering to work on the Second Task, and he opens his mouth to say hello, but then he sees his little grin as he lets a girl take his hand and pull him behind a wall. Harry coughs into his hand as he recognizes Fleur's silver-blue dress shimmering in the torchlight, and he turns his head away. As Harry casually makes his way through the courtyard and out under the fairy-lit grass, which is slick with evening dew, he sees that Fleur and Bill aren't the only people who've paired off and slipped out of the way - he sees a pair of Ravenclaws sprawled on one of the benches, snogging as if they'll drown without having their tongues touching, and a few different pairs here and there.

Absently, he considers looking for Blaise, but he knows the two of them couldn't kiss in public where someone could see. He walks idly, his gait slow as he watches the fairies sprawl on the air around the grounds, and he breathes in the cool night air. As he makes his way down the path in the vague direction of the greenhouses, he stops short, frowning as he leans forwards.

Crouching down, hiding himself behind a thick hydrangea bush, Harry sees Draco. His white-blond hair is illuminated slightly by the torches nearest the greenhouses, and Harry frowns as he watches the other boy. As he gets closer, he realizes what Draco is looking at it: Krum is sat on the stone bench outside of Greenhouse Two, and perched on his lap is Hermione: the two of them are chuckling, noses brushing each other as they talk quietly.

Harry realizes a few seconds too late that Draco has his wand out.

---

Draco is crying. His cheeks are blotchy and red, and a black eye is blossoming on the left side of his face. A purpling, hand-shaped bruise is obvious on his throat from where Harry pinned him to the ground, and his cheeks are wet with tears, blood thick on his chin. Harry hasn't cried, but his nose is broken and there's blood all over his mouth and his chin, and he's pretty sure two of his fingers are dislocated.

"Would either of you be so kind as to inform me as to why you were brawling amongst the flowerbeds this evening?" asks Snape in a low voice, fury dripping hotly from every word. Draco sniffles, but before he can reply, Harry does.

"Draco's a snivelling, cowardly little-"

"Potter," Snape says.

"Person." Snape glances between Draco and Harry, and then he leans to fix Harry's nose. Hermione is laid out on one of the beds, and Madam Pomfrey is casting quiet spells over her, and when Harry had got a glimpse of her he'd winced, because there were heavy bruises all over her skin, as if someone had punctured all her blood vessels without puncturing the skin. Draco had meant to curse Krum, but when Harry had tackled him the spell had missed, hitting Hermione in the back instead, and Harry had taken some time to wrestle the wand out of his hand as Krum carried Hermione up to the castle. Both of them have hydrangea petals scattered over their robes and in their mussed hair.

"Ms Lanjwani sends her regards," Snape says dryly, and Harry winces. He's going to have to send her a long letter of apology, Harry knows. "Now, what happened?" Snape demands again.

"The boy vas angry Hermione vent to the Ball with me, and not with him," a sharp, accented voice says, and Krum stares down at Draco, his eyes dark and his arms crossed over his chest. "He meant to hit me. Disgusting." Krum scowls, and Draco stares at his own knees, not wanting to make eye contact. Harry coughs a little as Snape pushes up his chin to examine his face, and then fixes Harry's fingers.

"Thank you, sir," Harry says, suppressing the urge to snarl at Draco. He stands from the bed and makes his way over to Hermione's bed. Hermione is sitting up now, breathing in and out shakily, many of the bloody blotches under her skin have been healed away. She looks humiliated, and Harry feels furious. "I'm gonna just go home tonight. I'm gonna ask McGonagall if I can use her Floo now, unless you want me to stay?"

"It's alright, Harry," Hermione bites out. She tightens her hands into fists as she looks over to Draco, and Harry feels like by the time he comes back from Sirius' in January, Draco may well be dead. Serves him right, Harry thinks. "I'm sorry about this, Viktor. Are you okay?"

"This boy vas very dishonourable. A coward, casting at us when we were unavare."

"I know," Hermione mutters, and Harry gives her a hug before he leaves the hospital wing, not catching Draco's eye as he leaves.

"Hey, Potter!" Draco yells after him, and Harry turns in the doorway. He smirks at Harry, despite the blood staining his teeth. "Lovegood was snogging Eddie Carmichael under the leftside fountain." Before Harry can lunge at the other boy, Snape grabs him by the back of his robes, dragging him out of the infirmary, and reluctantly Harry goes.

Lucius raises his head as Harry steps out of the fireplace, but Harry ignores the man's widened eyes and obvious surprise, stepping past him and into the living room. All he needs to hear is the quiet thunk of his trunk following him through the Floo, and he doesn't want to linger and chat to Lucius. Remus and Sirius are hunched over a game of chess, Sirius winning by a landslide, but as soon as he sees Harry's face he knocks over his king.

"I don't want to stay here," Harry says bluntly. "Can we go to your flat?"

"Sure," Sirius says immediately, standing up. He doesn't ask any questions or fuss over Harry or try and talk to him. He just says, "Give me ten minutes." and rushes to make his way up the stairs.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Remus asks, setting the chess set away with a wave of his wands, and he looks concernedly at Harry, gaze flicking over his dirty, petal-covered dress robes, and Harry twists his lips. He hears the sound of the fire flaring in the next room, and he hears Lucius asking someone a question. It's Snape's voice that responds. Remus moves into the dining room again, and Harry hovers behind him, his arms crossed over his chest.

"- brawling in the flowerbeds," he hears Snape finish. Lucius' nostrils flare, and there's a pink, angry tinge on his face as he stands, buttoning up his outer robe and summoning his shoes. For a second, just a second, Harry is half-terrified that Lucius is going to turn his obvious fury on him, but Lucius doesn't seem to have remembered that Harry exists: he ties back his hair, grasps his cane with a white-knuckled grip, and he sets his jaw.

"Come then, Severus. I'll be speaking with him." Harry watches as Snape inclines his head, and when the two of them step into the flames of the fireplace, Harry feels himself relax.

"Draco cursed Hermione," Harry mutters to Remus, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Come on. I'll explain upstairs."

By the time Harry is sat on the sofa in Sirius' living room, his trunk beside him and a steaming mug of cocoa in his hands, he's explained the whole story, and Sirius has an ugly scowl on his face. Remus is frowning, his arms crossed over his chest: he and Sirius inhabit the loveseat across from the wide, five-seater sofa, and where Remus leans back against the seat with his long legs dangling from the arm, Sirius is hunched forwards, frowning at Harry with his chin on his hands.

"The bastard," Sirius says. He shakes his head, scowling, and then glances at Harry for a few moments. "You thought Lucius was going to yell at you?"

"No," Harry admits. Despite his momentary fear, he doesn't think Lucius will actually snap at him if it was Draco who initiated the trouble - Harry isn't, after all, some Gryffindor Lucius doesn't know, even if Draco is more precious to him than anything else in the world. "But I thought Draco might decide to come home for the holidays, just so Hermione doesn't murder him."

"That's good thinking," Remus says thoughtfully. "He might well do that." Remus is looking at Harry in the concerned, slightly tired way he always seems to, as if he wishes he could put Harry in a box and keep him away from everything in the world that might annoy him; Sirius, by contrast, is drumming his fingers against his thigh and looks like he's plotting revenge. Harry sighs, setting his cocoa on the coffee table and sitting glumly back in his seat, and Remus watches him before asking, "Something else on your mind?"

"Draco said Luna was kissing Eddie Carmichael," Harry says, heaving a sigh.

"Is Luna the girl you, ah-" Sirius whistles, giving Remus a side glance. Remus, who guesses immediately what the noise means, rolls his eyes.

"Stop doing that when you talk about sex," Harry says irritably. "And no. That was someone different. But I, er. I didn't tell her. That I was with someone else, as well - that's why Luna went to the Ball with Neville, as friends, and was kissing Eddie Carmichael instead of me." He feels guilt twist thickly in his stomach, guilt and anger and jealousy and a want to crawl under his covers and sleep for the rest of the Christmas holidays.

"You've been dating two girls at once?" Remus asks, but he doesn't sound judgemental. If anything, he looks amused, and on some level that infuriates Harry. Harry feels guilty for what he's been doing, and the idea that Remus and his godfather might find that funny upsets him.

"Not dating," Harry says. "We've just been- you know. Snogging. Snogging, and, uh-"

"And whistling?" Remus suggests. Harry groans, and Sirius coughs behind his hand, smacking Remus' side. Remus turns very slowly to look at Sirius, narrowing his eyes, and asks, "I suppose you knew this was going on?"

"No," Sirius lies smoothly.

"He taught me some contraceptive charms, Remus," Harry says. "He's been very responsible." Remus considers this for a moment.

"Good," Remus decides, and he ignores the way Sirius' jaw drops as he stares at him. Harry has suspected Remus would be just as casual about this as Sirius, but Sirius looks utterly floored by the fact. "And the other girl - what's her name?" Harry hesitates for a second, thinking about the way Sirius had smacked Lindon Sartorius that summer.

"Uh, Blaise," Harry says awkwardly. "Blaise Zabini." Sirius, who'd just been taking a sip of his Fanta, spits orange all over his face and his chest. Remus pats Sirius hard on the back as he coughs, wiping his face with a handkerchief and putting his can on the table. His eyes are watering, and his expression as he stares at Harry is almost wild. Harry stays frozen in his place, unsure what to say: fear settles thickly in his chest, and his breaths are shaky.

And then Remus says, “Of course, there’s no issue with that, so long as you’re being safe.” Relief floods through him, but somehow it doesn't surprise him that Remus is being so accepting. Sirius’ head whips in Remus’ direction, staring at him. Remus resolutely stares at Harry’s face, and for a long, terrible second, Harry wonders if Sirius is going to just walk out on both of them.

“Yeah, Harry,” Sirius says. “That’s fine. Hell, I fucked half a dozen boys at school.” Harry and Remus both stare at Sirius, whose eyes go slightly wide, and then he shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s just sex. It’s normal to shag attractive people.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Remus demands harshly, his hands tight in balls as he stares at Sirius, who flinches back slightly. Remus looks suddenly angry as he looks at Sirius, angrier than Harry would have expected. “Did James know? Did Peter?”

“No,” Sirius says, tone defensive. “James did, but not Peter.” There’s an expression of utter betrayal on Remus’ face, and Harry feels like he’s gotten himself too deeply into this conversation. There's a hidden depth to this conversation that's beyond him: Sirius looks panicked and slightly nervous, and Remus looks all but wild, his lips twitching, his eyes flickering one way and then the other as he thinks.

“So neither of you have an issue with it?” Harry interrupts, slightly hoarsely.

“‘Course not,” Sirius says, shrugging his shoulders with a forced nonchalance. “It’s just sex, isn’t it? You know you couldn’t marry him or something?” Harry feels tension in his body as he leans slightly forward, pressing his hands against his knees.

“You hit Lindon,” Harry says. Sirius glances at him, his lips parting. “Back in the summer. Because he’s gay.”

“Gay?” Sirius repeats, bewildered. Remus mutters something in his ear, and then he says, “Oh. No. Because I thought he was going to try and shag you, and you’re about twelve, and he’s about fifty.” Remus lets out a rueful half-laugh.

“Why? He’s not going to try and shag me, Sirius.” Sirius leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re friends. He’s like- he’s like Lucius, or Narcissa, or- or Snape. Do you think one of them is going to shag me?” Sirius gags. “Exactly!”

“Men like him, Harry-”

“Men who’re attracted to men?” Harry prompts.

“They don’t do it like we do, Harry, it’s… They want to take advantage. It’s just how most of them are-” Harry feels anger flare through him.

“What?”

“I think,” Remus breaks in hurriedly, putting his hand on Sirius’ chest and stopping him short, “Harry should go to bed. You’ve had a long night, right? Go have a bath and we’ll let you sleep in tomorrow morning.” There's a thick, uncomfortable density to the air between Remus and Sirius, and Harry feels like a kid who's caught his parents fighting. Sighing and shaking his head, he leaves the living room, closing the door behind him…

Before he sits down on the floor beside the door, murmuring a spell to let him hear better. He can hear the sound of Sirius’ boots on the floor, pacing back and forth, but judging by the sound of his voice, Remus is still sat down.

“Just explain your logic to me, Sirius,” Remus says in the dry, mildly sarcastic voice Harry has grown used to hearing. “Why is your attraction to men different to Lindon Sartorius’?”

“Oh, shut up. This is why me and James kept it to ourselves at school!” Sirius says sharply, and Harry’s eyes widen.

“You and James…?” Remus repeats in a whisper, sounding ill, and Harry feels the same uncertainty - it's not disgust, exactly, but the idea of Sirius and his father... God. It's weird.

“What? No! Not like that!” Sirius snaps, breathing slightly heavily. “No, James wasn’t- James just liked girls, but he understood my interest in men. The reason we didn’t share it with you and Peter is because you wouldn’t have understood. Bloody- Look, for Purebloods-”

“Oh, this is about blood status," Remus says, voice rising slightly in anger. "I should have realized-” Harry hears one of them let out a loud huff of breath, but he doesn't know if it's Sirius or Remus.

“It’s not like I was lording it over you and Peter, but-”

“You constantly lorded it over me and Peter, the both of you!” Remus growls, his deep, hoarse voice even lower than usual. "At every opportunity!"

“It was different for us! Don’t you understand that!? It was always different. And you just wouldn’t have understood, neither of you. Liaisons with men are perfectly common, but they’re to be kept behind closed doors: it’s about sex, and nothing more. One couldn’t possibly have such a relation and think it a romance. Halfbloods and Muggleborns, they twist matters, they believe-"

"I can't believe I'm listening to this," Remus says exhaustedly. "It's like you're living in 1978, Sirius, that's not how things are."

"Of course it's how things are! Do you think you should be able to just pick a man and marry him!?"

"Why shouldn't I be able to!?" There's an extended pause. Harry can hear Remus and Sirius both breathing heavily: Sirius is no longer pacing back and forth, but is utterly still. Harry can't so much as hear the leather of the sofa crinkling. Harry's stomach twists, and he feels sick. It's one thing to know that Sirius might have shagged a few blokes here and there, a comforting thing at that, but what he doesn't understand is Remus' stance.

What Harry doesn't understand, actually, is Remus.

"I don't..." Harry hears Sirius say. There's another long pause, and Harry wishes he could see Remus' face, see Sirius' face, and understand what's wordlessly passing between them. "I'm going to bed."

"Moony, don't, that's not-"

"I'm going to bed," Harry hears Remus say again, and he rushes down the corridor to slip into his room. He moves quickly, stripping off his outer robe and throwing it onto the bed. He sets a bath running in the next room, and then he opens up his trunk, scattering a few things around to make it look like he's been unpacking.

There's a quiet knock at his door, and he says, "Come in." Remus opens the door, hovering in the doorway, and he watches Harry for a second. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Remus murmurs. He doesn't look fine. His skin is a little paler than usual, his lips thin. "Harry?"

"Mmm?"

"You left petals and dirt outside the door. I know you were listening." Harry opens his mouth, and then closes it. When Remus smiles at him, the expression is soft and warm, and he says, "Good night, Harry. Go to bed."

"I will," Harry says, and Remus pulls the door closed.

On Boxing Day, Harry doesn't read his post. A few letters are brought in for him, and although he reads that morning's copy of the Owl Gazette, he leaves the five envelopes on his desk to be looked at later. He, Sirius and Remus sit around the living room, and Harry opens the presents he hadn't had time to open the day before before starting on thank you notes.

The most amusing of the gifts is from Ted Tonks - hastily added to Dromeda's parcel of a red dressing gown is a blue fly swat, tied with a ribbon. He laughs when he pulls it out, reading Andromeda's note that Ted had insisted he had wanted to add something to Harry's Christmas present, and had then forgotten to get anything. After Harry has finished with his thank you notes and Sirius has (almost) finished prancing up and down in the leather jacket Remus had bought him, they settle down in the living room again, eating at leftovers and snack foods.

"Do you want to include any of the secret passages on the map?" Remus asks as he sketches out a map of the ground floor of Hogwarts. The Marauder's Map lies open on the end table, but Remus doesn't so much as glance at it, easily drawing the rooms from memory and sketching in bird's eye views of the tables in the great hall.

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "Otherwise they won't be secret, will they? Could we make it so that the map will take on stuff people write on it, though? Like, say they're using a particular classroom for a club or something..."

"Oh, yeah," Sirius says, scribbling it down on a piece of paper. "That's actually pretty easy - we needed to do that whenever we discovered something new." Working on the Hogwarts Guide takes up the majority of the day, and Harry enjoys it - Sirius and Remus explain the various spells used as they plan out the initial design, and they hide the awkwardness between them. Harry can see they're feeling uncertain in talking to each other, and although Remus feigns an easygoing demeanour, Sirius keeps shooting him uncertain glances, as if he feels Harry might break down in tears at any second.

By the late afternoon, Sirius' concern is really beginning to get on Harry's nerves, especially as he won't actually voice any questions. As Harry gets more and more irritated, Remus begins shooting glances at Sirius, and it's at that point that Harry gives up. "Let's keep working on this tomorrow," he says, standing and setting his quill aside. "I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Alright," Remus murmurs, giving a nod, and Sirius pats Harry on the shoulder as he goes.

Harry doesn't nap. He just kicks his door shut and wishes he'd finished packing - his turntable is on his dresser at Hogwarts, as well as most of the books he'd started reading. The only real entertainment he has is his chess set, Dudley's old radio and his broom, and he's not interested in any of those at the moment. He sighs, shaking his head slightly, and he goes over to the desk, flicking through the letters that had come for him that morning.

Most of them are unimportant - new owl order forms from Flourish and Blotts, a curt thank you note from Augusta Longbottom for the gloves he'd sent her for Christmas, a postcard from Takoda at the snake sanctuary... It's all fairly benign and uninteresting until he gets to the last envelope in the pile.

It's a heavy paper stock, and there's a deep green wax crest keeping it closed. He draws out the parchment inside, scanning the page, and he frowns, reading it again. And then again.

Mr H. J. Potter,

An issue has come up with your standing account at Gringotts Bank, and it cannot be resolved by post; please make your way with this letter to the bank as soon as possible. The issue has arisen from an existing subscription made by your mother, Lily Potter, to an outside service.

Clawbane
Bank Administrator
Gringotts Bank

Harry sighs, stepping out into the corridor. Remus and Sirius aren't in the living room, and so Harry steps into the kitchen. He stops short in the kitchen, staring at the two of them: Remus has his forehead pressed against the cabinet, and Sirius looks about ready to throw a plate. He guesses they've been arguing, but he doesn't want to bother with it - he just wants Sirius and Remus to sort this out amongst themselves, and hopefully Sirius will forget about Harry being... Not-gay.

"What time does Gringotts close?"

"It doesn't," Sirius says, carefully putting down the plate he'd been holding above his head. "Why?"

Harry passes the parchment to him, and Sirius reads the curt note before rolling his eyes and passing it to Remus. "Bloody goblins," Sirius mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why've they got to be so vague? Get your cloak, then, let's just go and find out what it is."

"Wasn't the ink on your Goblet of Fire entry goblin-made?" Remus asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Doesn't mean it was a Gringotts goblin," Harry says, but Sirius seems to be reconsidering his position.

"And there could be Death Eaters, or Lockhart and-"

"Except that they can't start a fight in Gringotts or they'll be kicked out," Harry says firmly, looking between the two of them. He shifts his weight from one of his feet to the other, shifting his hands in his sleeves: annoying as it is that Gringotts haven't outlined what exactly the issue is, it's got his mother's name on it, and he wants to know what this subscription is as soon as possible. After all, it's been fifteen years since she died, and there's never been a mention of subscriptions that Harry hadn't taken out himself on his bank statements. "Besides, you two'll come with me, right? So I'll be safe."

Remus and Sirius exchange a long look, and then Remus says, "Fine." With Remus' murmured word, Sirius relents, and he nods his head too.

It only takes Harry a few seconds to grab their cloaks.

---

"Excuse me," Harry says quietly, and the goblin behind the front desk peers down at him from his perch, arching one of his thick, grey eyebrows. Its gaze flits from Harry's face to those of Sirius and Remus: they're stood behind each of his shoulders like the three of them are part of a vanguard, and if Gringotts weren't utterly empty of anyone but six goblins, Harry would feel embarrassed. "I was sent a summons. There's an issue with my account?"

"Name?"

"Potter," Harry says. The goblin peers down at his books, and then gives a short nod of his chin, calling behind him for a goblin. They're lead off into an antechamber, down a corridor and into a small, modestly decorated office. Framed on a wall is a diploma written in a language Harry doesn't understand, but is fairly certain is Gobbledegook, and in the corner is a thick, leafy plant with pink flowers. The petals are thick and voluminous, and Harry's nose is filled with a sweet scent. He steps towards it, reaching out - the flowers seem to shift slightly with a draught from the door, and he wants to feel the smooth pinkness of the petals under his fingertips.

"You oughtn't touch that, Mr Potter," says a high, reedy voice. He's tall for a goblin, nearing four foot five, and he's wearing a thick, blond toupée that his ears stick out from under; instead of the armour-style tunics the goblins usually wear, he's wearing a pin-striped suit with silver buttons, and a golden chain betrays the watch in his inside pocket. "Beautiful flowers, but they've sharp teeth." Harry glances back to the petal he'd been close to brushing with his fingers, and the flower shifts again: its stamens shift like a dozen little tongues, and around the edge of the flower Harry sees a set of sharp, angular teeth display themselves.

Hurriedly, Harry withdraws his hand.

"My name is Clawbane, Mr Potter," he says as he comes into the room, giving nods to Sirius and Remus. He barely even looks at Harry. The goblin approaches his desk, plucking a sheaf of paper from its surface, and he scans the page on top. "Let's see... Regent Storage, in Nottingham... Locker 24... I believe the fee is twenty pounds sterling per month, though paid in a lump sum for the year is merely one hundred. Your mother had paid up to this point, but her standing retainer has now been used, and you must renew her subscription-"

"What are you talking about?" Harry interrupts, staring down at the little man in perplexity.

"Hmm?" The goblin asks. "The subscription-"

"Subscription to what?"

"Oh, the Muggle equivalent of a vault. A storage locker."

"And this was my mother's?" Harry asks. Clawbane blinks at him, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Yes," he says, as if it's obvious. "Now, the fee-"

"Why the Hell didn't you tell me this storage locker existed when I first came to see my vault?" Harry demands.

"It's a subscription to an outside service - a Muggle one, at that. Given that at the time it required no further investment by yourself, it was not included on your statements. Now-"

"But you knew it existed."

"It's a Muggle service. It has no bearing on your Gringotts account." Harry stares at the little goblin, his mouth open, but before he can argue any more, Sirius taps him on the shoulder and just shakes his head. Harry takes his godfather's silent advice, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Would you like to renew your subscription, Mr Potter, or-"

"We'll look at the locker's contents before making a decision," Remus says, and Clawbane gives a nod of his head, paging through the booklet in his hands. Harry sighs, but he listens as Sirius begins to ask legal questions Harry doesn't understand.

---

"You want to work on your Animagus transformation?" Sirius asks, leaning on Harry's doorframe. Remus had gone to Nottingham that morning, assuring that all Harry would need to bring is a copy of his birth certificate to check against Lily's name on their files, but the storage lockers weren't open on the weekends. Harry wishes it was Monday already.

"No," Harry murmurs. "I think I'll leave the Mandrake leaf until the summer. It'll give me more time to meditate and focus anyway, without extra stress. Given the tournament and all, you know."

"Yeah," Sirius murmurs, and he comes into the room, sitting on Harry's trunk. Harry is curled in his armchair, absently playing with the puzzle toy Lindon had sent him for Christmas and not really making any progress. Sirius watches him seriously, leaning forwards with his hands awkwardly folded between his knees, and then he says, "You know what I love you, Harry?"

"Yeah, I know," Harry says, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the puzzle box and meeting Sirius' eyes. Sirius looks like he hasn't been sleeping for the past few days - his eyes are dry and slightly shadowed, and he's been missing spots when shaving in the morning. Sirius normally cultivates an artful stubble, doing his best to look on the dignified side of rugged, but there are longer whiskers in amongst his beard, on his chin and his cheeks, that look out of place.

"You could shag a goblin, and I'd support you. Hell, you can go for some sort of threesome with a centaur and a vampire, and I'll still-"

"I get the picture," Harry says. "Though I don't think Blaise has anything on a centaur." Sirius sniggers, turning his head away with a grin on his face. "I don't want to lecture you or anything, Sirius. I just think you should maybe look at what the Muggles think about this stuff, you know? Elton John's gay."

"Elton John doesn't like men," Sirius says, scoffing, and Harry has to stop himself from laughing at his godfather's conviction.

"Yeah, Sirius, he really does," Harry says. "He divorced his wife a few years ago - he's with this bloke called David Furnish."

"Publicly?"

"Yeah." Sirius stares at him as if he's grown a secondary head. "Like I said, you should look at what the Muggles think. I mean, they're not like, totally accepting, but there's even talk of gay people being able to get married one day." Sirius puts his chin on his hands, looking deeply thoughtful, his dark brows furrowed, and Harry leans back in his seat. "Not that I'm gonna marry a bloke or anything. I just don't see why it'd be such a big deal if I wanted to." Sirius leans back, pressing his lips together, and he drums his fingers on his knees.

"Do you think Remus is, uh-" Sirius leans from one side to the other. "Gay?" Harry watches Sirius' face for a few moments.

"Uh," Harry says. "Wouldn't you know better than me?" Sirius' head shoots up, and he stares at Harry with a scandalized expression on his face. "I don't mean- because you're friends, you dirty-minded dickhead."

"Oh," Sirius says, giving a slow nod of his head, and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers this. He hast the good grace to look mildly embarrassed. "Thought you were saying I'm moony over Moony." Harry groans, shaking his head. "I wouldn't have a problem with it, of course. If he was."

"Okay," Harry says. He feels out of his depth, talking about this - he knows about Muggle stuff, but he doesn't want to talk about Remus' sexuality and what it may or may not involve. In all honesty, Harry doesn't want to think about Remus or Sirius having sex, regardless of who it might be with, and especially not if it's going to be with each other. "We're going to the storage locker on Monday morning?" Sirius shifts, and then he gives a small nod of his head.

"Yeah. Yeah, kid, Monday morning. And then Thursday it's back to school." Harry breathes in, nodding his head.

"What do you think's in it?"

"I dunno," Sirius admits. "Lily never mentioned it, and nor did James. I don't know, Harry. Don't get your hopes up, okay? It might just be paperwork or something. That's probably all it is - Lily would have just paid it in advance so she didn't have to go through the palaver of paying a Muggle subscription from her Gringotts account." Harry can see Sirius isn't convinced. He fidgets slightly in his seat, looking like he's doing his best to hide his excitement. "Then again..."

"Then again?"

"Nothing," Sirius says, shaking his head. His lip twitches. "We'll find out on Monday." Harry frowns at him, furrowing his brow, but then he gives a nod of his head. It's just 'til Monday, after all - he only has to wait 'til Monday.

"Now," Remus says, and Harry walks quicker.

"Shut up," he retorts before the werewolf can say anything more. Sirius is almost running to keep up with Harry's brisk power walk and Remus' long, wolf-like lope: Harry does not care. They're taking ages, and he does not care. The key in his hand is dusty and slightly cold, and he clutches it so tightly between his fingers that the key's teeth leave little imprints in his skin.

"I'm just saying," Remus says, and he's not even out of breath, "you shouldn't get your hopes up too high. It may not-" Harry all but skids to a stop behind the faded blue of the huge, metal door. It's like a little garage, and he drops onto his knees, shoving the key into the padlock. He half expected it to be rusted and difficult to turn, but they must replace the locks whenever they're too old: this one is pretty new, after all, and definitely hasn't been there for twenty years. Closing his eyes and taking in a big lungful of air, Harry throws up the door of the storage locker. He listens to the metallic click, click, click of the door's folding frame as it slides up towards the ceiling, and grins as the locker's contents are bared to the early morning sun.

"Oh, my God," Harry says.

"Fuck," Remus says.

"Merlin's saggy ballsack," Sirius says.

The storage locker is fairly large, and around the sides of the room, neatly laid out on shelves in flowery wooden boxes are sheafs of paper, photographs and postcards, folded clothes in plastic bags, but parked in the very centre is a shining red Beetle. There's not a single speck of dust in the place, and Harry narrows his eyes as he steps over the threshold, but as soon as he does, he feels the magic in the air.

"There she is," Sirius murmurs, and he reaches out, pressing his palm to the car bonnet, just above the right headlight. He has a small smile on his face as he looks down at it, and Remus looks relieved, as if he'd been expecting something much, much worse. "I thought Lily'd given it to your aunt, you see, when she and James went out to Godric's Hollow. It never occured to me to ask."

"I thought she'd sold it," Remus admits, shrugging his shoulders, and Harry glances between them before looking back to the car. It's from the sixties, he thinks, though he doesn't know anything about cars. There are plastic decals stuck to the front of the car: little bright flowers, lilies and petunias and roses. "We didn't want to mention it." A part of Harry is annoyed, irritated that neither Sirius or Remus ever mentioned that his mum had had a car, but the rest of him is glad they didn't get his hopes up. "We didn't know about this, Harry, I promise you."

"I believe you," he says quietly. He reaches out, thumbing over the plastic sticker of a bright, white rose, and drags his finger over the shining paintjob before leaning through one of the open windows of the car. There's a key in the ignition with two keyrings on it - one is an old hippie peace sign, and the other is a pink, fuzzy dice. Harry has the feeling it wasn't his mum who bought them. The seats are fine, tan-coloured leather, and he strokes them absently before he lets himself consider the rest of the room.

The boxes are made of painted wood, decorated with painted flowers or birds or stripes, and they're kept in insane order: they each have their own part of a shelf to occupy, and have black-painted labels in numerical order on them: "Photos #1", "Winter #1", "James #1", "Mum #1", "Dad #1"... Harry walks slowly forwards, and kneels down, pulling out a box from the shelf that is marked simply as "Misc #3", and he looks inside. Ordered by colour are a stack of perfectly tied ribbons, a stack of business cards, three snowglobes and a poster folded into eight. He picks out the poster, unfolding it to look at it, and he frowns at it.

"Did Mum like Abba?" he asks. Glancing back, he sees that Sirius is sprawled over the bonnet of the Beetle, paging fondly through its manual. Remus is stood just behind Harry, his hands in his pockets and his expression solemn. He leans forwards slightly, almost teetering, and Harry says, "You can look, Remus. If she left these things, if she saved them, they weren't just for me."

"Yes," Remus says. He doesn't give any indication whether it's an answer to the question or a response to Harry's statement. He just stands there, looking down at Harry with a quietly pained expression on his face. "Everything she did was like this, you know. Her notes were in sheafs tied with ribbons and with numbers on every page, and she kept her letters in boxes just like these..." He trails off, and then continues in an impossibly quiet voice, "In these boxes, actually. They're probably here somewhere."

"She had a Filofax," Sirius says, leaning off the car and letting his head hang down. He meets Harry's gaze. "You know what that is? It's like a little wheel for addresses and stuff. All the girls used to think she was mad." Remus lets out a sort of choking sound, and Harry watches his back as he walks out of the locker, his hands in his pockets and his head down. He's so excited to look through everything in the locker, everything there is, and a car! His mum's old car!

But Remus is crying, and Harry can't help but feel guilty.

Sirius gets off the bonnet of the car, dropping the Beetle's manual on the car's front seat and sitting down on the ground beside Harry. He puts his arm around Harry's shoulder, and for a second Harry lets himself lean into the half-hug as Sirius presses a kiss to the top of his head. "She was mad, you know," he says quietly. It's so fond and so sad that it makes Harry's eyes burn for a second, until he blinks away the want to cry. "Her Mum and Dad, they got her and Petunia both cars, when Lily was 17. Both of them were secondhand, obviously, but it meant a lot to them that they could both drive themselves around. I think your aunt sold hers when she got married."

"I bet," Harry mutters. "She get a Beetle too?"

"Nah," Sirius says. "I don't remember what it was, but it was a square, more serious car. It was grey." He looks like he's thinking hard about something, and after a long pause, he says, "She used to drive us all out together. She'd usually have Remus or James in the front with her, and the rest of us would be in the back, and if one of her girlfriends came alone - say it was us lot and Marlene McKinnon, I used to have to sit in James' lap, or I'd shove myself into the seat with Marlene in the front."

Harry laughs, shaking his head, and he pushes the box back onto the shelf.

"That's so stupid," he says. "And really dangerous."

"That's what Lily used to say," Sirius replies. He pats Harry on the back, and then he stands, leaving the locker and going out, Harry guesses, to find Remus. Harry is left cross-legged on the locker floor, surrounded by neatly ordered memories, and wondering where to start first.

---

Much as Harry wishes his mother had left him some fantastic vault of wonders, or left him a special letter telling him what she'd left for him specifically, or something, the locker's contents are kind of dull. All the locker is, it seems like, is somewhere his mum decided to put things in as her and Dad had gone to Godric's Hollow. The reason it had been paid so far in advance, according to the documents Harry finds on the subject, is that his dad had actually sorted out the locker's payment, and had apparently got a bit confused about Galleon to Sterling transer rates.

There is nothing here saved specially for him.

It's contracts, documents, manuals and instructions, for the most part. There are stacks and stacks of old photographs, half of them Muggle and half of them magical, and then there are the old clothes. Harry picks out an old cardigan from one of the bags: it's a thick jacket of sailor's wool with a Nordic design knitted into it, and he finds it's only a little too big for him.

"I bought that for James the year before you were born," Remus tells him, and Harry doesn't know if he's happy or sad.

The box that excites Harry most is a box of neatly ordered diaries, but when Harry looks inside, there's no traditional daily entry telling him exactly how and why and what his mother thought about this or that. There are just doodles and idle notes, shopping lists and half-hearted stanzas. For a minute or two, he feels angry at this distant, foreign woman, Lily Potter, for getting his hopes up, and then all he feels is guilt for having been angry at the woman who loved him more than anything else.

He takes the photos home, and the clothes, and he leaves everything else. He'll get back to the rest in time.

---

For the next few days, Harry doesn't really mention the storage locker. He, Remus and Sirius work on the map of Hogwarts for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and at night, Harry goes through some of the old photographs. Most of them are Muggle ones from when his mother was a child - family photos of people Harry has never seen before, or of his mum and his aunt, or of his grandparents. A few are of his mum playing in a playground with an odd-looking kid that actually reminds Harry a lot of Snape - it makes him smile a little to think of it as he goes through the photographs.

He knows Snape is at least a half-blood, but the idea of him maybe growing up alongside Harry's own mum still makes him laugh: he still can't really think of him as a teenager, let alone as a little child. And especially not like this one. He has pale skin like Snape's, and awkward, black hair, but he's dressed in baggy grey clothes that don't fit him or the season, and he doesn't have the same posture or strength that Snape has - he's tiny and gangly at the same time, and he's ugly in a way that Snape just isn't.

The Snape-like boy in the photo reminds him of himself, before he got his Hogwarts letter.

"You ready to go back tomorrow?" Remus asks. Harry notices the way his gaze flicks down to the cardigan Harry's wearing, his father's cardigan. He nods his head, dropping the photographs back into the box beside him.

"Guess I have to be," Harry says.

"We could always take you out," Remus offers mildly. "Enroll you in some American school." Harry laughs. Remus smiles at him, looking tired, and then says, "You wanted there to be more in the locker. I'm sorry there wasn't. It wasn't- she never mentioned it to either of us, and I knew it wasn't something intended for you. It was just somewhere to put all of her Muggle things." Remus sounds so apologetic, and Harry meets his gaze as he looks up at him. Remus looks overwrought, and Harry wishes the full moon wasn't tomorrow. He wishes the full moon was decades away.

"I know," he says. "Thank you, Remus. Thanks. Where's Sirius?"

"Asleep on the sofa," Remus murmurs. "I was listening to that show on the radio, Herbologist's Hour, and he insisted he listen with me."

"How long did he last?"

"Six minutes. I timed him." Harry laughs, leaning back on his pillows. "Good night, Harry," Remus says, and he flicks out the light.

"Night, Remus," Harry replies, and he doesn't take off the cardigan when he lies down on the bed. He huddles in it, and when he breathes in, he imagines he can smell what his father smelled like - a cocoa-scented cologne, a scent of something like a stag, something vaguely fruity. It's stupid to think of, but it doesn't stop himself from pressing his nose right to the woolen fabric and going to sleep with those scents in his mind.

"Don't talk to me, Potter," Draco says bitingly as soon as Harry enters the Slytherin common room. Arching an eyebrow, Harry watches the other boy stomp from the room and down into the dormitory. Given that he had had approximately no intention of talking to Draco, he finds himself slightly amused, and he looks from Draco to Blaise and Theodore.

"He been rehearsing that?"

"It's been very theatrical," Blaise confirms dryly, nodding his head and sprawling back against Theo's thighs. Theo, to his credit, is paying absolutely no attention to the other boy. He has his head buried in a green-covered book that declares itself to be The Compleat Guide. What, exactly, it's a complete guide to, Harry cannot actually tell. In mirror image to Blaise Zabini, Winston is curled on Theodore's other side, his little face pressed under the cloth of Theodore's outer robe, and Harry's lip twitches. He slips down into the library, entering a few books Remus had given him to settle onto the shelves, and he considers lying down and having a nap.

He'd stayed awake almost all night, looking through the last of his mum's old photos, and by the time he'd remembered he was back to school tomorrow, "tomorrow" had meant "in two hours". At the very least, there are no classes today, and he can be grateful for that.

Setting down the last of the books, he elects to flee the Slytherin common room for a little bit, and he makes his way up towards the great hall. In the entrance hall, students filter in from the courtyard outside, shaking off broomsticks or dizzily regretting their mother's portkey enchantment, and under McGonagall's keen surveillance, a few students step cleanly (or clumsily) out from the temporary Floo they've made of the fireplace.

Harry catches the first year Hufflepuff that had given him a Chocolate Frog card a few months back - Beth something, his mind vaguely recalls - as she flies out of the Floo at high speed, and he raises his eyebrows in McGonagall's direction as she shakes her head and regrets this year's Hufflepuff stock. He meets another Hufflepuff upon entering the great hall, though, and he offers Cedric a grin of greeting as he takes the mirror the other boy proffers him.

"Any luck?" Harry asks, and Cedric sighs, shaking his pretty head. He could be a model, Harry thinks vaguely. Cedric Diggory is exactly the sort of man they get for Muggle cologne adverts - some sparkly bottle called Vampire or Sin or Heaven. Harry holds the mirror in his hands, feeling its weight in his hands, and he turns it over to examine it. Engraved in a swirling text on the back are the words In degrees, I show the way.

"I've tried it under all kinds of light, carried it around - took it out under the moonlight, tried putting it into the lake... There's a bathroom just for us prefects, and it's got all different kinds of bubble bath, but it didn't do anything in the bath, either. I was thinking, what kind of angle does it want me to hold it at, how should I be making it reflect things?" Harry nods his head and keeps his expression neutral; likes Cedric, honestly, but he can't help but wonder what made the other boy try to take a bath with the mirror.

"I guess I'll try everything I can, then. We've still got time." Cedric earnestly nods his head, and he pats Harry on the shoulder as he turns back to the Hufflepuffs. Harry settles at the Gryffindor table, half-heartedly joining a conversation with Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas: the two are positively animated about an upcoming Quidditch match, and it's nice to let their excitement wash over him as he thinks on the mirror.

Maybe he should put it in the fireplace?

"Bit surprised to see you showing your face in here, to be honest, Harry," Seamus says, with only a slight edge of hostility. "I kind of think your man Malfoy has got the right idea."

"What do you mean?" Harry demands, glancing suddenly up from the mirror's gilded edge, and then he sees where Seamus' finger is pointing. On the front of today's Daily Prophet, in a smooth, green text is the byline Written by Rita Skeeter. "Oh, God," Harry groans, and reluctantly pulls the paper towards him. Skeeter had apparently waited the week until everyone was back in school to publish the "article" about he and Draco fighting in the flowerbeds - it suggests hamfistedly that both them and Viktor have been seduced by the terrible Hermione Granger, and implies that Viktor is a foreign predator.

It's one of her worst articles yet, and reading it makes Harry feel just slightly sick with anxiety - how many people read this nonsense?

"Cheers for letting me know, Seamus," Harry mutters, and he holds the mirror tightly under his arm, quickly heading out of the great hall and weaving his way through the dungeons towards the common room. He takes his time, meandering through the corridors he doesn't use as often and chatting half-heartedly with the lonelier portraits, and when he comes into the common room, he finds the other Slytherin boys all sat together. Theodore has his head in a book, and Draco is firmly ignoring Harry, instead staring at a piece of parchment and not actually writing on it. Blaise is half-asleep, leaning against Crabbe's shoulder with his legs crossed over Goyle's lap. Usually, Harry is sure they'd throw him off, but it's a bit chilly in the common room, and the fire seems reluctant to start properly.

He places the mirror in his wardrobe, and he returns to the common room with a book to read and a paper bag with some of his gifts from Christmas in it.

"Narcissa- er, I mean, Mrs Malfoy, she sent me these," he says, finishing awkwardly as Draco glares at him. He picks out a small, pink box, and he takes some of the pods inside out. He heads over to the fire, and drops them in. Immediately, it roars to life, sending a beautiful wave of heat through the room that makes a lot of the Slytherins sigh with relief, but then the pods crack open in the fire, and they send out their fiery wisps.

One is a stallion that gallops and jumps through the air, and another is a shark that dives and flips above their heads: they're called Flookes, and they're a Zonko's product, Harry is pretty sure. Theodore grins as he watches the flaming figures dance through the air, and despite himself, Draco looks like he's trying to hold back a smile.

"What's this, Potter?" he demands. It lacks the icy edge he attempts to add to it. Harry looks back to him, and he sees what Draco has pulled from the paper bag. Brandishing his new weapon with hilarious authority, Draco holds the fly swat Ted Tonks had sent Harry for Christmas.

"It's for killing flies," Harry says simply, sitting on the arm of Theodore's armchair and coaxing Winston into his lap. "You swat them with the flat bit. It's a Muggle thing - I got sent it as a bit of a joke." Draco furrows his silver brow, examining the swat with an unwarranted fascination.

"What's it made of?" Draco gives it an experimental wave, and he looks so ridiculous that Harry can't help but grin at him. He's still annoyed at the other boy, obviously, is still furious with what he did, but... Draco Malfoy is such a ridiculous idiot of a boy even when he's not holding a fly swat. It's difficult to take him seriously.

"Plastic," Harry answers, and is about to go on when Draco yells, "A-ha!" and slams the swat down on the coffee table. There's a quiet crunch, and Harry arches his eyebrow. Draco pulls the swat away from the table, showing the green shell of a beetle clinging to the swat's thatched main piece. "Well done."

"I thought flies and stuff couldn't get in here?" Blaise asks tiredly, opening one eye. There are enchantments on the doors and windows, but Harry knows they're not foolproof.

"It's probably from one of the NEWT Potions people," Theodore explains, without looking up from his book. "Alyssa Harvey was chasing after a pink mouse the other night. Put it in the fire, Draco, don't just leave it there." Taking out a handkerchief, Draco cleans up the remains of the beetle from the swat and the table and drops the whole, green mess into the fire. Just as the Flookes had, the crushed beetle lets up a little ghost of green - Harry thinks, just for a second, that the smoky ghost resembles a set of spectacles.

"Did you see Skeeter's article in the Prophet?" Draco asks, glancing back from the fire. Harry nods his head. Draco waits for a few, long moments, looking at Harry's face, and then he says, "Sorry."

"Apologize to Hermione and Viktor, Draco," Harry says. "There's no point apologizing to me." When Draco holds out the swat, Harry takes it, and they both linger for a few moments, staring at each other. Harry is torn - he wants to yell at the other boy and tell him how pathetic he's been, but he knows Lucius and Narcissa have probably already done that, albeit with completely different motivations. "You want to play chess?" he asks, the words coming out more coolly than he'd intended.

"You'll lose," Draco says.

"Bet you a Galleon I won't. Bet you this fly swat that I won't." Draco smiles at him.

"Fine," he says. He and Harry both know that Harry's going to bed a Galleon poorer and minus a fly swat, but in all honesty, that's sort of the point.

Harry gives a short, half-hissed sound as he fishes the mirror out of the fire. His thumb isn't quite burned, but it's a little too hot to be entirely comfortable, and he catches the mirror in the side of his robe, holding it within the safe glove the fabric creates. He carries it back to the Gryffindor table, setting it down, and he frowns at it. It steams just slightly in the air, and he frowns at it, tilting his head just to the side.

"And how did that go?" George asks dryly, glancing up from his toast and his copy of the Owl Gazette. He's wearing someone else's glasses, and Harry's made mildly uncomfortable by how different it makes his face look - suddenly, George resembles Percy in studious regard and stature, and it is... Incredibly wrong. Fred isn't anywhere to be seen, and it's early in the morning; neither Hermione nor Draco have made their way into the great hall yet.

"Take those off," Harry says, and George puts them on the top of his head. "What are they?" 

"Study specs, something I'm playing with." George passes them over, and Harry takes them, momentarily hanging his own glasses in the collar of his robe as he slides them onto his nose. He has to squint to read the words in the Gazette, focusing exactly on the blurry lines of text, but once he does, he sees the way words are highlighted. Adverbs, nouns, adjectives, and underlined in red is a misprint in the text - one of the reporters had misspelled the word "commitment" as "comittment". "What do you think? Seems a bit better than spell-checking quills to me."

Harry nods his head, passing them back and sliding his own glasses back onto his nose, and George puts them back on, looking down at the page.

"I hate glasses on you," Harry says. "It's weird." George laughs. He leans back in his seat, putting the tip of his quill against the corner of his mouth, and he gives Harry a seductive wink. Harry kicks the bench out from under him, and he lets George drop onto the floor, laughing even more - laughing his head off, in fact. "It is." George pulls himself up off the ground, dragging the bench up with him, and he grins at Harry, pulling the glasses off and making a few adjustments to them with a little screwdriver. 

"You got a thing for glasses, Harry, my lad?" he asks lightly, and Harry rolls his eyes. 

"Yeah," Harry answers. "It's a thing called short-sightedness." He turns back to the mirror, letting the tip of his finger brush tenderly over the edge of the mirror's gilded edge. It's warm to the touch, but it isn't actually too hot anymore. Picking the mirror up, he examines it, turning it over between his hands, and then says, "It didn't go well." George nods his head seriously, giving the mirror a suspicious glance, but he doesn't say anything more. Harry sets the mirror aside and settles beside the other boy, taking a slice of toast for himself and taking a bite.

"Surely you're not giving up?" George asks mockingly as he replaces the specs.

"For this morning, anyway," Harry mutters, and he pages absently through his Potions textbook. "I've Snape first thing."

"Oh, good for you," George says. "Maybe he'll give you a hand, be nice and helpful, like." Harry sniggers, and he gives Fred a wave as he comes in.

"Oh, looking good, dear brother!" Fred proclaims, and he reaches immediately for the spectacles, plucking them off George's face and putting them on his own. Somehow, Fred looks even worse than George had with them on, and Harry winces visibly. "What, think you've got the monopoly on glasses, Potter?"

"They make you look like Percy," Harry says. Letting out a quiet shriek of horror, Fred tears the glasses off and drops them onto a plate of bacon. George shakes his head, muttering something about being the superior twin, and takes them back. Fred grins at George, waggling his eyebrows at his brother, and plucks pages six and seven out from between the pages of the Owl Gazette that George is reading - the sports section. "How's Hermione reacted to Draco the past week or so?" Fred glances up from the Holyhead Harpies' Quidditch score, twists his mouth, and then bows his head again.

"Being a bit too nice for my liking," Fred says. "She should whack him around the head whenever she sees him."

"She's been alright with him," George says, with the same irritation as Fred. "You'd think she'd be a bit smarter with him." Harry doesn't miss the way Fred and George meet each other's gaze for a half-second, and he just follows the momentary quirk of Fred's lip and the downturn of George's - they can tease each other without even breathing. "I'm just saying, she deserves a lot better than that little bastard's company."

"As do you, obviously," Fred says lightly, with a nod in Harry's direction.

"As do you," George agrees, albeit as an afterthought. "Little sod's only going to get worse, you know. His father-"

"Oh, shut up about his father," Hermione says, dropping heavily into the seat between Harry and George and reaching for a kipper. "All of us have met him, so there's no point repeating something Arthur's said about him." George blinks stupidly at Hermione as Fred and Harry share a concerned glance; there are slightly dark bags under Hermione's eyes, and her hair is a little more frazzled than usual. "He's just a stupid little boy, George. Just don't think about him."

"You alright, Hermione?" Fred asks, a note of genuine concern in his voice. 

"Mmm," Hermione hums, and refuses to say anything more as she begins to eat her breakfast. Harry lets the matter drop until they're walking down to the dungeons together a half hour later. "I was up all night. I kept thinking about that article Skeeter wrote. What she said about Viktor- God, I can't believe it's legal!" Harry listens as Hermione talks animatedly and furiously about what Skeeter had written about Viktor further into the paper - Harry had only scanned the front page, but within she'd continued with accusations as to his heritage (she'd insinuated both vampire and harpy) and his assumed infidelity. "If it were a Muggle newspaper, we could sue her for libel!"

"If it were a Muggle newspaper, she'd be out of a job," Harry agrees, and Hermione lets out a vicious "Ha!" of sound. As they come towards the door of the Potions classroom, she glances at Harry, her lips pressed together. "What?"

"Nothing," Hermione says, slightly too fast. "Just- you will be careful, won't you, Harry? You and-" She drops into a whisper. "You and Blaise. If she found out anything about it- What she knew about me and Viktor... It was like she was there, but we didn't see her." Harry nods his head putting his hands into his pockets as he shifts his bag on his shoulder.

"Yeah, I will be," he assents, and the two of them walk into Potions together.

 ---

"Longbottom," Snape says sharply from the corner of the room, where he'd been examining the contents of Crabbe and Goyle's shared cauldron. Harry watches Neville's shoulders suddenly stiffen, but it had been too late anyway - Harry sees the silvery steam coming out of Neville's cauldron, and the whole classroom smells like lemons. "Stop, and get out. Potter, ensure Longbottom's new poison does not kill us all."

"Yes, sir," Harry says as Neville walks out of the room with his shoulders hunkered down and his gaze on the ground. He lifts the cauldron off the burner, setting it gently down on the desk. The lemon scent gets even stronger, and Harry breathes through the fabric of his sleeve as it starts to become painful. "Professor, didn't you tell us to use lead-lined cauldrons, and not the iron ones?" 

Snape stares at him from across the room, his nostrils flaring, and then says, delicately, "Retrieve your belongings and get out, all of you."

"That's grand, Neville," Seamus Finnegan says as they evacuate the classroom, clapping the other boy on the back as Ron laughs. "No more Potions for today!" Neville looks utterly miserable, and Seamus says brightly, "Oh, cheer up. You could've killed us all, and it turns out we're all going to survive!"

"That is true," Dean agrees magnanimously, and to his and Seamus' credit, Neville does seem a little cheered by their kind words: it's only now that Harry realizes there's blood on his face. Harry exhales, coughing slightly and rubbing at his nose.

"Oh, God," Hermione says. "Your nose is bleeding."

"Yours too," Harry says, holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose and holding another one out to her. Neville looks ready to cry, and Harry says, "It's alright, Neville. Could have been much worse." 

"Okay," Hermione says, "Neville, Harry, Ron... Oh, God, probably you too, Theodore, Blaise... We should all go to the hospital wing." Theodore's left cheek has a single, bloody tear running down it, and he looks entirely uncaring of the fact. Neville actually looks the worst, blood on his lips and one of his eyelashes dark with blood. "Neville, why didn't you say?"

"I was hoping he wouldn't notice," Neville says, and Harry pats him on the back. 

"Okay," Theodore says, standing straight. "Injured Slytherins, with me, Gryffindors with Granger."

"Nice alliterative phrasing," Hermione says.

"Thanks," Theodore replies cleanly. Harry is embarrassed for both of them. As everyone heads towards the hospital wing, Harry glances at his bag, and then swears. The mirror is still inside the classroom.

He knocks on the door, and Snape opens it, stepping from within a Bubble Charm that comes right to the edge of classroom. Snape has a Bubblehead Charm around him too, and with a gloved hand, he holds the mirror. 

"I won't be returning this to you until it is appropriately clean," Snape says quietly. "Despite Longbottom's ardent attempts to murder us all, I have no wish to distribute the poison within the Slytherin dormitories." The mirror has Neville's failed potion clinging to it, and it frosts over the mirrored glass. 

Harry stares at it. 

Within the mirror, on the other side of the glass, Harry can see a wall of icy bricks. Instead of his own reflection, he sees the shifting corridors of a maze built of frost and snow. 

"Indeed," Snape says, with an air of satisfaction, as if it was him that figured out the mirror's secrets. "It will be returned to you forthwith. Go to the hospital wing."

"Yes, sir," Harry says, and he coughs bloodily into his sleeve as he rushes to catch up with the rest of the class. 

"Okay, look at this," Harry says as he leans back, having cast a frosty spell over the surface of the mirror. The gilded mirror cakes with frost and ice, and Cedric wears the knitted gloves Harry had passed him to examine it.

He holds the mirror aloft in front of him, squinting slightly as he looks through the lens of the mirrored glass, and as he looks within it he tilts it and turns slightly on his feet, looking through the mirror to see the bricks of the castle inside.

"It looks like a maze," Harry says, his hands in his pockets as he looks up at the older boy. Cedric nods his head, his lips pressed together and his expression serious.

The castle is built of icy bricks, and the mirror acts as a kind of lens to look inside; tilting the mirror back makes it zoom out as if using a telescope, and as soon as it's zoomed out as far as possible, one can see the shape of the castle built out on the lake. Right at the top of the icy structure is a small tower, and placed on staffs are three flags, each with the emblem of one of the Triwizard schools emblazoned on it.

"So we have to go through the maze in the castle on the lake and find the flag?" Cedric asks, and then he nods his head. "This looks tough. You've played with this for longer than me - does it show you anything inside?"

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "But I doubt we're going to be alone in there." Cedric nods his head seriously, and he puts the mirror down by his side, holding it against his hip.

"We should start studying monsters," Cedric says quietly. "While I doubt they're going to pack a Swedish Short-Snout into that maze, they'll probably put a lot of smaller monsters in there. Red caps, hinkypunks, Boggarts... And those are just the smallest things." Harry nods his head, but before he can turn to head away, Cedric catches him by the shoulder.

"Cedric?" Cedric's expression is quietly serious, and his thumb rubs a gentle circle against Harry's shoulder.

"No one else is going to tell you this," he says, "because this isn't school work. But you did a great job, Harry. You're doing way better at this than anyone could have expected, you know? We're going to win this, and it's going to be as much your win as mine, you know that?" Harry smiles up at the other boy - he's heard Hufflepuffs talking about how important it is to praise each other, but he's never been the recipient.

"Thanks," Harry says, unsure what else to say, and Cedric pats him on the back before he finally walks away.

---

"Oh, Hufflepuffs," Andromeda says, twisting her mouth and looking disapproving. "They're an odd bunch, aren't they?" Harry sits beside her out on the grass, holding a mug of cocoa in his hands. It's a cool Friday evening, but Dromeda had, completely unexpectedly, withdrawn a picnic blanket woven with a heating charm from her handbag after suggesting sitting down outside. "How are you feeling about it, Harry? The second task?"

"I'm feeling okay, I guess," Harry says, sitting cross-legged in his place; sweet heat rises up from the blanket beneath him, and he can't help but bask in it a little. Dromeda is wearing a light green robe with ribbons artfully tied all around the neck, and she doesn't seem to feel the cold at all. "I'm reasonably hopeful I won't die." Dromeda sniggers.

"That's always good," she says lightly. She takes a sip from her tea as she looks out over the lake, her heavily lidded eyes half closed. Harry can't help but feel slightly glad she's not wearing her healer's uniform - the lime-green hue of healers' robes is ugly enough, but mostly it's come to fill him with a sense of dread. Harry's never liked doctors all that much, and now that he's well-settled in the wizarding world, healers fill him with a similar anxiety.

"Was Snape glad you came in to see him?"

"I didn't come to see him," Dromeda scoffs, almost convincingly. "I brought in potions from St Mungo's for Poppy Pomfrey."

"No, you didn't," Harry says. "Snape brews all the potions here. Lucius praised it during the summer as a cost-saving measure and an assurance of quality."

"That smug bastard," Dromeda says, and Harry laughs. "Alright, I was in for a chat with him - I'm playing with a new potion for acne and wanted his input. You clever little twat." She says, half-irritably and half-affectionately, and Harry smiles at her. "You been using that fly swat?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Draco thinks it's incredible." He takes another sip of his cocoa, and then says, "How do you think the second task is going to go? You didn't say."

Dromeda looks at him sideways, studying his face for a few long seconds. She reaches out, patting the side of Harry's face with one of her well-manicured thumbs, and then she leans away again, drinking her coffee with a grim determination. "YCou'll be fine," she says firmly, as if it's an order. "I'm telling you, Harry, you're not to die until at least the third task. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry replies quietly, trying not to smile. Despite the joke, Dromeda looks more anxious than Harry has ever seen her, and he feels bad for her. He knows from her letters that she gets anxious at the slightest of things, let alone at things like this, where someone might actually die. Casting his mind out for something else to discuss, he says, "Have you heard anything from Ludo Bagman recently? Or about him?"

"Ludo Bagman?" Dromeda repeats, and she glances at Harry slightly suspiciously. "Why, has he been offering you things for your place in the Tournament? He's terrible for bets."

"No, nothing like that," Harry assures her. "No, it's- he actually owes money to Fred and George. A Hell of a lot of money, actually, from the World Cup. I was actually wondering in case someone'd brought him into St Mungo's - he won't answer any of their letters." Dromeda sets her mug down on the blanket beside her, folding her hands over her knees as she looks towards the forest, setting her jaw. "Given the gambling..."

"People have brought him in before, beat up one way or another," Andromeda agrees, giving a small nod of her head. "You weren't wrong to guess. We haven't seen him in a while, though. Mundungus Fletcher keeps complaining that he has new friends. He keeps hanging about that goblin bookies around the corner from Flockhart's Locks."

Harry glances at her, and then asks, very slowly, "Goblins? Ludo Bagman's friends with some goblins?" Dromeda nods her head, clucking her tongue and looking disapproving. "Drom?"

"Yes, love?"

"The betting shop - do they have their own ink? Their own special ink, I mean?"

"Oh, of course," Drom says. "Goblin-made stuff - can't have people enchanting their lotto sheets after they've made their bets, can you? Harry?" Drom calls after him as he scrambles up the hill, running as fast as he can, but Harry doesn't pay her any more attention - he wants to tell people about this as soon as he can.

"- so I think Ludo Bagman entered me into the Triwizard Tournament with some goblins in order to make back his debt to them." Harry has been talking for five minutes straight, and Snape has not yet looked up from the essays he is marking on his desk. "Are you listening?"

"Of course," Snape says dryly. Marking an essay with a red-inked P, he sets it aside and begins to read through the next. His posture is perfect except for the slight crane of his neck, allowing his black eyes to flit over each line of untidy, scrawled text. "Are you quite finished?"

"Yes, sir," Harry says, a bit more irritably than he'd intended, and Snape arches a dark eyebrow at him. "Aren't you going to do anything?"

"What is it, Potter, that you recommend I do?" Snape asks cleanly. His quill dips into the pot and spatters criticisms like blood across the parchment; not a single drop of the stuff ever dares to drip onto his white sleeves.

"Well- well, get me out of the Tournament!"

"The Tournament's contract is magically binding. It does not care if Ludo Bagman entered you."

"Arrest Bagman!"

"Of course. Bring me my Auror's uniform and my training papers."

"Kick Bagman out of the Ministry!"

"Am I to be appointed Minister for Magic, or ought I merely use the authority of Harry Potter to remove him from his position?" Snape spits out Harry's name like it's written in venom, and Harry glares at him, his arms crossed over his chest. Finally, Snape glances up from the essays he is marking, and he meets Harry's gaze, his lips a thin, pale line. "Potter, if you wish to open an official line of enquiry, contact the Auror office and make a statement. If you wish for Mr Bagman to lose his position, make a complaint. If you wish to exit the binds of the Tournament..." Snape trails off, thoughtfully. "I suppose one might approach an artful suicide."

"This the most you've ever spoken to me in one go, and it's to tell me to kill myself," Harry says, and for some reason, he finds it funny. Snape stares at him so icily that Harry's mouth freezes mid-chuckle. "I wish you'd do something."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, care that people keep trying to murder me?"

"If Mr Bagman has wagered money on you, Potter, he is doing the opposite of trying to murder you. Call the Aurors and-"

"If I call the Aurors and goblins get arrested, then won't the rest of them try to actually kill me?" Snape glances up from the essays he's marking, seeming pleasantly surprised. His mouth is quirked into something that is almost a smile.

"Very good, Potter. You're thinking!" Snape gives a singular, sarcastic clap of his sallow hands. Harry sighs, leaning against the doorframe and pressing his forehead against the cool, dark wood. After a short pause, his eyes closed, he hears the quiet scratch of Snape's quill on parchment.

"So I don't call the Aurors. And I don't lodge a complaint. Not yet. But once the Tournament is over and the goblins don't need him...?" The only response to what he says in an overwhelming silence; Harry opens one eye, and looks at Snape. The other man isn't so much as glancing at him. "Okay. So I win the Tournament." He looks at Snape.

Snape is staring at him, locking eyes with Harry, and Harry stares back. Harry frowns, furrowing his brow slightly, and then he realizes. "Except that he might be betting on something other than me. He-" Harry takes in a small breath. "Bagman owes the Weasley twins money - they bet at the Quidditch World Cup that Ireland would win but that Krum would catch the Snitch. What if Bagman bet that Hogwarts would win, but that one of us would die?"

Snape's expression doesn't change. He doesn't even twitch.

"What if it's me?" Harry feels his blood run cold, and asks in a whisper, more to himself than to Snape, "What if he's bet on Cedric dying?"

"It would seem you have a lot to think about," Snape says delicately. The "Get out!" is silent, but Harry hears it, and he goes.

---

"Did he give you any advice?" Hermione asks. "Professor Snape?"

"He never does," Harry mutters, and he presses himself as far into the beanbag George had retrieved from somewhere or other and placed in the office of WWW, safely ensconced in the ground floor of the Astronomy tower. More comfortable furniture and an old, thick rug had been brought back with the twins after they'd gone home for a weekend in the holidays, and there's no longer the problem of pervading chilliness as Hermione does the accounts. "What do you think I should do?"

"I don't know," Hermione says. She leans back in a battered armchair, a book of accounts held loosely in her lap, and she watches him. "But if he's betting on one of you dying, how do you know it's not for this task? How do you know how he's going to do it, or when? And- Harry, I don't mean to make light of it, but how is Bagman going to kill you if the actual tasks fail to? How would he be able to kill you, or kill Cedric, without it being obvious?"

"I don't know," Harry says. There's a long, drawn-out pause between them, and Harry asks, "Will you help me look at creatures for the castle, the maze?" Hermione nods her head in assent, blinking her brown eyes slowly.

"Harry," she murmurs, "Let's start with something else. Let's-" She grins at him, puts her resized, straight teeth on show. "Let's do riddles."

"Riddles?"

"You don't think there'll be at least one sphinx in there?" Harry grins, and then he nods his head, leaning forwards and meeting Hermione's gaze. They go through riddles for a while, and when Hermione goes to study in the library, Harry lingers in the safety and comfort of their little office, and he naps for a time.

That is, of course, until Fred and George come in.

---

"Yes, Alastor. Yes, sir. Yes, thanks. No, I don't want you to- Yeah. Yeah, exactly. Thank you, Alastor. This is really good of you and Tonks. No, sir, I won't. Uh- Okay... Yeah. Um, no, I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Alastor, bye." Harry pulls away from the Floo where he'd been kneeling, and he tosses his head, shaking the soot out of his hair.

"What was that last bit?" George asks. He and Fred had managed to convince Arthur to hook the Floo up for the night and had given him the powder as soon as they'd come in. Harry pulls a face and shakes his head slightly.

"He said that Ludo had an old injury on his thigh, and that worst case scenario, I should- I should "pinch and twist"." Harry wrinkles his nose as he says it, and he hears George make a small, gagging noise.

"That sounds like Moody," Fred says, with some affection. Fred isn't any more comfortable with Mad-Eye Moody than Harry is, but he seems to genuinely like the terrifying old freak. "That's just the right combination of well-meaning care and horrific violence. But he and Tonks are going to keep an eye on him?"

"Yeah," Harry says with a nod of his head. "I mean, I'm hoping it's mostly Kingsley and Tonks, to be honest. I'd rather Moody not kill Bagman or get him eaten by a bin or something before I know exactly what he wants to do."

"Bastard," George says, curling his lip. He reaches out, patting Harry on the shoulder, and then he pulls Harry into a half hug, ruffling his hair. "You're going to be fine."

"People keep telling me that," Harry says. "It's not all that comforting." Fred reaches out, grasping Harry's right hand between two of his own and clutching it a few inches away from his own chin.

"Harry," Fred says in a tender whisper. "You are almost definitely going to die."

"A mirror!" Harry says suddenly, and Cedric lets out the most dignified cheer a man possibly can with his mouth full of half-chewed toast, throwing his hands in the air in a victory pose. Harry grins, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice, and he leans back in his seat. "You think we're prepared?"

"We're prepared for a Sphinx, Harry, I know that," Cedric assures him, giving a nod of his head, and when he laughs he shakes himself, sweeping crumbs from the front of his robes. Harry has actually enjoyed this - over breakfast now they've merely been exchanging one riddle after another, each trying to stump the other, but Harry is pleased with how they've done thus far. The training in defence has almost been easier than the riddles; he and Cedric have played with new defensive spells and engaged in casual duels, doing their best to improve their reflexes, and now that the Second Task looms over them, mere minutes away, Harry feels well-prepared.

The nerves coiled in his stomach are nothing compared to the excitement he feels, making him jittery and making it difficult for him to possibly keep still. He feels ready for the task, and more than that, he wants it to come. He wants to get into it, wants to feel the blood rushing in his ears as he and Cedric move through the maze that the ice castle will be. Harry feels like he's had something good to work for for the first time in ages, and he can't wait to get going with it.

"You think we'll win?" Cedric asks, beaming, and Harry gives a stout nod of his head.

"Undoubtedly!" He and Cedric sit at the Hufflepuff table with a few defense texts scattered on the table surface between them, but they've not paged through a single one thus far, instead focusing on riddles and the like. Harry's just so certain there'll be a Sphinx in the castle, for no reason at all, and he's excited to face it, to face everything that comes up! Harry glances at Cedric's face for a moment as the other boy pulls his watch out of his pocket and takes a glance at it. It's old and he can see it's used, but the gold is well-polished and of very high quality, as is tradition for a young wizard of age. For a long few seconds, Harry wonders if he should share what he and the others had figured out about Bagman and the goblins.

Harry's had nearly a month to tell Cedric about it, but each time he'd considered it he'd held off.

Cedric, raised by a straightforward man like Amos Diggory and surrounded by Hufflepuffs all the time, is just too moral, and too trusting, Harry's pretty certain. What if he goes to the Ministry, to the Aurors, too soon? What if he gets killed as a result?

But then, what if Bagman wants him dead for the competition?

Harry drums his fingers on the underside of the table, tapping his foot on the ground. He doesn't like not telling Cedric something that might well affect him heavily, but nor does he want Cedric to fuck things up worse than they already are by being a good Hufflepuff and trusting the Ministry to do something well.

"You okay there, Harry?" Cedric asks, and Harry nods his head, standing and adjusting his robes. The great hall, which is crowded with people hurriedly eating their breakfast, goes abruptly quiet, and Harry feels hundreds of eyes on the back of his neck as he and Cedric begin to move towards the door. Then, he hears a loud whoop from the Gryffindor table, recognizing the loud voice of Seamus Finnegan, and a cheer goes up from all of the Hogwarts students. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang lingerers seem startled by the sudden noise, and Harry and Cedric grin and wave at the others as they jog out of the entrance hall, through the courtyard and down towards the lake.

The benches from the stadium have been moved to stand around the lake edges, but even with the huge walls the colosseum creates, Harry can see the silvery spire of the castle with its brightly coloured flags hanging from around the crenellations. Harry and Cedric share a grin, and then they duck into the blue tent opened out on the frost-covered grass. Fleur and Viktor are already present, settled in seats: Fleur is straight-backed with one pretty leg delicately crossed over the other, and Viktor is slouched in a chair, absently playing with a piece of loose thread on the sleeve of his robe.

"Everybody ready?" Ludo Bagman asks delightedly, clapping his fat hands together. Bagman is met with stony silence from Krum, Fleur and Harry (though perhaps not for the same reasons), and an awkward tension from Cedric. He glances between them, shifting from one of his feet to the other, and then he coughs and holds out a bag. "You'll just pick out your flag to see who goes first. Rita Skeeter was meant to be here getting your pictures taken as you went, but her photographer says she's gone missing."

"Quel dommage," Fleur says in an icily sarcastic tone, and Harry stifles his laugh as she leans forwards and reaches into the bag. First comes out a dark flag with the Durmstrang crest on it, and then Beauxbatons, and then Hogwarts. Each champion is to run through the maze individually (or dually) and complete it as fast as possible: the task is finished when the champions have their hands on the flags. Bagman stresses that the flag must be grasped by Harry and Cedric at exactly the same time, so Harry suspects immediately that the flags are enchanted to be portkeys - they'll probably magic the champions down to the judges' table to get their scores.

"So," Fleur says, giving Viktor a short wave as he makes his way out of the tent, rolling his odd, round shoulders and making them crack slightly as he straightens his neck. "From now, we wait." Bagman, thankfully, makes his way out to the colosseum to watch the tasks, leaving a lower Ministry official at the tent to usher them out as Krum finishes. The three of them wait for what seems like forever, and Fleur's pretty face is pale with quiet anxiety as she waits in her seat.

Despite the energy he and Cedric had shared that morning, Harry doesn't feel any interest at all in making conversation. He sits in mostly silence, running defensive spell after defensive spell through his mind, remembering the crucial jinxes, curses and countercurses, spells and charms and enchantments that might just come in useful. He feels ready, but a part of him resents how little time he's had to study in comparison with Cedric, but it's nothing for him to think about now.

Now, he has to think about winning.

"Good luck, Fleur," Cedric says as she stands to go: his smile is so warm and the words so genuine that Fleur doesn't even bother to apply some witty response. She merely smiles weakly, gives the smallest of nods, and flows from the tent in the graceful way she moves anywhere. As the young Ministry man opens the tent entrance to allow Fleur outside, Harry hears a fragment of speech from a speaker using the Sonorus Charm, but he only hears the barest snatch of sound before it's cut off by the closing of the tent flap.

Harry and Cedric share looks as the silence fills the tint again, but they don't break it. They sit in the quiet until the Ministry man says, "And you, lads. Good luck."

Drawing their wands, Harry and Cedric walk out of the tent. A walkway has been set up leading into the colosseum around the lake, and the two of them walk under a wooden archway and out to the beach around the lapping waters.

Suspended at the edge of the lake is the great vessel of the Durmstrang ship, its black sails tattered and moving in the breeze and its great, dark hull barely brushing the water's surface. The rest of the lake is completely dominated by the great, silver-blue structure, crafted of icy blue brick and almost as high as Hogwarts itself, though not nearly as sprawling and wide-reaching. Hundreds upon hundreds of people are seated in the benches in the colosseum around the lake, and Harry is conscious of them in a way he never was with the first task.

But how will they see them?

The announcer - a fat little man with a green bowler hat obviously modelling his style after Cornelius Fudge - has a Sonorus charm on against his throat, and although his voice is loud and echoing across the flat surface of the water and towards the icy castle, Harry doesn't really hear him. He and Cedric share a glance, and they walk down towards the little dock on the lake.

A wooden bridge has been laid out between the dock and the castle entrance, and Harry and Cedric stand together with their backs straight, facing Ludo Bagman and Amelia Bones. Bones' hair is slightly damp, and she looks to be in ill-humour, but Bagman is predictably in very good spirits. "Okay!" he says, clapping his hands together and rolling his shoulders. He reminds Harry of the bulldog bobblehead his Uncle Vernon had received a few years back as a reward from his insurance company. "Now, lads, you'll be going into the castle. It's almost like a maze! The plan is to get up to the tower on top and retrieve your flag! It's very important that the two of you grab it at the same time!"

Harry feels the slightest inkling of relief - if both of them have to grab it at the same time, it's probably a portkey or something, and it can't affect one of them and not the other. Whatever Bagman has planned with the goblins, it must be planned for the third task. At least, he hopes.

"Your audience can see you through the walls of the castle, but you can't see them - no cheating, now!"

"How are we supposed to cheat?" Harry asks dryly. Bagman laughs, nervously.

"Well then!" he says, clapping his hands together again, a little more nervously this time. Harry narrows his eyes as he looks at him, but before he can say anything to Bagman, Amelia breaks in.

"There'll be a count in a few moments. When you see sparks shoot from our wands, you may begin," Amelia says cleanly, and Harry doesn't think he imagines the way her lip curls when she glances at Bagman and ushers him towards the panel of judges waiting on the shore.

Cedric and Harry stand together in the middle of the bridge where a starting line has been drawn in chalk. Already, staring forwards at the closed, icy doors of the castle, Harry's trying to think of the best way through.

"We should have Summoned our brooms," Harry whispers. "We could fly right up to the tower like that. Thirty seconds, fifty points."

"We wouldn't get fifty points," Cedric says, giving Harry a little grin. "Karkaroff would give us eight points at most." Harry sniggers. Behind them, Harry hears a loud bang and the sound of sparks, and Harry and Cedric bolt forwards.

"Bombarda!" Harry yells, flicking his wand hand forwards without stopping the pound of his sensible dragonhide boots on the bridge beneath them, and the ice shatters like thick glass, cracking in place, but the doors don't come apart.

"Incendio," Cedric says, making a circular shift of his wrist Harry hasn't seen before: as a flaming umbrella spans wide from Cedric's wand like a Bubblehead Charm, Harry feels the heat of it on his face as the ice melts at speed, leaving a heavy, rushing puddle around Cedric and Harry's feet. It runs off the edges of the bridge, and Harry distantly hears it dripping into the lake below.

Inside, the castle is brightly lit, cold winter sunshine coming in through the glassy walls: Harry and Cedric share a glance before the two of them step inside. Their boots make quiet, echoing clatters on the cold, ice floors, and the chill of the castle's corridors hits Harry hard as he steps over the threshold. He wishes he'd worn his cloak as well as his robes, but it's too late now, and he and Cedric move forwards and through the entrance hall of the castle. They both creep forwards with their wands held up in front of them, and neither of them bother, as they thought they'd have to, to cast Lumos.

For the longest time, they walk as speedily as they can, shoulder to shoulder, through the halls of the castle, each of them scanning the icy walls, but nothing seems to jump out at them. Nothing at all.

It's when they approach a huge, sprawling staircase that something finally happens: he and Cedric step up together, shifting their soles on the too-smooth surface of the ice, when from the top of the stairs comes a mighty roar. The thing is huge, sandy-coloured with a great red mane, and with a scorpion's tail towering over its head. Harry stares, mouth open wide, as the Manticore rumbles down the stairs towards them; Harry swings back his wand and yells, "Bombarda!" as he throws it forwards again. It hits the Manticore in its light-skinned, human face, and the thing lets out a surprisingly high-pitched scream.

It wriggles in the air, twisting and changing its shape as it spins and struggles, and it screams out even louder.

Cedric, pale-faced, whispers, "It's a Boggart." And then, louder, "It's a Boggart." He raises his wand to cast at it, but the thing scrabbles away, throwing itself out of a thin window with a loud smash.

"Are you scared of Manticores?" Harry asks, trying not to smirk. Cedric, in the gentlest fashion possible, cuffs Harry upside the head - Harry barely feels it. Cedric's cuff hasn't got anything on Snape's, or any of the Slytherin upperclassmen's. He feels more like he's been smacked by a bag of feathers than by a badger.

"Come on, Harry," Cedric says. "Let's get going." After that, it's one thing after another - birds spitting acid throw themselves at Harry in a cloud of green and black, and Cedric spells them into flames; they fight off a little crowd of Red Caps that descend from one of the ceilings; worst of all, when walking down a long corridor several floors up, the ground drops out from beneath Harry and he hits a dark pool of freezing water. He struggles in the sudden, even worse chill, fighting off the sudden, grey hands on him and casting spells through mouthfuls of water, repelling Grindylows as far away as he can manage.

"You alright, Harry?" Cedric says sharply when he finally pulls Harry up out of the water, gasping for breath, and Harry nods his head, kicking a Grindylow in the chin and hearing its neck crack as he drags himself up onto the corridor floor again. He mutters a thank you when Cedric spells him dry, and the two of them keep on moving.

"I think that's the tower," Harry says, pointing to a spiral staircase, and Cedric nods his head. They move forwards, ready to make their way upwards-

And that is when the Sphinx appears.

It saunters into their path and sits directly before the staircase, leaning back on its haunches and watching him and Cedric with an expectant expression. Harry grins, glancing at Cedric, and they both step forwards.

"Well," Harry says, putting his hands on his hips. Immediately, he realizes how ridiculous he must look, and puts them at his sides again. "Have you got a riddle for us, Ma'am?"

"We've been studying up," Cedric says earnestly. The Sphinx glances between them, arches an eyebrow, and then yawns. It has an awful lot of teeth.

"No," the Sphinx says airily. Harry is stopped short, and he stares at it, tilting his head.

"Eh?" Cedric says. For a second, he sounds just like a boy from Devon. "I mean- er- I don't understand. You don't want us to answer a riddle?"

"No," the Sphinx says again, simply. "Tell me a joke."

"What?" Harry demands. "What do you mean?"

"Make me laugh," the Sphinx says, drawing out the sound of the word between its teeth, and Harry turns, slowly, to look at Cedric. Cedric's expression is completely perplexed. "I've told enough riddles today."

"Why don't you just tell us one you told earlier?" Cedric asks. "Please."

"No," it says. "I'm bored of riddles. Tell me a joke."

"I don't know any jokes," Cedric whispers.

"Nor do I," Harry says. It's a lie. The problem is that all of the jokes coming to mind are... Well. They're exactly the kinds of jokes that get told in the Slytherin common room. The Sphinx stares out, resolutely, and it sets its great jaw. "Er- well. Okay. So- so this man, a blind man, walks into a pub. And he's having his drink, and he asks if anyone wants to hear a Hufflepuff joke." Harry hears Cedric's head whip to the side more than he sees it. "And the barman says, "Sir, I won't lie to you, but I'm a Hufflepuff, there's a Hufflepuff scarf over the fireplace, and there's a good twelve other Hufflepuffs here in the bar with you. You might want to rethink that." And, after a pause, the blind man says, "Oh, aye, I won't bother then. Not if I'm going to have to explain it that many times.""

"Oi!" Cedric says. "Right, Madam, um- Why do Slytherins always cross the road twice? Because they're doublecrossers!"

"Right!" Harry snaps. "What do you call a Hufflepuff with one braincell? Lucky!" Cedric curls his lip. "What do you call a Hufflepuff with two braincells? Pregnant!" Cedric is stiff as a board, his hands clenched at his sides, but before he and Harry can begin arguing, the Sphinx breaks in.

"What," it asks quietly, and with a light curiosity, "is a Hufflepuff?" Harry presses his lips together.

"It doesn't matter," Cedric says. "Or the Slytherin thing, actually. Um- I don't... Do you know any jokes that aren't...?" Harry shakes his head slowly, and then Cedric suddenly jumps.

"Oh, oh, Ma'am! Okay, so, how does a train eat?" The Sphinx stares at Cedric. "Do you- sorry, do you know-"

"I know what a train is," the Sphinx says archly.

"It goes- Chew chew!" Cedric all but whistles the words. There's a short pause, and then, the Sphinx lets out a quiet snort of laughter. With that, it saunters past them, and allows them the space to get up the stairs, and Cedric and Harry run forwards as one.

---

"Grand score of 44!" Hagrid says, clapping his hands together as Harry and Hermione troop down towards his hut. Harry's shoulders are down, his hands in his pockets, and he stares down at the dew-stained grass. Cedric and Harry, upon being given their scores, had walked in completely opposite directions. Who ever bloody heard of a Sphinx wanting to hear jokes anyway? "Well done, Harry! Well done!" Harry mutters a half-hearted "Cheers," and he steps into Hagrid's little garden when Hermione pushes open the gate for him.

"Where the chickens, Hagrid?" Hermione asks. Hagrid tuts, making a face as he opens up the door, giving Fang a rough scratch behind the ears.

"They're dead," he says. "All them and my two roosters - nasty little sickness called Feathergrote went through two of them, and I had to put the rest down. I'll have to wait until the new year to get any more in, I expect - you need to let the lingering bits of it fade away. I'll give the coop a good clean out, of course."

"How'd they get it?" Harry asks, frowning slightly. "Is that a common illness?" Hagrid shrugs his shoulders.

"Egh, common enough," he says dismissively, shaking his great head. "It's just a real shame. D'you want a cup of tea, Harry, Hermione?"

"Yes, please," Harry says at the same time as Hermione, and the two of them make their way into Hagrid's hut.

Harry feels his throat move, feels the vibration in it as he screams, but he barely hears the sound; it echoes around the inside of his head distantly, like it's happening in a far off cave. He doesn't know how far he falls for, but he feels his stomach almost leaping out of him as he drops too-fast, too-soon, too far: when he hits the ground, it's surprisingly softly. The leaves underneath him make quiet crinkling sounds, and although they're dusted with snow, Harry doesn't feel the cold.

He's on his feet now, moving forwards with his bare feet (where are his shoes?) making crunching sounds as they crush the mulch and twigs and dropped leaves underneath him. The forest canopy is black and high above his head, and in the distance he hears bird calls and the whistle of arrows through the air, and fires crackling: centaurs. Although he looks one way and then the other, he doesn't see them, so he simply keeps on walking, walking until he cannot hear them anymore.

There's a sickly scent on the air, too supernaturally saccharine to belong to something that isn't magical, and as he inhales, he feels the scent take him over. There's an edge to the scent, a heavy edge, and he realizes what it is when he steps in it.

Staring down at the grey pooling around his bare feet, he smells the unicorn blood on the air, almost tastes it on his tongue. He feels himself gag, and he drops to his knees in the silver surrounding him, letting it soak into his robes as it did all those years ago, and he puts his hands on the unicorn's shoulder. It isn't breathing beneath him, and it's so cold under the pads of his fingers, and he realizes that one of its eyes is entirely gone from its head, pecked away by something or other. He'd been blinded by the reflection of the moonlight (where is the moon coming from? hadn't the canopy been so black?) on the unicorn's blood, but now he sees he's looking only at its top half. Its haunches aren't in sight, and the unicorn's rib cage has been ripped open by something with great, mighty jaws.

Green tinges some of the unicorn's soft, white hair, and when Harry drags his fingers over the stain, his skin hisses with steam, and he feels the pain of acid.

He cries out, again, but he barely hears it: he hears only the smooth sound of scales on crunching leaves and twigs, and when his head whips to the side, he sees a blind monster staring back at him. Its head is huge, and where its eyes ought have been are red-black scabbed-over wounds. When it opens its mouth, Harry screams.

---

"Harry!" Draco says sharply, and Harry feels the other boy's thin, piano-player's hands on his shoulders (does Draco play piano? Harry knows Lucius does), shaking him awake. Draco's hands are cold, and his face is concerned. "You were- you were screaming. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Harry tries to say, but it comes out as a croak. His voice is hoarse, and he has to cough into his hand, reaching for the glass of water on his bedside and taking greedy gulps. The dormitory door flies open, and Francis stands there, dressed hurriedly in a dressing gown over mermaid-decorated pyjamas and looking panicked.

"Potter? You alright? I could hear you all the way-" Francis takes in a small breath, and he seems to relax. "Nightmare, Potter?"

"Yeah, Francis. Draco wasn't murdering me or anything." Francis' lip twitches, and he seems to almost laugh, but not quite. He still looks a bit pale, but he nods his head.

"Well," he says awkwardly, quietly in his more usual voice. "Can't be too careful. Night, lads." Francis Drummond pulls the door shut behind him, heading back down the corridor to his own room. Draco sits on the edge of Harry's bed, sat on one of his own feet, and Harry feels the heavy weight of the other boy's grey gaze on him.

After a long, drawn-out silence, Draco says, "Was it a nightmare? About- about the tournament?" Harry shakes his head.

"No, no, it was just about- Hagrid's had his roosters die, down by his hut. I guess it just made me think of the Basilisk." Draco squints at him. "Rooster cries kill Basilisks, Draco," Harry adds.

"I knew that," Draco says sharply. Harry raises his eyebrows at him, and Draco huffs a short sound. "Well, the Basilisk-" He hesitates. "Is it still out there? Isn't it dead? I thought-" Draco stops short again. "It's not dead. It's just out there, in the Forbidden Forest? It's been out there all this time? My father-"

"Oh, shut up," Harry interrupts him. "Go back to bed." Draco's white cheeks are tinged red with an angry flush, but he stomps back to his own bed all the same, and Harry blows out the candle Draco had lit beside him. In the darkness, Harry lies still for a long, long time, his eyes closed as he does his best to get back to sleep.

He doesn't manage it.

---

Harry and Cedric sit in silence in the empty classroom. Cross-legged on one of the desks, Harry sits with a small stack of books in his lap - histories of the Triwizard Tournament and books that go into detail as to the tasks. They're not being given any clues, this time, except that when Harry had looked out of the window that morning, the colosseum had been returned to its place on the Quidditch pitch, and was no longer hovering in pieces around the lake. Now replaced, its centre is utterly empty, except that all of the lawn has been stripped away: in the middle of the oval stadium is just a brown dirt floor.

"You want to look at precedents, then?" Cedric asks, slightly stiffly. He's sat with one leg up on the desk he's sitting on, leaning with his forearm on his knee, and the other leg dangling down. He looks like one of the dashing figures posed on the front of Pansy Parkinson's racy comics - it's not a pose Harry has ever thought someone would actually take on.

"Yeah," Harry says. Another long silence spans the short distance between them. "So, Slytherins are doublecrossers, then."

"And Hufflepuffs are stupid," Cedric returns archly. It's the closest to a sharp word Harry's ever actually heard out of him, given that Cedric Diggory is Hufflepuff's golden, shining example of manhood and Hufflepuffhood. Harry presses his lips together, leaning back slightly and crossing his arms over his chest, scowling at the other boy.

"You really think being thought of as dim is as bad as being thought of as evil?" Harry asks, and Cedric scoffs.

"Well, you guys aren't exactly shining examples of friendship, are you?"

"Yes, we are," Harry says. "We're just loyal to people who deserve it rather than anyone who smiles at us in the street. We don't blindly follow anyone who looks good to us."

"And what about You-Know-Who?" Cedric demands. "Did he look good to you?"

"I don't know," Harry says, "Why don't we call my parents and ask them?" Cedric stops short, paling slightly. His neck and the tips of his ears are slightly red, but the flush doesn't show in his cheeks, and Harry can see the way he stiffens, sitting forwards properly and clenching his fists in his lap.

Cedric's nostrils flare, and he says in a sharp, acidic tone, "Do you not think it's a bit disrespectful to your mum and dad's memory to use them as a trump card in every argument you have?"

"No idea," Harry says, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess if I could, Cedric, I'd ask them." The silence, this time, is not silent at all: Harry can distinctly hear the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears, and he can hear both of their heavy breathing, and the creaking of the desk Cedric's sat on: he can't stay still on it. "I don't think Hufflepuffs are stupid, Cedric. It's just the only jokes I hear are Hufflepuff jokes, and I couldn't think of any others under pressure."

"And Slytherins aren't necessarily doublecrossers, but-"

"What the fuck do you mean, necessarily?"

"Your animal is a snake!"

"Your animal's a bloody badger! What are they good for, except for giving cows TB and getting hit by cars?" Momentarily, Cedric's face goes slightly blank, and Harry adds, "Or for killing dogs, I guess." Cedric throws himself to his feet, the desk giving a relieved whine behind him.

"Badgers are noble animals, Harry. They're fiercely loyal, intelligent, and they bury their dead. They're hard workers, and-"

"They're basically blind," Harry interrupts. "A bit like your lot, really. Kind of like badgers, in that you dig yourselves into a little hole and try to ignore the world while you eat worms."

"Really?" Cedric demands. He's angrier than Harry's ever seen him, his eyes glinting with furious passion. "Because badgers stay in their groups and protect each other. Slytherins only want to protect long dead ancestors, and I can tell you there were more Slytherin Death Eaters than from any other house."

"Yeah," Harry says, standing up himself and immediately regretting it as he's forced to look up into Cedric's face. Why does the other boy have to be so tall? "Because being excluded and hated by your entire student body from the age of eleven totally isn't going to have a negative effect on your choices, is it? Don't you realize that's exactly what Voldemort wanted?" Harry ignores the way Cedric winces. "Don't you realize that's why he pushed the pureblood rhetoric so much? He doesn't care if anyone's pureblood, Cedric, not really. He just cares about power."

"A Slytherin through and through, then." Cedric says, and Harry's lip curls. "Maybe it's better if we just split the work now. Working together obviously isn't working out."

"Obviously," Harry says, and he picks up his books, and he leaves Cedric in the classroom behind him.

---

"Without trying to be too mean about it," Hermione says delicately, "that was really stupid of you, Harry."

"Can't help but agree with Granger," Blaise says reluctantly, as if the idea itself is distasteful. "Why in Merlin's name would you do that?"

"He thinks Slytherin is a house of evil traitors." Blaise watches him for a moment with his deep, brown eyes.

"Well, Harry, it is. We're known for our cunning, not our deep-hearted power of love." Harry throws a paperback from his bag at him, but Blaise just catches it, examining it with an artful disinterest. Harry and Hermione had been settled at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling down from between the crenellations at the edge of the tower, when Blaise had joined them, having spied them from the courtyard downstairs. Now, they're all sat on the ground, leaning back against the tower's inner wall. "You're going to get killed. One of you is, at least."

All at once, Harry remembers Ludo Bagman and the goblin betting agency, and he frowns, tapping his fingers on his leg.

"Draco said you had a nightmare," Hermione says, a little desperately, obviously trying to change the subject.

"Oh, is he Draco to you now, Granger?" Blaise asks sweetly. "He will be glad to hear that." Hermione throws a book at him - other than Harry's very light paperback copy of T.S. Eliot's Cats, this is Hermione's pilfered copy of Moste Advanced Poisons, and it hits Blaise in the chest like a Bludger, knocking the wind out of him. He pulls a face, leaning back on his hands and rubbing his chest. "The Gryffindors should make you a Beater. Merlin's beard, Granger, where did you learn to throw like that?"

"I was on the local cricket team at school," Hermione says, and Harry glances at her, amused. She puts her nose in the air, avoiding his gaze, and takes her book back from Blaise.

"You?" Harry asks. "Playing cricket? What, in your whites with all the-"

"So, Blaise, what do you think the third task is going to be?" Hermione asks, interrupting Harry cleanly. Blaise whistles quietly, sprawling against his school bag. His feet (Blaise's boots had been abandoned as soon as he'd discovered the warming charm around the tower's edge) are in Harry's lap, and Harry's hand absently thumbs over the skirt of Blaise's outer robes. Hermione pretends not to notice this, but whether it's for her comfort or Harry and Blaise's, he's not certain.

"I don't know, Granger," Blaise says, looking off into the middle distance. "But whatever it is, I think it's going to be the worst you've faced so far. You and Diggory have been doing just fine, Harry, but that stuff has been designed to kill you, if possible. You two have just been lucky."

"Yeah, well," Harry murmurs, and he stands up, pulling himself to sit on the edge of the tower again. He doesn't know why he likes it so much up here, seeing his feet dangling down, but it's calming, and it doesn't raise as much attention as a solo flight around the castle does. "Unless the third task actually involves me facing Voldemort, I think I'm fine."

"He's not the only person out there who wants you dead, Harry," Blaise points out quietly. His tone is neither sharp nor friendly: it's carefully neutral. Harry wonders how many of these little conversations he's had with his mother.

"He's right," Hermione says, sounding reluctant. "I mean, the stuff with-" she glances at Blaise, and then says, "Well, you know, the stuff with Bagman and the goblins aside... There's Lockhart and his lot. For goodness' sake, Harry, even Rita Skeeter has it out for you!" Harry glances back at Hermione and Blaise, and before he can respond, he winces, letting out a sharp sound of pain. His scar suddenly seems to split open his head, and when he sways on the wall Blaise grabs him by the shoulder, hauling him bodily down to the tower floor.

"What is it?" Blaise demands. Harry just lets out a short groan of pain, trying to blink it away: whenever his eyes flutter closed, the Astronomy Tower fades away, replaced by a dark, flickering room, a grand hall-

"Get Dumbledore," Harry says, his fists clutching tight at Blaise's robes to keep himself from falling down. He feels like a bolt of lightning has hit him in the centre of his head, and he tries to keep his eyes open, but he feels them close shut, feels his body collapse. Harry is paralysed in his own body, unable to move or shift or anything, as he sees his too-white hands raise to the air.

"Move," he orders, the high, slightly-hissed sound echoing throughout the room. His new jaw is strange, feeling slightly too big for his mouth, but he has examined himself in detail and ensured that he does not look at all ridiculous. Lord Voldemort looks more powerful than he ever has before, and so he should: he will be soon. His servants move swiftly into their positions, ordering themselves in a neat semi-circle around Lord Voldemort's throne, and he reclines slightly within it, keeping his back straight and his posture utterly perfect.

The nail on his index finger clicks quietly upon the arm of the chair in a rhythm until it is the only sound in the great dance hall, barring the near-silent breathing of his servants. Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters stand perfectly inclined to the middle, and only three spaces remain unfilled. Lord Voldemort's new lips do not ever need wetting, but when he presses them together in a thin line, they rub so strangely against each other, too rough and too smooth both at once.

"Antonin," Lord Voldemort says, eyes flitting to the left. "How is Bartemius healing?" He notices some of the Death Eaters are shivering slightly for the cold, but he ignores it entirely; such meager concerns of temperature do not affect Lord Voldemort any more, and it is not his concern if these people cannot recall how to cast upon their own robes a warming charm. The dance hall here in Malfoy Manor is high-ceilinged and wide, and with none of the fires lit, the chill permeates the room.

"Well, my lord," Dolohov says, dipping his head in a respectful bow. They do not wear masks here: the majority of his servants have been in Azkaban so long they barely remember their own faces, let alone each other's, and Lord Voldemort knows he has offered sufficient punishment to those who had walked free without displaying proper loyalty to him - all except two, that is. "He declares himself fit to stand and serve now, though that is not yet true. He begs your audience, my lord, to prove his fealty." Once upon a time, this might have affected Lord Voldemort to smile, or to smirk: now, it does not. He merely notes it with the quietest of satisfactions.

"Bartemius will see me when he can make his way to my feet of his own accord." Lord Voldemort's eyes flit to the right, and he meets Bellatrix's hungry gaze. "And Bellatrix, Thadeus, how fare your plans?"

"Well, my lord," Bellatrix cuts in immediately, before Thadeus Avery can say a word himself. He does his best to school his face into neutrality, but his eyebrows have always been overtly expressive, and Azkaban has not fixed this long-standing issue. Avery's eyebrows are forward on his face, scowling even though his lips don't. "We have taken our research upon the five of them, and we believe they've taken on a cave in the mountains about Hogsmeade! It is enchanted, certainly, to be unseen, and I suspect-"

"I followed Arnett himself, my lord, to the very entrance of their hideout, I'm certain," Avery interrupts, and Bellatrix immediately raises her hackles, but Lord Voldemort raises a flat, white hand in her direction, quietening her down. "I believe they are making use of the Fidelius Charm." Lord Voldemort keeps his blank gaze on Avery's hairy features. After a few more clicks of Voldemort's nail upon the arm of his throne, Avery stumbles through continuing: "We performed a variety of charms in the area, my lord, and we could not find the barest inkling of an entrance."

"They've hidden it! Hidden it, and-"

"Thank you, Bella," Lord Voldemort says lowly, and she stops short, a beam spreading across her features and brightening her dark eyes. She's so excitable, even now, despite her focus on proper sensibilities. Bellatrix is undoubtedly the servant who has changed least in Lord Voldemort's absence, barring the singular, obvious exception.

Lord Voldemort feels the clicking of his finger stop, and he looks down to it, staring. It is his habit to continue the noise throughout meetings, drawing the focus of his servants, but he feels pain in the joint - pain! - and he cannot move it. Curling his scaled lip, Voldemort waves his arm, dismissing his servants without a word, and then-

What is that?

---

Harry is violently sick in Dumbledore's office, clutching a wooden bin tightly to his belly and letting himself retch and retch. He's trying to force up his Occlumency shields, but he can feel Voldemort right there, as if he's right beside or behind Harry, as if they're sharing the same skull. He'd tried so hard to get some vestige of control, trying to move maybe one finger, and now Voldemort has thrust him back to his own body. Harry can feel it from just outside his skull, putting pressure on him: there's anger, yes, but there's amusement, a sense of power.

Voldemort is laughing at him, and Harry can do nothing about it.

Harry can hear Dumbledore speaking to him, but he just ignores it, closing his eyes tightly and focusing on suspending himself in darkness, forcing himself into the calm that Occlumency brings him. He is floating in blackness, in a cloud of dark fog, and he is alone. There is no one pressing on him, and he is in complete control of his emotions, of his mind, and of his own bloody head. He visualizes the spider's web of Voldemort's presence, and as best as he can, he sweeps the sticking pieces of web from within him, against him.

As soon as the last strand of white silk is gone, so too is the pressure, and Harry breathes in.

He hadn't realized he hadn't been breathing.

"Harry?" Dumbledore says, and Harry looks blearily up at his headmaster through the fogged glass of his spectacles. Blaise and Hermione are stood together. Hermione is clutching the strap of her schoolbag so tightly it looks like it might tear between her fingers, and while Blaise stands composed, Harry realizes he has one hand behind his back - with two fingers and his thumb, he has hold of the back of Hermione's robe, reminding her not to run forwards like she obviously wants to.

"It was Voldemort," Harry says, spitting immediately afterwards, and a glass is pressed into his hand. He rinses his mouth before he drinks, and he mumbles an apology for the bin that Dumbledore completely ignores. He stands, settling himself weakly in the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, keeping the bin close to him just in case.

"Tell me, Harry." Harry does. Harry talks, and he talks, and as he does he feels his own face, checking that there are no scales on his lips and that his eyebrows are where they ought be, checking that he has a nose and ears and his own, smooth skin. It had been so real, and so complete, and he wants to believe that he is in his own body. Dumbledore is watching him, concerned, and when Harry reaches back to touch Blaise's hand, he meets Hermione's instead: Blaise pushes her to take it.

Hermione's hand is cold and slightly clammy; there is a callous on her index finger and the shiny burn of an old potions scar on the heel of her hand. It isn't like holding Blaise's in the least. Awkwardly, Hermione takes a step forwards, giving Harry's hand a squeeze, but then she releases him. He can't decide whether he's glad about it or not.

"Where's Professor Snape?" Harry asks. He sees the barest flicker of something he doesn't know in Dumbledore's eyes before the older man speaks.

"He's in Diagon Alley this afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore says quietly, pushing another glass of water towards him. "Buying ingredients to restock the NEWT cupboard. Unfortunately, he cannot replenish stock via owl, and he will return late tonight."

"He's going to be in Diagon Alley until late, just for buying some powdered unicorn horn and some moon moss?" Blaise asks sceptically. Dumbledore smiles in a gentle, grandfatherly fashion.

"Although you must never admit to Professor Snape I have told you this, Mr Zabini, he is as inclined to imbibe as any individual might be. He is only your Potionsmaster day to day." Blaise' lip twitches, but he does not laugh, and he silently refuses the offer of a lemon drop from the dish on Dumbledore's desk. "I believe, Mr Potter, you might begin further study of Occlumency." Slowly, Harry looks up to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

"Further, sir?" he queries, tilting his head to the side and forcing his face into blank incomprehension. "I don't know what you mean." Dumbledore's smile widens.

"My mistake, Mr Potter," he says amusedly, like Harry's lies are some private joke between them, and he adds, "I will fashion some kind of schedule, and will offer you tutelage in the art myself, if you should like to take it. I won't pretend to understand the exact bond between yourself and Lord Voldemort, Harry, but it is obviously becoming stronger."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees reluctantly, and he nods his head. He stands with Blaise and Hermione, and as soon as they're out of Dumbledore's office with the gargoyle closing the entrance behind them, Blaise allows Harry to lean on him to support his weak knees.

Hogsmeade is busy. Students are rushing back and forth between the different stores, all of which have their doors wide open. For February, it is an uncommonly warm and pleasant day, and for the time being everyone has managed to abandon their scarves and woollen hats. It's nice to walk without the encumberment of heavy coats, and Harry walks alongside Hermione with his hands in his pockets. He'd barely slept the night before, instead focusing on his Occlumency the whole night through, so focused on remaining detached and controlled that he couldn't fall asleep. He just couldn't.

Stalls line the wider streets of Hogsmeade, selling gifts and cards for St. Valentine's Day tomorrow, but Harry ignores them, moving past the earnest salespeople with his shoulders down and his gaze on the ground. Neither he or Hermione have said anything since they walked down to the village together, and now they are quiet.

Likely given instruction from Dumbledore, there are more members of staff than Harry would usually expect lingering around Hogsmeade, on corners or benches, feigning a casually watchful eye, but Harry is too aware of his surroundings to pretend it's normal.

Professor Binns is lingering underneath the sign for Zonko's, and that's not something Harry can pretend is normal.

"That's Tonks," Hermione murmurs, nodding her head in Binns' direction. A man is stood with Binns. He has dark grey stubble and is wearing a deep green coat over plain, blue robes. "I recognize the boots." Harry's eyes flit down, and he sees them - where the robes are blown upwards by a sudden breeze, he sees the patterned leather of the shoes there. "Drom showed them to us in the summer, remember? She told us she was getting them for her, for Christmas."

Harry doesn't remember. Through the black haze around his mind, keeping him suspended in the darkness, he searches for the memory, but he doesn't find it.

"We should pass it on to Moody," he says, and his voice comes out harder than he means it to. "She shouldn't have anything on her that reveals who she is, Metamorphagus or no." He feels Hermione's gaze on the side of his face, quietly concerned, and he ignores it. "Let's go to the Hog's Head."

"The Hog's Head?" Hermione asks. Harry thinks for a second that she's going to argue and insist on the cosy, bright interior of the busy Three Broomsticks instead, but she doesn't. She just walks a little faster, and she turns into the alley toward the pub before he does.

The Hog's Head is not as empty as it usually is. Around a table in the corner of the room are a crew of six or seven wizards still wearing their cloaks, though no one is sat at the bar. When Harry and Hermione step over the threshold, Harry hears the whip of the barman's head towards the two of them before he sees it, and he takes a step forwards, towards the bar. He hesitates, but he's not wearing his Hogwarts robes this morning, and he straightens his back as he looks to the bartender.

"A Butterbeer for her," he says quietly, "And an Irish coffee for me, please." The barman has blue eyes that make Harry think of Dumbledore, but his beard is thick and grey and dirty, and there isn't that much further resemblance. He arches an eyebrow, his lips quirking, but he leans back, flicking his wand to a kettle on the back counter and reaching for a bottle of firewhiskey.

"They'll have two Butterbeers," says an arch voice from the table, and when Lucius Malfoy raises his head, the hood of his cloak falls gracefully away from his sleek, silver hair. "Come here." Harry feels like he should feel panic, or shame, or something, when he looks closely at the table's members. Hadn't he just been thinking of how aware of his surroundings he is? Lucius is sat beside Arthur Weasley, and around the table Harry sees Mad-Eye Moody, Ted Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt... Beside him, he hears Hermione let out a quiet exhalation. The bartender smirks even more.

"Come on, Hermione, let's go somewhere else," Harry murmurs.

"Take my seat, Ms Granger," Lucius says, standing up straight. Usually, his general expression towards Hermione is almost a snarl, but he gives her a polite nod, and when the barman hands Hermione her glass, she takes it, taking the invitation.

"Thanks, Mr Malfoy," she murmurs, and Harry sees that he's wearing leather gloves when he gently touches her shoulder to pass her by. Harry wants to linger and listen to the conversation, because it must be to do with the Order, but Lucius' gloved hand comes tightly to Harry's shoulder, and he guides Harry forwards and outside as if he expects Harry to run off at any second. Harry is stiff as he walks outside with Lucius, letting the other man lead him towards the woods.

Harry tries to shrug the older man's grip away, but Lucius holds him tighter, his perfectly-manicured nails digging into the flesh of Harry's shoulder. Only once they're into the woods and ought of sight of the village does Lucius let Harry go. Harry presses his lips together, walking with his hands in his pockets once again and taking a few steps away from him so that they're not so close together.

"Anyone could see you out here," Harry says. "People could be walking this direction and see your face. Vold-"

"Be quiet," Lucius orders, cleanly and crisply, so suddenly and sharply that it makes Harry jump. Harry bites his tongue to keep from snapping something back. Lucius grasps his cane in his left hand, the leather of his glove crinkling around its handle, and the steps of his dragonhide boots are quiet and purposeful on the wet dirt of the path. "If you would allow me the privilege, Harry, I will worry about my own safety. For the time being, explain."

"What?" Harry asks, succinctly.

"Explain. Elucidate. Make clear your state of mind." Harry grits his teeth, pressing his hands further into his pockets. His state of mind is less organized than he would like, and he's continuously aware of the potential influence of that spider's web of Voldemort's. After all, if he had been thrust so completely and entirely into Voldemort's body, couldn't Voldemort possess him in just the same way? "Do you think fourteen is an acceptable age to drink coffee?"

"And here I was thinking it was the whiskey you had a problem with," Harry mutters. He expects Lucius to smack him upside the head, braces himself for it, but it doesn't come. It's something Harry's grown used to in Slytherin over four years - it's not something the other houses seem to engage in, much, the light forms of corporal punishment, but Harry doesn't think it's something new.

"I ought assure you," Lucius says, his voice ringing cleanly in Harry's ears, "that we have been made aware of your... Condition. Your link, that is, with the Dark Lord. Within the Order, that is." Harry glances away, breathing in quietly. "Is this about what you saw?"

"No," Harry says stoutly. "I'm connected to him, somehow, and I can't get away from him. It's sick. You don't know what it's like. "

"Don't I?" Lucius asks coolly, and Harry shoots him a glare.

"I didn't choose this. You did." Lucius' white lips thin, but he doesn't argue, and for the barest second, Harry feels an unpleasant triumph. It fades away like every other feeling he's had in the past day and night, given a moment's pause. "Do you know Occlumency?"

"No," Lucius says quietly. Even when he speaks at the barest volume, the sound seems to ring in the air, completely clear. Harry wonders if Lucius took lessons in elocution when he was a child, or if he just learned it naturally. "It's not a magic I've ever been able to pursue. It is a magic that requires careful training, however. Just as one might struggle and leave oneself too open, one might easily do the opposite and close off oneself entirely."

"Wouldn't you?" Harry asks. "If he- if he just took me over, he could- I could kill-"

"Do you think the Dark Lord fidgets in the dark, Harry, desperately wishing he could come to a school and murder some children? Do you truly believe his ambitions are so elementary?" Harry furrows his brow, and Lucius says sharply, "You aren't important. You mean nothing except that you are a symbol, one that might mean much to the world once you have been struck down. Do you understand that? The Dark Lord doesn't worry about your coming to him, or defeating him. He considers you a plaything, as he considers us all."

"That's not true. I'm not being arrogant, Lucius, but he wants me dead, specifically, and-"

"The list of people the Dark Lord specifically wants dead could fill several books," Lucius says. "The only power he wants from you is that which saved you from the Killing Curse, and that was no skill. It was luck, or blood, or otherwise, but it does not mean you could best him in a duel, does it?"

"I did once," Harry says. "And I was only-"

"You bested Quirrell." Harry furrows his brow, the distinction hitting him hard, and he clenches his fists at his sides. "Are you under the impression, Harry, that all of this will end in some great battle between you and him? Are you truly so arrogant?" He bites the inside of his lip, and he stares forward, stopping short for a few moments. He stands with his feet apart on the ground, his hands in his pockets. When he looks to Lucius, the other man is watching him, silently, seriously.

"Dumbledore said he'd train me in Occlumency," Harry says in barely a whisper. "I'll focus on that. You think I'm stupid?"

"I think you've an inflated sense of your own importance," Lucius says quietly. "It's a complaint Severus often makes of you, but I don't believe he considers the damage it might do you, and the undue worry. The defeat of the Dark Lord, boy, is not your responsibility and yours alone. The world will not shatter because you cease to hold it aloft."

"Lucius-" Harry hesitates, and then he says, "Thanks. I'm guessing this is you trying to be comforting, right?" Lucius arches a silver brow.

"Trying?" he repeats. Harry les out a short, stunted laugh.

"Thanks," Harry repeats, and Lucius reaches out, touching his shoulder. It's a gentle, almost paternal touch, and Harry doesn't pull away this time. "Are you like this with Draco?"

"I needn't assure my son he isn't the centre of the universe, Harry. He knows very well that he is." Harry sniggers quietly, and for the moment he walks back with Lucius towards the village.

"Were you a son of mine, Harry, I would pour you a glass of firewhiskey and force you to drink the whole thing," Lucius says smoothly as they begin the walk back towards the village. Harry glances up at him, trying not to laugh.

"You're so strange," he says.

"Luckily for you," Lucius continues as if he hadn't heard Harry speak, "Black is your guardian, and you are therefore his concern. Judging by his retained brain power, he began drinking at perhaps twelve."

"So did you," Harry says, and Lucius glances at him, seeming surprised. "You're French, right? Bet you grew up drinking wine with dinner." Lucius laughs. The sound is rich and it rings through the woods around them, bouncing off the trees, but Lucius doesn't argue. He gets a faraway look in his cold eyes, and his lips part as if he's going to share something with Harry, but then he closes his mouth, and he says nothing more.

"I'm not French," he says finally. "I was born in Clapham. And Draco was born at home. My mother was French, Harry, and we simply embrace our heritage in that regard." There's a short pause, and then Lucius says, "I did grow up drinking wine at dinner. But firewhiskey is something else entirely. The wine served to children at my table is watered down and weak - firewhiskey won't only make you drunk, but it will burn. And what want of yours is it to be drunk, boy? You think imbibing will strengthen your mental shields?"

"I wasn't thinking about that," Harry says, and at a cold win, he pulls up the hood of his cloak, so that both he and Lucius are hooded as they walk.

"No, you idiot child, you weren't thinking about anything." There's a soft crack behind them, and Harry and Lucius both freeze at the same time, mid-step, shoulders stiffening. Harry's hand goes to his wand, drawing it from his pocket, and Lucius unlatches something in his cane, drawing his wand forth slowly.

Harry moves instinctively to mirror Lucius' position, standing so that they're back to back and looking outwards at the copse of trees around them. The woods here aren't especially thick or difficult to traverse, simply weaving in between the fields and farms outside of the village proper, and no one could possibly have come out of nowhere. There's nowhere to sneak.

"Who's there?" Lucius calls out, his voice resonant in the quiet copse of trees. There's no response. Harry becomes aware of every single sound around him - the quiet rustle of his robes and Lucius', the soft, wet noise of the path beneath them, the singing of the birds in the distance, and the whispering of the wind through the trees. Harry scans the green around them, and then he stops.

Reaching back, he touches Lucius' lower back, stopping him short. They'd begun to rotate, naturally, but with Harry's hand touching him in silent warning, Lucius goes still. Harry wonders if he should have been a Seeker in his past life, because he sees the barent glint, the barest hint of colour between two bushes, through the leaves there. He sees an obnoxious carnation pink, and it's not from a flower that grows here.

"Stupefy!" Harry casts, swinging his wand forwards, but he's too slow: he sees the robe move, and already he's launching himself towards Chad Arnett. He's a short, compact man, but he has muscle on him, and when he grabs Harry he can't quite pull himself away, unable to twist his arms out of the other man's grip. Harry shifts, kicking as hard as he can in the direction of Arnett's inner thigh; he lets out a sharp sound, and then a pale hand cracks hard against the ginger-stubbled skin and Harry's thrown backwards. He lands on his arse in the dirt, scrambling to get hold of his wand again, but Lucius is already moving with cold, swift movements.

He has Arnett by the hair, holding him tightly in his left hand, and he grasps hold of Arnett's neck. Harry stares, wide-eyed, because he sees the way Lucius positions his gloved hands at the sides of Arnett's jaw, ready to snap the man's neck.

"Lucius!" comes a call from behind Harry, and before Harry can move his wand has been pulled out of his hand and another wand is against his throat. "Let him go." Harry can't look behind him, focused too much on staying completely still with the spell-warm tip of the wand at his neck, but he can see the sudden extra paleness on Lucius' features, the wideness of his cold, grey eyes, the tight grip of his hands on Arnett's neck and Arnett's own, panicked expression. "Now, Lucius, don't you want this nice young man back?" the voice behind him is cold and smooth and soft, and it reminds Harry of a snake's voice. "Let's trade, shall we?"

"Now, now, now," Arnett says, voice quavering. "Now, now, you really don't want-"

"Evan," Lucius murmurs, using an oily, clever voice that he's never aimed at Harry. "It hardly seems a fair trade. You don't really want this pathetic excuse for a wizard, do you?"

"Give him to me." The snake's voice hardens, and Harry sees a muscle in Lucius' jaw twitch, but then he shoves Arnett forwards, and when Harry stumbles towards Lucius, he grasps hold of him as if he's Lucius' own son. Harry catches his wand when it's thrown towards him, and he stares after the man in the silver cloak as he grabs Arnett by the shoulder, dragging him towards the village proper. Lucius pushes Harry back, examining him carefully and looking into his eyes, checking his skin.

"Are you alright?" Lucius asks, very seriously.

"Who did you just give Chad Arnett to?" Harry demands, and Lucius' nostrils flare. "We need to move. Come, now. Back to the Hog's Head, tout suite. Keep your wand to hand, now."

"You sound like a bloody military commander," Harry mutters, shaking off the dirt on the backs of his robes.

"In some ways, I used to be one." Lucius speaks so coldly that it actually makes Harry flinch slightly, and when Lucius says, "Now," Harry hurries up. The two of them walk quickly towards the village, and Harry slips into the back of the Hog's Head. The members of the Order are spread more naturally around the bar now, although Moody is now nowhere to be seen.

"Evan Rosier is here in town," Lucius says sharply, drawing the others up and out of their seats. "He's just taken hold of Chad Arnett: I'm not sure of their particular plans, but Arnett looked terrified."

"Given what he did to Rosier's sister, I'm not surprised," Arthur says, and Harry freezes, glancing between Lucius and Arthur. He hadn't connected it, the name Rosier, but now he remembers Sinistra's tears, remembers Theo telling him about the Rosiers, and it all comes together. It makes him feel sick. "He wasn't wearing his robes or his mask?"

"No," Lucius murmurs. "I don't believe he's here in his capacity as a servant of the Dark Lord. This is a personal revenge, unless-"

"Avery was meant to be looking for them. For Lockhart's people," Harry says. "Thadeus Avery and Bellatrix Lestrange." Hermione grabs her cloak, pulling it on over her robes. Her lips quiver, but her expression is resolute.

"We've got to get the other students inside," she says firmly, obviously doing her best to stop her voice from shaking as she pulls out her wand. Harry sees her lips move, reciting spells to herself, and he nods, moving to stand behind her, and before Lucius, Arthur or Ted can grab hold of them, the two of them rush outside.

---

The pleasant, sunny day out in Hogsmeade isn't at all in-tune with the panicked beat of Harry's heart or his heavy breathing, and he splits away from Hermione, letting her go to Binns and Tonks on one of the corners. The castle is too far away to get everyone up to the gates, and although he thinks of the Shrieking Shack, that's equally distant. Honeyduke's, then? He wants to keep the exit secret, but he'd rather get everyone in to somewhere where he can evacuate them back to the castle.

"Hermione!" he calls; she, Tonks and Binns look towards him. "The Honeyduke's basement!" She nods her head, and Harry scans around as Hermione and Tonks each start moving towards different staff members and Aurors dotted around the village. "Cedric! Francis!" The two prefects are stood together, and judging by Francis' completely neutral expression and Cedric's completely guilty one, they'd been discussing him. "Look, Francis, we think something's about to happen near Hogsmeade, with the Death Eaters, so we need to get everyone inside. There's a secret passage in the Honeyduke's basement, a trap door between a few shelves: get everyone into the shop and start funnelling them down towards the castle."

"I'll come with you, Harry," Cedric says as Francis straightens and starts herding the youngest students in towards the sweet shop, explaining hurriedly as he goes to Cho Chang and a fifth year Slytherin called Riggs as he goes. It takes barely a few minutes, and there are only Aurors, Hermione, Cedric and Harry left in the streets; with the past two years, the Hogwarts students and the Hogsmeade residents are all too easy to push inside, and Harry wonders vaguely if there'll be some cap on Hogsmeade visits after this.

"You should go inside, children," Lucius says, coming forwards. It's odd, seeing him and Arthur Weasley stood side-by-side - Harry's heard too many nasty comments from both families about the other, and it's more than slightly bizarre. They're complete opposites, with Lucius' pale hair and pale face, Arthur's dark freckles and bright hair, Arthur's green suit and Lucius' deep-blue robes, with Lucius so built with muscle and Arthur so damned lanky.

"We don't know that anything's actually going to happen," Harry maintains, standing stoutly between Cedric and Hermione. "And-" Behind him, Harry hears a loud thump. He, Cedric and Hermione turn on their heels, and Harry stares at the body in the middle of the Hogsmeade footpath. Deep, wine-red blood soaks thickly into the lacy carnation fabric of Chad Arnett's robes, and he looks like he's been cut on every side with swords or daggers or something. He's utterly still, and silent. Whistling over their heads, Harry sees two black-robed figures flit off on brooms, disappearing into the distance.

"We should get everyone back up to the castle," Cedric says, glancing back to Lucius an Arthur and looking between them. "We should- We should get everyone back up there. But we need to move the body, Mr Weasley, the kids, they can't see this."

"The Aurors will take care of it," Arthur murmurs, and he pats Cedric's back. "Don't worry, Cedric."

---

Harry sits in a hallway in the Ministry of Magic. The hallway is cold, and quiet, and mostly empty, and Harry sits alone outside the office of Auror Eleanor Guinan. Harry hadn't expected to be taken aside by Aurors for this, but he'd been escorted into the Ministry, by a few of them, and now he waits before he Floos back to Hogwarts, having received a particular note to Floo back to McGonagall's office once finished. Technically, he's been released to go home now, but he isn't going to, not just yet.

Auror Guinan's office opens, and Lucius steps out, giving the woman behind him a terse nod as he walks down the corridor: Harry stands and walks beside him, and Lucius adjusts his natural long stride to accommodate him.

"Harry," Lucius murmurs.

"Mmm?"

"You are aware, I hope, that it's something of an offence to lie to an investigating Auror?" His tone is not accusative, or sharp, or angry. If anything, it's amused, and teasing.

"Don't know what you mean," Harry says. He thinks of Lucius Malfoy's hands on Chad Arnett's neck, ready to snap it like the fastening on a bottle of champagne. "You were just going to knock him out, right? So you could safely apprehend him." There's a long pause between them as they walk through the corridors - this is part of the reason Harry waited. He had no wish at all to be lost in the winding corridors of the Ministry of Magic, and Lucius knows the place like the back of his hand. "Besides," Harry says finally. "You lied too."

"I believe, young man, that when you first picked up a quill to pen a letter, it triggered the hatching of a most venomous snake." When Lucius glances at him, it's with a fond smile. "I hope you understand how proud I am to know you."

"Don't you also think I'm an idiot?" Harry asks.

"The two feelings can exist simultaneously," Lucius assures him, and he leads Harry into the main hall of the Ministry, where dozens of fireplaces continuously flare green as people come in and go out. Harry lingers for a few moments with his hands in his pockets.

"There were two people," Harry says quietly. "So was it something Voldemort wanted, or was he just killing Arnett because he killed his sister? Evan Rosier?"

"Without wishing to repeat myself," Lucius says delicately, "the two feelings can exist simultaneously. Rosier likely asked for the privilege, but there's a reason they took him elsewhere first. Were he the Secret Keeper of Lockhart's base, they wouldn't have killed him. But even had he not engendered the death of Belle Rosier, they would have killed him merely for being alongside Lockhart. It's an insult to the Dark Lord, that a creator of pageantry like Lockhart might have followers." Harry exhales quietly, and he nods his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Lucius," Harry says, "I know you just gave me a lecture about how unimportant and arrogant I am, but-" Lucius chuckles, shaking his head. "No, no, really, Lucius, I'm serious. If I hadn't had my hood up-"

"He didn't know who you were," Lucius confirms. "Had he known who you were, the evening likely would have ended badly for you. The only reason he left me was because he knew he wouldn't have been able to face me in a duel." Lucius reaches out, tapping Harry's temple with the tip of his finger, and then he adds, "If one wants to focus upon the positives, you haven't worried about Occlumency in at least an hour or so, I suppose." Harry laughs.

"Yeah, I guess. Thanks, Lucius. I'll write you this week." Lucius inclines his head, but he doesn't actually leave the room. He keeps his gaze, watchful, on Harry until he's disappeared into the green flare of the Floo.

Harry sighs, and he wipes his quill over the blotter before setting it aside again. In front of him, open, is a copy of the Daily Prophet, and over its double page spread is an exposé of sorts on Chad Arnett, noting his burial, his lack of next of kin, and so on, as well as going through his crimes in the past year or so. Harry is trying to write an editorial in response to the article, wishing to talk about how Chad Arnett is only a worry on the side rather than the wizarding world's primary focus, but the words just won't come.

He feels powerless, sitting at a lunch table and thinking about the Death Eaters and Lockhart's followers both, and he can't bring himself to touch any of the food in front of him. In his pocket, folded into a small square, is a note from Professor Dumbledore, which had just read, in neat handwriting, "Our first lesson will progress at 7pm this evening."

Harry takes a sip of his pumpkin juice, and the taste makes him feel sick, so he sets it aside again. There's a creak of the great hall doors as the Divination students come down from the tower for lunch, and Harry glances towards the group of them. Ron Weasley looks as pale as a sheet, and Lavender Brown is clutching tightly to Parvati Patil's sleeve on one hand, and holding a Ravenclaw's hand tightly in her other. They're all looking directly at him, and Harry squints at the group of them, seeing a slightly taller figure in deep grey robes behind them.

He feels some of the blood drain out of his face, and he whips his head around to look at the staff table. Snape and Sinistra are already on their feet and coming towards them, and Harry packs up his things, wanting to get out of the great hall as quickly as possible.

"Harry," Ron says, voice quavering. "We were in Divination, and-"

"Yeah, Ron, I've put the pieces together," Harry says quickly, shutting him up. "You, you're a records man from the Ministry. The Unspeakables always send a records man so that they stay anonymous." He's not a very tall man at all now Harry's up close to him, and the other fourth years are nearly up to his height: he has hair the colour of chestnuts, and his eyes are a glassy blue behind the thin, oval rims of his glasses.

"Yes," the man says. His voice is deep, way deeper than Harry would have expected to look at him. "You should come with me, Mr Potter. Professor Snape, sir, you would accompany him, as his Head of House?"

"Yes," Snape says firmly. His expression is neutral, but Sinistra looks wide-eyed, and she shows her worry on her face even if Snape doesn't. "Get out of the way." This is directed at the Divination students lingering around them, and they all blanch, quickly making their ways over to their house tables and settling themselves down. The only one that lingers is Ron, and he reaches out, putting his hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezing, just slightly - it's what Arthur would do, if he were here, Harry is dimly aware. Ron opens his mouth twice, but both times he gives up, and he eventually settles on not saying anything - he just nods his head to Harry, and he makes his way back to the table.

Harry, Snape and the Ministry man step into the entrance hall, and Sinistra, after a murmured word with Snape, walks towards the staircases, obviously on her way to Dumbledore's office.

"It is my duty to inform you, Mr Potter, that you were a named figure in a prophecy made this morning at 11:22 by Professor Sybil Trelawney." The Ministry man is wearing a neat, copper nameplate on his right breast, under the Ministry symbol embroidered there: Dorian Keats. Keats' face is forced into a sort of neutrality, but he isn't anything like Snape - Harry can see that his lips are held too tightly together, that his cheeks are drawn a little too pale, and that he has a few lines in his forehead. He looks scared.

"What other figures were named?" Harry asks. Keats' nostrils flare, and he draws in a tiny breath.

"The Dark Lord was the other figure mentioned, Mr Potter." Keats' blue eyes study Harry's face, and Harry turns his head away slightly, thinking it through. He hadn't really considered taking Divination as a subject last year, choosing Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures instead, but he'd reread the chapter on Divination in Cecilia's book, An Introduction To The Wizarding World. It had noted a generally lax attitude to the magic throughout the wizarding world, but a section had been devoted to the Hall of Prophecies in the Department of Mysteries: only those mentioned in prophecies could pick them up from the shelves and listen to them once they were made, and in the case of immediately mentioned figures, they would be contacted and informed about the process. "It is my duty to ask you if you would like to hear the contents of the prophecy."

"Divination is a murky science," Harry says quietly. "There's no guarantee the prophecy will be fulfilled, whatever it is."

"No, sir," Keats agrees. His face is clinging to its attempt at neutrality, but his voice quavers. Harry looks at Snape, who he finds is already looking at him. Snape's black eyes are impossible to read as he looks at Harry's face, and Harry finds himself wanting to ask the man's opinion, but he knows that Snape won't give him a straight answer, and so he looks back to Keats.

"I want to hear it," Harry says. Keats inclines his head, and Harry shoulders his bag properly, following him and Snape out into the courtyard and down towards the Hogwarts gates to Apparate into London.

---

Unspeakables, Harry discovers, do not wear masks.

He doesn't know why he assumed that they did - he'd known for a while that Unspeakables worked anonymously in the Ministry due to the dangerous and confidential nature of a lot of their work, and his mind had simply conjured up the image of an Unspeakable in their deep, purple robes and wearing a mask not that different to those of the Death Eaters, but they don't. As Harry and Snape follow Dorian Keats down the corridors of the Department of Mysteries, which Keats traverses with ease, Unspeakables pass them by, and although Harry looks at their faces, he finds that as soon as they pass by, he forgets the features of them.

"Professor," Harry murmurs quietly, and Snape glances at him.

"It's an enchantment embedded in their robes, Potter," he answers at length, and he says, "Unspeakables have always been anonymous, and have worn similar enchantments since the advent of the Ministry of Magic." Harry nods his head, not saying anything further, and he treks after Snape and Keats. As they move, Harry tries to take not of the corridors he's moving through, but they're complex and weaving, even compared to the somewhat labyrinthine nature of the rest of the Ministry, and he gives up as Keats leads them through a circular room with a dozen doors around its edges.

The hall they enter is high-ceilinged and cavernous, and in every direction span shelves upon shelves of deepest ebony, lit by the candles hovering neatly in the air above them. Upon each shelf, neatly labelled with a bronze plaque beneath it, are numerous globes of various sizes, each made of clouded glass - they vaguely remind Harry of crystal balls, but he knows a devoted Divination student like Lavender Brown would probably lecture him on the differences.

"These are the prophecies, aren't they?" Harry asks, and Keats gives a neat inclination of his head. He gestures for Harry to follow him with a silent inclination of his head, and Harry follows him. Snape, Harry notices, lingers back slightly now - he keeps within a distance to see Harry, but he remains slightly out of earshot. Harry isn't sure whether it makes him glad or nervous. "How did it get here?" Harry asks quietly. "It was only recorded an hour ago, and you were in the castle."

"Prophecies aren't recorded by memory." Keats murmurs. "Magic woven into the globes here will alert Unspeakables that a prophecy has been told, and the magic will catch the prophecy itself, and then someone will be dispatched to collect memories of the incident to verify it. We can note down memories and the words of the prophecy for our own records, but the prophecies here can only be examined by those directly mentioned in them. Here, it's this one."

Keats has pretty, manicured hands that are very pale: he wears light blue polish on his neatly trimmed nails, and on the back of his left hand, a small tattoo of a constellation. It's with his left hand that he points to a globe on the shelf. Underneath, the brassy plaque reads clearly:

S.P.T. to L.B.
Dark Lord & Harry Potter

Harry stares at it, his lips pressed together. Suddenly, a thousand questions are running through his head - why does it just say L.B. when it was in front of the whole class? Why is the cloudy substance within the globe black when the others are various, misty shades of red and green? What will it feel like to touch it? Will Harry hear it through his ears or inside his head? What if he drops it? Will Keats hear it? Would Voldemort be able to pick it up?

Harry reaches out, takes the glassy sphere in his hand, and takes it from the shelf.

Immediately, the Hall of Prophecies seems to fly out from under him, leaving him suspended in blackness, and he clutches tightly at the globe in his hand, looking sharply from one way to the other. He sees, then, a sort of ghost of Professor Trelawney float in the darkness - except she isn't a ghost. She's in full colour, but she's opaque, and when Harry tries to put his hand through her, part of her chest disperses like mist before reconstituting itself. Her voice is hoarse and trembling, and it's weighted with a significance that's completely absent from her usual pageantry.

"The Dark Lord, long thirsty, will sate himself on the deaths of snakes, but here will be his last drink..." As the ghost-Trelawney speaks, her hands shake at her sides, not moving or waving around like they do when she normally talks, and her eyes are glassy and unfocused behind her glasses. Harry wonders what it feels like to go into a trance like that, dimly, but he knows he doesn't ever want to find out. Just looking at Trelawney do it is horrible. "The Boy Who Lived, now Dying, will fall at his hand... And with this snake-speaker's death, so too will the Dark Lord begin his fall... Snakes will flee from the Dark Lord's serpent tongue, and his thirst will never again be slaked... The Boy Who Lived, now Dying, will stopper his thirst..."

The blackness and Trelawney fade away into the same ether, and Harry is left standing still, holding the prophecy orb too tightly in his right hand.

"Did you hear it?" Harry asks softly.

"Not this time," Keats says quietly, in a voice that Harry knows is trying to be comforting, but sounds weak. "But I took down the details of it earlier."

"Can I have a written copy?" Harry asks. Keats inclines his head. He teeters on his feet, glancing around the Hall of Prophecies, and then looking at Harry's face. He looks concerned, even more than before, somehow. "What?"

"If you'd replace that prophecy, Mr Potter..." Keats says quietly, and once Harry has, he follows Keats down another set of shelves. Hands behind his back, expression carefully blank, Snape is already standing there. On a brassy plaque beneath another prophecy reads:

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord & (?) Harry Potter

Harry stares at it.

"When was this one made?" Harry asks. He's surprised by how quiet his own voice sounds, despite the echo in the hall.

"Some short time before the Dark Lord came upon you and your parents in Godric's Hollow," Snape says. He doesn't say anything else, and his quiet voice seems to ring with significance between the shelves. Harry stares at the plaque, stares at it in utter silence.

"Mr Keats, why wasn't I told about this one before?"

"It was made when you were an infant," Keats answers cleanly. "And when it was initially made, it might not have referred to you specifically. Had no other prophecy been made concerning you in the meantime, you would have been notified of its existence in the Ministry upon your coming of age."

"Sounds great," Harry says dully. "A wizard's watch and a fucking prophecy about me and Voldemort."

"Do you want to-" Harry ignores Keats, reaches out, and grabs the prophecy off the shelf.

It is 7pm, and Harry steps over the threshold of Dumbledore's office, the gargoyle grinding closed behind him. Professor Dumbledore is sat at his desk, neatly dipping his quill into a pot of blue ink and writing in his neat, fluid handwriting on a long piece of parchment. As Harry steps forwards, he finishes his signature with a flourish, and after blotting the page, he rolls it neatly and sets it aside. Dumbledore's phoenix, looking bright and new with florid shimmering in its feathers, greets Harry with a cheerful caw, and Harry gives it a nod.

"I don't want a lesson tonight," Harry says. Dumbledore looks at Harry from behind the clear glass of his half-moon spectacles, quietly expectant. He doesn't seem annoyed or angry at what Harry has said, and for some reason, that grates on Harry. He wishes the old man weren't so calm, weren't so accepting. He's wearing a set of deep, flagrantly orange robes decorated with yellow and red flowers, and the outfit is so loud Harry can almost hear it: it doesn't entirely mesh with the old man's calm demeanour.

"Professor Snape informs me that you visited the Hall of Prophecies today, Harry. A prophecy was made about you this morning by Professor Trelawney, was it not?" Dumbledore's voice is quiet and reasonable, calming. Harry doesn't feel like being calm, but nor does he have enough energy left to be angry.

"Professor Dumbledore, I'm really tired," Harry says. He's completely honest as he slumps into the seat across from Dumbledore's desk: "Please don't condescend to me and pretend like you haven't already found out exactly what the prophecy said." Dumbledore's wrinkled lips twitch in the nestled white of his beard, and he leans back in his seat, steepling his ancient fingers together. He looks at Harry with something in between sadness and amusement twinkling in his blue eyes, and Harry meets his gaze without worrying about Legilimency. "You had the prophecy about me told to you, and you didn't say a thing. And don't tell me you were going to tell me tonight, because I know you wouldn't have. I don't know if Keats would have if Snape hadn't already gone to it."

"Did Professor Snape tell you anything of the prophecy, Harry?" Dumbledore asks, not with any specific accusation, but Harry clucks his tongue.

"He just showed it to me while we were in the Hall of Prophecies," Harry says. "Why didn't you tell me?" Dumbledore looks at Harry's face, tilting his head slightly to the side and looking thoughtful. He examines Harry as if he's looking at something on a chess board, and it makes Harry feel like the room has grown a degree or two colder, just for a second. The phoenix steps down from his perch, landing on Harry's shoulder, and Harry is surprised by how light of a weight the bird is as his feathers brush Harry's cheeks. "What's his name again?" Harry asks.

"Fawkes," Dumbledore answers quietly. He's smiling again, now, the analytical look gone, and he folds his hands in his lap, watching Harry carefully before he says, "I didn't tell you, Harry, for a few reasons. I wished for you to feel safe, without the pressure of a prophecy bearing down on you. I didn't wish for you to worry over something that might never truly matter."

"That prophecy is why Voldemort killed my parents, isn't it?" Harry asks. "Born to those who had thrice defied him..." Harry closes his eyes, breathing in, and he thinks of Sirius and Remus. Harry would still have parents if it weren't for the damned prophecy, and they would still have friends, and Harry wouldn't have lived with the Dursleys, and everything, everything would have been different.

"At the time," Dumbledore murmurs, leaning forwards slightly and looking at Harry gravely. "We did not know of the prophecy's focus. There were two young boys born at the end of July, to parents who had three times defied Voldemort. Those were you, and a young boy named Neville Longbottom." Harry's lips part, and he stares at Dumbledore, thinking about Neville, Neville with his plants and his devoted loyalty to his friends, and his inability to cast so much as a spark out of his wand under pressure. "What Voldemort did not know was that when he chose one of these children, he would be imbuing them with the power to defeat him. Lord Voldemort did not hear the prophecy in its entirety - a servant of his listened at the door when it was told to me by Professor Trelawney."

"Who?" Harry demands. Dumbledore unlinks his fingers, spreading his hands and displaying his palms.

"Does it truly matter, Harry? Will it change what has happened?" Harry sighs, leaning back, and Fawkes' beak draws gently over the side of his temple, pecking gently at the base of his hairline. Fawkes' beak is much warmer to the touch than Hedwig's, and he's surprised by the difference in the sensation - Fawkes' beak is smoother, longer, and slightly sharper. "And now that you are in possession of the power that the Dark Lord knows not, only you can defeat him."

"After I'm dead, you mean?" Harry asks pointedly. "The Boy Who Lived, now Dying?"

"Prophecies have been known to contradict themselves, Harry," Dumbledore says, his tone delicate. "And moreover, no time is specified. Even if this prophecy is more true than the first, Harry, it might not come to pass for decades or more."

"Is that better?" Harry asks. "If Voldemort's still walking free, killing people?"

"It is rare, Harry," Dumbledore says in an exceedingly quiet voice, "that any eventuality is entirely positive, or entirely negative. It is up to us, the beholders, to make what we can of what we see, and hold a candle to the shadowed corners."

"It's not a shadowed corner, sir, it's a Seer saying I have to die for Voldemort to die. What sort of fucking candle is going to lighten that up?" Dumbledore's stare becomes so abruptly icy and stern that it actually makes Harry falter. "Sorry, sir," Harry mutters. He shifts back in the seat, dislodging Fawkes slightly and prompting him to hop lightly to Harry's other shoulder, wing curling against the back of Harry's head. "You knew about this. All this time, when- When Quirrell... That's the power you talked about? When I burnt Quirrell?" Dumbledore gives a small nod of his head.

"I shouldn't have liked for you to have learned about these truths in this way, Harry. I would have avoided it, were it possible." Harry leans to the side in his seat, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the arm of the chair. He thinks about the two prophecies, and about the difference between them, and he squares his jaw slightly, tapping his fingers just a little bit harder.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Harry says stiffly, and without saying anything else, he pushes Fawkes off his shoulder and heads out of Dumbledore's office, down the stairs, and towards the base of the Astronomy Tower.

---

George nods his head, thoughtfully, and strokes his chin. Fred, who had been drawing a messy, somewhat violent diagram of Harry's plan, is looking down at the page and nodding his own head. "And you're sure this is how you want to approach this?" George asks, glancing over the plan. Harry hesitates, and then he gives a murmured affirmation.

"I think it's the only way I can approach it," Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying not to pace. He's printed in neat letters on two separate pieces of parchment the two prophecies, and he's compared them side-by-side. One of them is already in amongst the Divination students, and he has no doubt it will be in the Prophet by Friday even without him writing them a letter himself.

"Shame Skeeter's gone missing," Fred mutters. "It'd be great to get her for the job, but I don't think she'll work..."

"Seamus Finnegan," Hermione says quietly from the corner of the room. She's stiff as a board, counting out coins into the Gringotts moneybox, and she doesn't look at any of them as she talks. "Fred, George, if you have it up in the common room... Harry, you said the first prophecy could have referred to Neville, right? Use him. Leave the prophecy, and then get Neville downstairs - Seamus will pick it up. His mum does horoscopes for the Prophet, and she can't stand you, Harry. Seamus is always reading her criticisms of you from her letters in the common room."

"And you guys think it will work?" Harry asks, one last time. George and Fred share a glance, and then they incline their heads together. Hermione stays quiet, and for a long few moments, all Harry hears is the clink of coins dropping into the box in front of her. Then, resolved, she glances up from the box again, and she meets his gaze.

"It will work better than the alternative," she says, her voice slightly steely. "I'll help you draft the letter to the Prophet."

---

Dear Madam Editor,

I took a long time yesterday trying to put pen to paper, as I knew about the death of Chad Arnett, a follower of Gilderoy Lockhart's. It is my honest belief that Arnett was killed not because he murdered Belle Rosier, but because he was considered to be an enemy of [You-Know-Who], and so he was murdered by Death Eaters. The placement of his corpse in Hogsmeade was a strong statement on their part, and the only reason no Dark Mark was cast was because Arnett wasn't considered important enough to warrant it.

But I, Madam Editor, have a strong statement of my own to make.

Yesterday morning, Professor Sybil Trelawney, a known Seeress, made a prophecy - since recorded in the Department of Mysteries - and I feel it is my duty to have it published here, in the paper, for all to read it. It predicts me dying, I guess, but that's not the important thing. The important thing for you and for all the readers of the Daily Prophet as they read the contents of this prophecy is that they keep in mind what it means.

[You-Know-Who] is relentless and petty. If I've defied him, he'll want me dead, and I have defied him.

But I don't matter in the scheme of things. As soon as [You-Know-Who] comes for me, that will be the end of him - just like it was the first time. And in this time of great fear, as people are worried about him and his followers rising again, I just want people to keep that in mind. This prophecy has predicted [You-Know-Who]'s end, and we know it's coming.

Yours honestly,
Harry James Potter

Editor's note: in the case of You-Know-Who's name being used in its entirety during the process of this letter, we have redacted it.

Printed below, in bold, is the prophecy Harry had heard yesterday. Someone in the paper's typography department had chosen to animate all the 'S's to look like snakes, and they shift and move slightly in the early morning light. Harry glances up as Fred and George come down, and they look at him and smile. It's not really something to grin over, so the smiles are small.

"You did it?" Harry asks.

"Seamus took the bait," Fred murmurs, picking up a kipper and setting it on his plate.

"I said to Neville that you weren't going to tell him about it, but that I thought he deserved to know, given that it could have been him in your place." George says before stuffing his mouth with a toasted soldier dipped in egg.

"Pointed out that he wouldn't have been a Slytherin about it, trying to wriggle out of dying," Fred agrees, waggling his eyebrows. "Neville would have been brave."

"He was very understanding about it, actually," George says. He sounds slightly disappointed. "Let's hope your gentle public aren't nearly as kind-hearted." Harry smiles wryly, and he takes a small bite of his breakfast as he listens to the twins tell him the rest of it.

The split between the prophecies is simple. According to the plan, Fred and George had implied to Neville that the second prophecy, whilst having been recorded in the Hall of Prophecies, was something fake - thought up to fool the system by Sirius Black. After all, the man had escaped Azkaban - of course he could think up something like that. And the point of that second prophecy, to say that the death of Harry Potter will cause the death of Voldemort?

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it, Neville? They thought it up so that You-Know-Who would change his mind about killing Harry. Oh, the letter to the Prophet tomorrow is going to be all strong words, but You-Know-Who's not stupid. He'll never kill Harry now, he'll just keep him alive..."

"And obviously, Neville, we wouldn't be telling you this if you didn't have a stake in it."

"No, obviously not!"

"It's just that, well, Neville. It could have been you."

"Could have been!"

"And we know you wouldn't be like this."

"So sneaky about it. So... Slytherin. Because the thing is, Neville, killing Harry wouldn't really stop You-Know-Who. No, no, there was a real prophecy made years ago, legitimately - the reason You-Know-Who went for his parents in the first place, when he could have gone for yours."

"Harry's meant to be the only person who can kill Voldemort, you see. This fake prophecy, it gets him off without a worry!"

"And we have the first one. We just thought you deserved to see it, since it could have been you..."

Harry can hear the imaginary voices of the twins going back and forth in his mind, can see Neville's earnest, nervous expression, can see his horror, can see his forgiveness. This isn't something pleasant to think about at breakfast.

"And Seamus took it," Fred says with a stout nod of his head. "He was heading out to the Owlery as we came down the stairs." Fred's expression isn't joking any more: it's serious, and grave. George's expression is equally devoid of any good humour.

"Harry," George says quietly. "The point of this... It's so he'll still come and kill you, isn't it? It's like an invitation - a failed attempt to put him off the job, by acting like this new prophecy is fake, and he'll come and kill you."

"And what if it's bollocks?" Fred demands. "He'll kill you for no reason. What's that worth?"

"He would have tried to kill me anyway," Harry says quietly. "Where's Hermione?" Fred and George exchange a look.

"She's not coming down. Staying in bed, so she told Lav Brown."

"She has a bit of a problem with this suicide by bastard thing," Fred mutters.

"Ditto," he and George say at the same time. "This isn't the Triwizard Tournament, Harry. This is getting Voldemort and waving a red flag in front of his face." Harry wonders, vaguely, whether the tournament actually has to kill him - will Ludo Bagman still win his money if Voldemort kills him instead of a dragon or something? Does it still count?

"Speaking of the Triwizard Tournament," he says, "me and Cedric are scheduled to train together today. See you later." As he leaves the great hall, Seamus Finnegan is just entering, and he shoots Harry the dirtiest look Harry's ever seen. There's nothing worse to a Gryffindor, after all, than a coward.

Whispers follow Harry through the halls as he makes his way up to the entrance hall of the castle. They're from every house, even from the other Slytherins, but Harry ignores them, keeping his head high and his hands in his pockets as he walks out into the courtyard and, after that, down the grassy knoll and towards the lake.

At the edge of the lake, Harry can see the empty ship from Durmstrang, its black, tattered sales completely unstirred. He sees Cedric standing by the water's edge, having left footprints in the sandy dirt of the lake's soft beach. Cedric has a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands, and he stares down at it.

It's beginning to get warmer, now, and the heat in the air isn't ruined by any kind of breeze: there's barely any wind at all, and the water makes the quietest whisper as it washes up onto the beach. Looking over the lake, Harry looks through the dark spaces in between the trees on the other side of the water, and he frowns slightly.

"Cedric," Harry says. "Are they-"

"Webs," Cedric agrees, nodding his head once. He has a frown pulling at his handsome features, and when he looks to Harry, his expression is one of concern. "Cho and I went for a walk the other day: I wanted to show her the unicorns; she never took Care of Magical Creatures. The Acromantula are right here, at the edge of the forest. I dropped her up with Madam Pomfrey before I came down here for training."

"Is she okay?" Harry asks immediately, and Cedric nods his head.

"She's fine. Scraped her leg badly as we came out of the woods, but she gave as good as she got - we killed maybe a half dozen between us. I know that-" Cedric hesitates a moment, and then says, in a half-murmur, "I know how Hagrid feels about them, but we had to. They would have killed us."

"I know," Harry says. "I don't think anyone will blame you." Harry reaches out tentatively, touching Cedric's arm a second, and then he drops his satchel on the ground near a sandy rock. He glances to the paper in Cedric's hand, and he reads the headline.

BOY-WHO-LIVED PUBLISHES FAKE PROPHECY

Harry Potter, Hogwarts Champion, Tries To Shrug Off You-Know-Who

"And about the paper..." Harry murmurs, but Cedric interrupts him.

"I heard the Patils talking about it with Cho," Cedric says quietly. "I heard what they said, Harry, I know it wasn't fake - no one can fake a prophecy like that. But if he- if- if Voldemort... If he thinks the second one is fake, he'll stick with what the first one said, won't he? He'll try to kill you, and if he kills you, people can defeat him. That's the plan, right?"

"So much for Hufflepuffs being stupid," Harry mutters. Cedric laughs, the sound tumbling out of his mouth, and he grabs Harry hard by the shoulder and pulls him into a rough hug; he ruffles Harry hard, grips him tightly, and then he lets him go.

"So much for Slytherins being cowards," Cedric murmurs back. He crouches down, picking up a flat stone from the beach, and he flicks his wrist as he throws it: it skips once, twice, three times across the water, going out almost twenty feet, and then a tentacle shoots fast from the lake's calm surface. The stone flies high into the air, hitting Hagrid's hut up the hill with a clatter on the wooden roof, and Harry tries not to laugh at Cedric's distraught expression. "Are you really okay with that?" Cedric asks as the squid comes up to the lake's surface, dancing just visibly in the water and basking in the sun. "If he kills you- that's just a chance someone else can kill him. It's no guarantee of anything."

Harry puts his hands in his pockets, looking away this time.

Cedric holds up the paper, scanning it and looking for some phrase or other. Harry knows that it isn't actually Rita Skeeter, as there's a Missing Persons report all over the back page of the Prophet, but it's obviously someone trying to mimic her style.

"Obviously worried about You-Know-Who's consideration of the first prophecy, Harry Potter has attempted to sell the world an updated, fake prediction. So much for painting himself as a hero: this little boy is willing to do anything, sacrifice anyone, so long as he can stay alive himself."

After reading the passage aloud, Cedric holds up the paper, and he doesn't even say an incantation, just flicking his wand at the base corner of it and setting it alight. The greying ashes of the pages float out onto the water, but the squid doesn't bother to brush those away like it had the stone.

"My dad's been talking about it," Cedric says, holding his wand in his hand and twirling it slightly. "About the war - he's been talking about me going somewhere else if it starts up again, you know. He wants me to go get a job in America, or Australia, maybe. Says he'll get someone to set me up in the Ministry. He was furious when I told him I wouldn't go." Cedric turns his head, looking over at the boathouse at the base of the castle, and then he turns back to the water in front of him, murmuring a spell and Conjuring panels that come together on the water in front of them.

Harry watches, interested, as Cedric conjures up a wooden platform that floats on the water, and two chairs on top of it. Harry grabs his bag before stepping onto it with Cedric, and he settles on the chair across from him, hovering for a moment as he tries to think of something. He knows that he can't Conjure things as easily as Cedric, but he takes two sheets of parchment from his bag, and he concentrates hard as he taps on each of them.

The cushions are thin, and they're the same pale beige as the parchment they've been transfigured out of, but it's better than sitting on the hard wood: Cedric grins at him as he takes the cushion and slides it onto the chair beneath him.

"Why won't you go?" Harry asks, and as the platform floats slowly out towards the middle of the lake, Cedric sighs, shaking his head. "You could be killed, Cedric. Everyone who can should get as far away from here as they can."

"That's why I have to stay," Cedric says. "I don't-" He breathes in, clenching his fist and looking down at the water. He reaches forwards, holding his palm barely a few inches above the surface of the water, and the squid pushes one tentacle from the water, brushing the tips of Cedric's fingers. "I'm like you, Harry. You're basically going out of your way to make sure Voldemort's still willing to kill you, right, because of what the second prophecy means? You're ready to stand and fight, because it's your duty - because you know what you can do."

"You want to protect people," Harry says quietly, and he leans back against the back of his chair. He doesn't reach out to touch the squid, but he watches it as it moves gracefully in the water, dancing under the surface. "Like a real fierce badger, I guess." Cedric laughs, sitting back a bit. "I've never met your dad. I know Lucius hates him." Cedric snorts.

"Yeah, Dad is- He's very passionate. He's passionate, and he's angry. And for him, a lot of the time, they're the same - it drives Mum mad, 'cause he always gets into fights at work." Cedric taps his foot on the wood underneath him, and with his wand he works absently, laying flowers around the edges of the platform, flowers and vines and the smallest carpet of grass Harry has ever seen: Cedric does it as naturally as breathing. "He couldn't fight in the war, you know. He gets an anxious shake in his hand, and he just couldn't do anything on a battlefield, not with people. When he got his job at the Ministry, he was fighting Dugbogs, giants, trolls, pixies, everything. He could fight a dragon and not worry about it, but he couldn't stand to duel a real person, even if they were a Death Eater, you know?"

Harry looks at Cedric as he speaks, examining his features and the look on his face; Cedric looks quietly pensive in a way Harry's never seen him before. He's never really thought of Cedric's parents all that much, or what they might want Cedric to do after school is done with.

"What about the Triwizard Tournament?" Harry asks quietly. "They wanted you to do this, right?"

"This is a competition," Cedric says. "No Death Eaters who might want me dead." Harry hesitates. He thinks about Ludo Bagman, and the goblins, and the bet. "If it comes to it, Harry, I want you to know that I'll fight by your side. I know that you're young, but you're doing as well as any of us in this competition. And I'd trust you with my life."

"I'd trust you with mine," Harry says honestly. At a flare of movement from the edge of the woods, Harry turns his head, and he stares, his mouth dropping open.

"Merlin's beard," Cedric whispers. It's only about ten in the morning, and bright light filters down from between a few white, fluffy clouds, shining on the surface of the lake and glittering in the dew on the cobwebs at the very edge of the forest. It reflects off the many eyes of the first Acromantula to walk out of the forest and into the open.

They move, initially, in a comical single file, one man-sized spider followed by another, and then another, until dozens of them are moving in a neat, orderly fashion, and much smaller spiders nestle around the legs and underneath the bodies of the biggest spiders as they move. Harry can hear their voices chittering and echoing over the surface of the water, calling for release, and Harry narrows his eyes. The spiders, hundreds of them, gather on the grassy hill, until instead of it being green, it's black and brown with their hairy bodies, and shining with their eyes.

Harry thinks of Hagrid's dead roosters, and he thinks of the deadly fear that spiders have of the mighty beast, the Basilisk.

---

Harry and Cedric are forced to stay out on the lake as one Acromantula, bigger than all the rest, steps forwards to talk with a contingent from the castle. Harry recognizes Dumbledore, Maxime and Karkaroff, members of the Hogwarts staff, members of the Board of Governors (Lucius is conspicuous with his brightly blond hair), and Cedric's father.

There are thousands of spiders by the time the full group is there and speaking with the Acromantula; they can't hear what they're actually saying, and they're so far away that Harry can't even glean something from their expressions, or the way they hold themselves. He can see when Amos Diggory paces one way and then the other, but that's all.

It takes perhaps an hour or two, long enough that every window of the castle is wide open with students and staff pressed up against the gap and looking outside, and he can see a few of the Gryffindors sitting on the roof of the entrance hall in a neat row. He sees that two of them have bright, red hair.

Harry knows that it's over when the gates of Hogwarts come open on the other side of the grounds, and the spiders begin to move as one great, dark wave, stepping over the dark ground of the path and towards the gate. No one goes too closely to them, and there are hundreds and hundreds of them, thousands, even. They move fast, and they just keep coming out of the forest, more and more and more of them.

Harry stares after them as they go, and when the last few spiders dribble from the forest's edge, they all follow after each other and out towards the gates. The giant squid, gently and with a surprising delicacy for its size, guides the platform they've been sitting on back towards the beach, and Cedric and Harry step off in unison. The group of people outside move down the grassy bank, and as soon as Lucius sets eyes on him Harry braces himself.

Lucius grabs him hard by the shoulders, looking into his eyes and his mouth and his ears, holding the sides of his face to examine him as if he'll be able to see some evidence of Harry being injured or ill. If this hadn't happened to Harry before, or if he hadn't seen Lucius perform similar treatment on Draco, Harry might have laughed at the ridiculousness of it. When Lucius lets Harry go, Snape steps forwards, and his examination of Harry is cursory: he looks Harry up and down, and then gives the slightest inclination of his head when Lucius looks at him for some answer or other.

Harry's never going to stop being weirded out by the two of them.

Amos is hugging Cedric tightly, speaking to him with quick, hurried words, and Cedric nods several times, patting his father's back and holding him tightly - Cedric is taller than Amos by almost a head.

"What the Hell were you boys doing out there?" McGonagall demands, and Harry shrugs his shoulders slightly. Up at the castle, Harry can see children gathering in the courtyard, looking down at them from up the hill.

"We were talking about the Tournament," Cedric says, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "We decided to go out on the lake - we thought it best to stay there once we saw the Acromantula coming out. Me and Cho already faced some of them this morning."

"What happened?" Harry asks, and suddenly the mix of teachers and Ministry people go awkwardly silent. He looks between them, examining each of their faces, and Lucius breathes in.

"The Acromantula have fled the forest. They've gone into the mountains: with so many of them, we could no more stop them than we might wish to stop the flow of the sea," Lucius says quietly, curling his lip with obvious distaste. "No doubt they will have to be dealt with by the Ministry at some later time."

As the two of them are hurried up towards the castle, Harry thinks about the Basilisk, and then he thinks about Gilderoy Lockhart and his people, hiding out in the mountains. He wonders, vaguely, if the Fidelius Charm has any effect on Acromantula, and he walks with Cedric into the castle proper.

"Mr Diggory," Harry says quietly. He'd been talking with Dumbledore, McGonagall and Hagrid for a little while, talking to them about the spiders and how long they had been in the forest - Hagrid, who had been fidgeting guiltily throughout the entire conversation, had moved off quickly as soon as he was released from the conversation, but Harry knows Amos Diggory doesn't know the man that well, and he doesn't suspect he's put together that Hagrid was likely somehow responsible for them.

"Yes, yes, you're- oh, Harry Potter! Yes, yes, hello," Diggory says, voice a little stiff. "Yes, hello." Harry knows immediately that he'd read the Daily Prophet over his breakfast, his stiff expression obviously reveals. "Don't suppose you're here hoping I know some way to get you out of the competition?"

"No, I think me and Cedric will do fine winning," Harry says. Diggory scowls slightly. "I just wanted to ask, you know, if you wanted any more details about why the spiders fled." Diggory stares at him, eyes searching Harry's face from behind the thin glass of his spectacles, his ruddy face showing all the signs of complete confusion.

"Fled?" Diggory repeats, twisting his mouth. "Potter, the only thing they're fleeing is the environment. They're too big a colony for the Forbidden Forest, and they demanded the right to leave via the gate." Harry stares at him.

"Mr Diggory," Harry says very quietly, "what has the school mentioned to you about the things on the forest? The new things?"

"New things?" Diggory repeats, drawing out the G sound.

"The Basilisk?" Harry says simply, and Diggory stares at him, and then he scoffs.

"Very funny," he says dryly, and he turns to stalk off in the opposite direction, leaving Harry watching after him.

---

"Hi, Harry," Cho says as they meet on the stairs, and he gives her an awkward smile. Her robe is ripped on the left side, and white bandages are clinging to the leg on that side, neatly tied off in Madam Pomfrey's professional manner. Harry winces in sympathy, and she says, "It barely caught me, you know, but the venom... Madam Pomfrey's put in a topical antidote for it, so I just need to keep the bandage on until tonight. Cedric carried me into the castle - I felt like a real damsel." Harry laughs, and he passes her by on the stairs, heading up the stairs to the Gryffindor tower.

Harry keeps walking up the stairs, shifting the position of the library book in his hands, and when he gets to the portrait of the Fat Lady, she looks down at him with an expression of mixed affection and ire, one of her hands going to her hips.

"So, what's your name?" Harry asks, on a whim, and with an indignant gasp of horror, the portrait swings open without her so much as asking him for the password. Harry steps over the threshold, letting the Fat Lady draw shut behind him, and he scans the Gryffindor common room's ridiculously bright hangings and furniture for Hermione or the twins.

"You shouldn't be here," says a low, dark voice from the fireplace, and Harry meets the gaze of Seamus Finnegan. His lips are curled into a slight scowl as he glares at Harry, and folded across his lap is that morning's edition of the Prophet, this one, thankfully, without any mention of Harry on the headline, but instead focusing on the Acromantula.

"Don't worry about me, Seamus," Harry says dryly. "You just tell your mummy all about me, and she'll make it all alright." Finnegan stands, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, but a stout form steps between the two of them, and George pushes Harry by the shoulders towards the stairs.

"Come on," he says, sounding amused. "Hermione's already upstairs with us."

"Oh, good," Harry mutters. "It can be a foursome."

Hermione is sat cross-legged on Fred's bed, facing him but looking down at her lap. Furiously, she loops wool over the needles in her hands, and Harry can see the square of knitted yarn she has settled in her lap, soon to be one of the first of the Weasleys' magical hats. Fred is sprawled back against the footboard, and curled up with his great weight on Fred's broad chest is Crookshanks, purring like the engine in Uncle Dursley's car.

The Gryffindor dormitory is round with windows about the outside, and stationed between some of the windows are three huge, four-poster beds curtained in bright, bright scarlet. The beds of Fred and George are on the right of the door, and to the left is the one that Harry guesses belongs to Lee Jordan. It seems like the place is missing two beds, and set up where they would be is a big, square table with three chairs around it, books and papers scattered haphazardly across the surface. Except for the trunks at the ends of their beds and an end table for each boy, though, there's no other furniture, though in the centre of the room there's a round, red rug that seems to be glued down to the boards.

"I still don't understand why you don't have wardrobes," Harry mutters. "Or a chest of drawers, or something. It's a wonder you people take so long to pack up for the summer when you have to keep all of your stuff in your trunks." George sniggers, stepping inside and dropping on his back onto his bed, letting his legs hang loosely from the side, and Harry drops the book heavily onto his chest, stepping back and grabbing a chair from the table, settling himself between the two beds. George sits up, letting the book fall open at the page Harry had marked, and he scans the page, his lips twisted into a small frown. "I asked Amos Diggory what they were going to do about the Basilisk."

"And?" Hermione asks. For a moment, the needles freeze in her hands, and when she looks at Harry, he shakes his head slightly. She spits out a short curse, and drops the needles aside, clenching her fists and putting them in her lap. "He's such an idiot. All of these people are such idiots. People are going to get killed!" Her voice raises in pitch and volume at the end of the word, edging on hysteria, and then she breathes in, forcing herself to calm down a little. "What do we do now? The Basilisk- How are we meant to kill it?"

"It says that the cry of a rooster can kill a Basilisk," George says, looking down at the page. "But I bet stabbing it would work as well."

"It so often does," Fred agrees wisely, watching the movement of the tome as George passes it over to Hermione, and she traces the page with her finger as she looks through it.

"It says they can kill with just a look," Hermione says quietly, tapping the page with a fingernail. "At least we don't have to worry about that."

"Yeah, it's just Snape doing that around here for now," Fred agrees, scrunching up his nose as Crookshanks licks him across the chin. "You want to go through a plan, Harry?" When Fred looks at him, it's with complete and utter seriousness, and Harry gives a small nod of his head.

"If the Ministry won't think about it, I think we need to. And-" Harry frowns slightly, tapping his fingers on his leg. "It's becoming bolder. I think that's why the spiders left." Hermione gives a nod of his head, and reaches for a piece of parchment, ready to take notes, and the four of them lean in together to talk it through.

"You think you're ready?" Cedric asks the question quietly and almost delicately as he and Harry walk up towards the entrance hall together, having met near the entrance to the kitchens on the way up for breakfast. There are only three more days until the Third Task, as time has gone past so quickly, day after day, week after week. The sun is bright outside now, and the days are actually becoming truly warm and pleasant: all Harry can think about, ridiculously, is that he won't have to do any exams this year. Whether he and Cedric win, or whether they lose, both he and Cedric are getting an automatic waiver, an automatic pass.

"As ready as I will be," Harry says. They've not made any change to the arena outside, not added anything or taken anything way from the big colosseum, and yet it feels like there's more electricity of sorts added to the air whenever he goes outside and looks at it. Although he never sees anyone flitting around it, he feels like there's some change or other in it, ones that he cannot see, as if magic is being layered about the colosseum overnight for the Third Task. "What about you?"

"I feel sort of the same," Cedric says quietly, and he says, "I've been talking to Fleur a little bit. She's- Well, worried is kind of the wrong word, because I don't think she ever worries about anything, but... She seems to be kind of concerned. About- About the Death Eaters." Harry puts his hands in his pockets, frowning slightly and turning to glance at him.

"Death Eaters?" Harry repeats, tilting his head slightly quizzically and staring at Cedric for a few long moments. The past few weeks, there's been all but silence in the papers where the Death Eaters are concerned - all but silence where everything is concerned. Every single article printed has been lacking in the Prophet's usual sensationalism, and they haven't mentioned anything about Voldemort, Gilderoy Lockhart, or even Rita Seeketer. There have been a few criticisms of the Ministry's response to the Acromantula (or lack thereof), but to Harry's awareness, no one in Hogsmeade has been bothered by them yet.

"She says her grandmother sent her a letter. She has the Sight, apparently, and she says they're coming soon. She thinks it will be during the Third Task."

"The Veela grandmother?"

"No, the other one." Cedric seems uncomfortable with having brought up something to do with Divination, as he keeps shooting Harry sidelong glances and looking mildly guilty, but Harry is glad Cedric told him. "I think you should talk to her."

"Me?" Harry says, head snapping to the side. "Why me?"

"She likes you," Cedric says. He taps his fingers on his leg for a moment, and then he stops short: Harry stops with him, a corridor away from the entrance hall, and Cedric faces him properly, putting his hands on Harry's shoulders and examining him seriously. Harry looks up into the other boy's face, and Cedric seems to hesitate somewhat before he speaks quietly and gravely, and says, "I know that- I know that a lot of people tell you what to do, Harry. So many people do, and with You-Know-Who coming back, it's only going to get worse, but... Harry, you're a really good person, okay? And a lot of people trust you, not because you're the Boy-Who-Lived, but because you're a good person. Harry, because you're genuine and you're brave, and Harry, Fleur trusts you. I think that if you talk to her, she'll open up to you, and I think that you should talk to her. Not that you have to, of course, but- it's my advice that you do."

Cedric pulls his hands back from Harry's shoulders, looking almost embarrassed for a few moments, and then he leans back.

"I'll talk to her," Harry says.

"I don't want to tell you what to do," Cedric murmurs, and Harry shakes his head.

"You're not, Cedric. Thanks, for telling me that, for- for caring enough to give me advice." Cedric gives Harry a firm nod, and he walks off and towards the great hall. Harry is lacking in any appetite at all, and he lets the other boy go, waiting for a few moments in the entrance hall. He'd put on his robes and walked up for breakfast out of pure habit, and now the idea of even biting into a piece of toast is making his stomach turn.

"Come on, Potter," says a light and amused voice, and Blaise walks out of the great hall easily and with a natural grace, morning light shining on his cheekbones. "Let's go for a walk." Relief surges through Harry, and he grins at the other boy, giving an inclination of his head and walking alongside Blaise out into the courtyard and then down the hill. They synchronize their steps as they move down over the grass, not a drop of dew clinging to the blades and with daisies and buttercups sprouting about between the green shoots.

"I didn't want to go in for breakfast," Harry says quietly, and Blaise gives a slow, easy nod of his head. Rather than walking with Harry down towards the lake and the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, Blaise turns the two of them down towards the path to the Hogwarts gates, where a few trees dot either side of the gravel road, and near to the gates themselves is a private little copse of trees.

"It's alright," Blaise replies, giving a shrug of his shoulders. He and Harry walk in the very middle of the road, tracing the path taken by the coaches when they're brought up towards Hogwarts, and Harry leans slightly towards the other boy. Blaise glances at him, glances back towards the castle, and then he steps slightly away from Harry: despite the pleasant heat on the summer breeze, Harry feels abruptly cold. "Are you worried about the Third Task? I wouldn't be, were I you."

"Wouldn't you?" Harry asks, and Blaise gives the neatest nod of his aristocratic head.

"I feel that the two of you, you and Cedric, will come out of this as victors." Harry glances to Blaise, and he wonders why all of a sudden everyone is having feelings and impressions as to the future. If it had been one person, he might have accepted it, but like this it feels insincere, like everyone's so sure he's going to die they have nothing better to do than lie to him about it.

"Right," Harry says, a little bluntly. "If you say so." As they step under the umbrella of the trees in the little copse, Harry looks about; they enter a clearing with colourful flowers and mushrooms carpeting the ground, and Harry vaguely wonders why he hasn't seen this part of the grounds before. Blaise steps forwards and into the centre of the clearing, and then he looks back to Harry and gives a small, neat smile. "Did you want to talk about something?"

"No, not at all," Blaise replies, reaching out and taking old of Harry's robe front, drawing him closer and closer, until their noses nearly brush together, and Blaise is looking right through the lenses of Harry's glasses and into his eyes. "I merely wanted you." Blaise leans in to kiss Harry, and although Harry feels the warmth of Blaise's lips brush his, he doesn't kiss the other boy back. Blaise pulls back from Harry, an expression of utter puzzlement on his face, and Harry examines his features in quiet silence.

He thinks of how Blaise had looked back towards the castle when Harry had tried to lean against him, and how Blaise will show him affection only in front of Hermione, and in front of no one else. Blaise is tilting his head just slightly to the side, his hands fisted still in the front of Harry's robe, and Harry reaches up, pulling his hands gently away.

"What is it, pray?" Blaise queries, amusement replacing his puzzlement. "Surely you aren't so scared you're lacking in all libido?"

"I don't think this is a good idea," Harry says quietly. "Any of this. I'm going up to the castle." Blaise is staring at him, his mouth slightly open, his perfectly molded features for once betraying a complete expression: horror, befuddlement, anger...

"You cannot possibly mean-"

"I don't want to be like Elton John," Harry blurts out, and is surprised by the tension in his own voice, and the way his voice shakes.

"Who in Merlin's name is that?" Blaise demands, voice slightly high and sharp with anger. Harry opens his mouth and then closes it, unsure how to explain it, how to define himself immediately, and he decides not to. He staggers backwards, just slightly, and he hears Blaise say something but he doesn't really register what the words are: he turns on his heel, and as fast as he can he walks briskly up towards Hogwarts again. He doesn't want to turn into the castle, not right now, and not when Blaise might follow him, so he heads the other way, and when he approaches the Beauxbatons carriage parked in its place, he walks up toward its fine, wooden door and knocks upon the white-painted surface. He lingers on the pretty, brass steps, and when one of the great, black horses comes towards him, he stays completely still, letting it nudge him in the shoulder. He reaches out, delicately drawing the pads of his fingers over its wide, dark muzzle.

"He likes you," comes the voice of Coralie, and when Harry turns to meet her gaze, the horse snorts, blowing warm air against the side of Harry's neck and ruffling his hair. Coralie is dressed in a set of Muggle clothes, a loose, beige jumper worn over a pair of tight, tartan shorts, and over top of the ensemble she wears the outer piece of her Beauxbatons robe - somehow, the combination comes across as artful rather than ridiculous. "That is rare - he barely likes anybody. Come inside, Harry," Coralie steps back into the carriage, and then she neatly pushes the door closed. The carriage is huge as a castle on the inside, and before him Harry sees a great, marble staircase leading up into what would be the ceiling, and on each side of it are doors leading off into other corridors. "This way," Coralie murmurs, her accent thickly weighting down the words, and she leads Harry to the right and through to a brightly lit, classically decorated dining room.

Seated at a desk with a French magazine on the surface before her, with her left hand held out so she can wandlessly affect her nails to be painted a robin's egg blue, Fleur Delacour sits alone, her eyes flitting easily over the page. "This young man is here to see you, Fleur," Coralie says sweetly, and when Fleur turns to glance at him, Harry breathes in the slight cloud of her perfume on the air.

"Harry," she says softly, and then she smiles, softly. "You look sad." Harry thinks about Blaise in the copse down by the Hogwarts gate, alone in the midst of all those flowers. Coralie taps Harry on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, and then she walks away, her feet making barely any sound on the varnished boards of the dining room beneath her.

"Just a bit of drama," Harry says, shrugging his shoulders, and from the big dining table in the middle of the room, he takes a chair and sits down on it beside Fleur's desk, and she smiles at him, her face utterly radiant. "Cedric told me what your grandmother said." Fleur breathes in, her nostrils flaring slightly, and she neatly closes the glossy, animated magazine and pushes it neatly aside: on the cover, a wizard and witch in the most fashionable dress robes spin in an enchanted waltz.

"She did not tell a Prophecy like your lady here," Fleur murmurs, dropping the aspirates and taking up her drink from the side, taking a sip. "But she has visions, sometimes, of things... She saw their masks and their robes, Harry. She wrote me saying I ought be very careful in the Task - of course, I had to alert you three also."

"Are you scared?" Harry asks, and Fleur tilts her head to the side, examining Harry curiously.

"You know, Harry," Fleur says, her glossed lips twitching."It has been a very long time since anyone has thought to ask me that." The little brush drawing itself over her nails dusts itself off and settles in the bottle, and with a wave of her wand, she dries off the varnish on the painted nails, and then she stands, neatly. She looks like the kind of debutante Petunia would hold back her tuts for on the television. "Come: take some hot chocolate with me, and let us talk about it. You remind me of my sister, you know, Harry."

"But I'm prettier, right?" Fleur laughs, putting back her head, and when she looks at Harry and grins once more, she shows all of her lovely teeth.

"No, not so much. But she is eight, so you are about the same age." Harry snorts, and with her leading the way, he follows her into the kitchen.

Harry watches as Fleur moves through the kitchen with a natural grace, surprised by how proper and in-place she looks there: he has never imagined something so homely as the kitchen being Fleur Delacour's domain, but she seems as at home here as she does anywhere else. Harry wonders if there's anywhere where she looks a fish out of water, and decides that there probably isn't. Fleur flicks on the stove with a wave of her wand, setting a pot on the burning ring and pouring milk into it, then setting within it squares of chocolate taken from a jar on the shelf.

The kitchen is large, high-ceilinged and with a lot of space between the counters, and when Fleur gestures for him to sit on a stool set at the counter, Harry does.

"I didn't know you cooked," Harry says, and Fleur laughs again, the sound ringing through the room.

"This is not cooking, Harry. But yes - everyone at Beauxbatons does." She takes a wooden spoon from a very expensive looking vase, where it is arranged with spatulas and other cooking implements, and she stirs the mixture within the pot. Within a few more moments, the scent of chocolate is thick on the air, and Harry can't help but breathe it in and relax under it. "We do not have House Elves to serve us," Fleur says, seeming amused at the very thought. "There are some caretakers to assist us, but cooking for ourselves, cleaning for ourselves - these are parts of our duties. We learn by doing. It's very important to do one's own chores, no?"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, giving a small nod of his head in agreement. "Yeah, it is. They don't teach us that here, at least, not in classes. We got given books of cleaning charms in our first year of Slytherin house, though. Do you have houses like we do?" Fleur shakes her head.

"We take on a similar relationship, but only with those of our own year. We all sleep together in a large, communal dormitory, forming our especial bonds based on our ages rather than our shared qualities." Fleur doesn't pronounce the "u" in the word, but Harry doesn't correct her. He likes to hear her speak as she sweeps around the room, tidying things that she apparently believes are out of place and occasionally stirring the pot on the stove. "Do you like being in an 'ouse?"

"Yeah," Harry says, nodding his head. "I never considered the alternative, to be honest, but I'm really glad to be part of Slytherin house - we take care of each other." Fleur nods her head in stout approval, and she takes the pot from the stove, pouring the hot chocolate smoothly into two mugs without spilling a drop and handing one of them to Harry. As she takes a seat beside him, crossing her ankles in the most ladylike fashion possible, she sweeps her wand behind her in a careless fashion, and she sets the pot and the wooden spoon to wash in the basin.

"I wish I could do magic like that," Harry says, shaking his head slightly. "You guys all do it without thinking, almost - it's amazing that you can do it without the incantations." Fleur smiles at Harry, cupping the mug in her hands and taking a delicate sip from it.

"It is something some people have trouble with," Fleur says, "but I have no doubt you will find it very easy once you begin. Magic becomes so natural, over time, and your wand movements become more fluid, your incantations silent, your magic more... Usual. No, that isn't the word I want. Natural says it well enough, I suppose. It is part of you now, Harry, but as you grow, you become part of it also. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think so." Harry brings the mug of cocoa up to his lips, drinking from it and finding it sweet, but not nearly as much as he expected. As Fleur settles her mug in her lap, she flicks up her eyes up to meet his. Harry lets the silence linger between them, broken only by the sound of each of them breathing and by the sound of the newly cleaned dishwear being stacked neatly upon the draining board.

"My grandmother said, Harry," Fleur murmurs, "that she saw a great crowd of people, laughing, and having good times. And as they laughed, the Death Eaters came, and she said there was blood running over the dry, brown ground. Like that in the colosseum, you know, Harry?" Fleur speaks very quietly and with an intense gravity Harry's never heard from her before, and then she takes a small drink from her mug. "You asked me if I was scared. I have not been scared in many years, but I am scared now: not for myself, but for you, Harry, and for the children here." Fleur reaches out, putting her hand gently on Harry's own, squeezing it gently, and she says, "You must lead these children. They know you, Harry, and you must be strong for them."

"I'm going to be," Harry promises. He realizes, with a vague certainty, that he doesn't feel the effect of Fleur's Veela allure at all, and when he realizes, he frowns slightly. Its affect has been lessened on him over the past while, but now he doesn't feel it at all, and why...? When Harry realizes, it's suddenly, and he stares into the dark liquid in his mug. Occlumency, obviously, blocks out the power of a Veela's allure.

"I've told you why I am scared, Harry," Fleur says, her tone smooth. "Why not tell me why you looked so sad?" Fleur's hand, still over Harry's own, is warm but dry, and Fleur leans towards him. For a strange, surreal second, Harry thinks Fleur is going to kiss him, but she simply leans closer, until their noses are nearly touching and they're eye to eye, and she says, "Is this about you and that young man? I saw the two of you walking down from the castle earlier today." Harry swallows, his mouth dry, and he feels his Adam's apple bob in his throat; Fleur's voice is hushed, and Harry finds himself unable to respond for a long few moments.

Then, he gives the smallest nod of his head.

Fleur takes back her hand, drinking from her mug, and the two of them sit in the quiet for a little while. "'Ow long have you been involved?" Fleur's voice is gentle, but she doesn't simper or talk down to him, and nor does she sound as involved as he knows Hermione would. She just asks the questions like they barely mean anything to her, and somehow, it makes them easier to answer.

"I dunno. Six months, I guess." The words come out without any feeling in them, and Fleur gives a sympathetic shake of her head.

"Ah, the romance of the young. Why is it that you broke apart?"

"Don't know if we have yet," Harry mutters. "Do you know who Elton John is?"

"I do not. Should I?"

"No." Harry drains the last of his mug, and he sets it down on the counter, putting his hands in his lap and tapping his thumb against the back of his other hand. "He's- because we're both- is it different in France? Here, it's not... It's not proper for wizards to be together." Fleur seems to consider the question, and then she flicks her wand, Summoning the magazine she'd been reading before Harry had come to talk to her. She flicks through the pages, and she settles on a double-page spread printed in glossy blues and blacks.

One wizard is stripped to his outer robe, hair dusting his chest and light glinting off of the oil there, and he's gasping into the mouth of a taller, fully-dressed man wearing even his pointed hat: beneath the calligraphy of the advertisement is a small, pink circle, and when Fleur taps it with her wand, the scent of the cologne it's an advert for comes up to meet Harry's nose, musky and slightly sweet. "What do the words mean?" Harry asks, tracing the silver letters that hang over the breathing figures of the bodies.

"Le fruit défendu," Fleur answers. "Fruit that is... The word escapes me. Banned?"

"Forbidden?"

"Yes! Yes, that is it. Forbidden fruit." Fleur leaves the magazine in his hands, and says, "It is maybe... Salacious. The thought of wizards together, or of witches together, it is perhaps thought of as very sexy. But it is not unheard of - people whisper, but people whisper all the same, in France. It is different here, and different again in other countries, Harry." Harry's gaze is glued to the magazine spread before him, the sight of the two men looking completely comfortable, the photograph no different than any normal cologne advert Harry's ever seen, but with two men instead of a man and a woman.

"France seems pretty cool," Harry says. Fleur laughs, and she taps his cheek affectionately.

"It is very cool. But not in summertime." As Harry gives a weak little laugh, Fleur stands, and when Harry sets the magazine on the counter, she shakes her head, taking it up and pushing it back into his hands. "No, Harry, keep this. You will learn something about fashion from it, perhaps." Fleur presses a kiss to the top of the head, and he murmurs a quiet thank you as he walks out of the carriage. He doesn't immediately make his way up towards the castle, and instead lingers beside it with the horses.

They're huge beasts, and Harry couldn't guess their wingspan when they're folded up against their sides, but the one that had nudged him before comes directly up to him, its big brown eyes focused on him. It towers over him, and in order to reach up to stroke its nose as he had on the steps, Harry stands on top of the stump of an old tree, reaching out and stroking its neck. The movement of his hand is slow and rhythmic, and when the horse turns, spreading one of its wings out slightly, Harry takes the hint and gently draws his fingers through the feathers there.

"So," Harry says quietly, combing through the feathers with a firm but gentle movement of his hand, "You're an Abraxan winged horse. You're pretty big, aren't you?" The horse snorts its agreement, nudging Harry in the hip with the tip of its wing, and Harry laughs a little, playing over the glossy black feathers. There are twelve of the horses, in all, and there are two other horses with a similar obsidian colour to their hair as this one, but the rest are all palamino, some with dappled white spots on their backs and haunches.

They're bigger than the Hippogriffs, and although they require strict manners, once they're greeted properly, they're pleasant enough with people - Harry has heard that Abraxans aren't especially friendly, as a rule, but this particular one seems to like him.

"The Abraxans require very forceful 'andling, Harry, and are incredibly, ah- strong-willed," says a voice behind him, and Harry turns to see Madame Maxime beside him. She's so tall that when viewed beside the Abraxan it seems like a normal horse rather than the elephantine creature it is, and she smiles, reaching out and patting the thing's rump. "But this is Père Georges. He is a very kind, middle-aged man with several children and a sensible job." Harry finds himself laughing before he even thinks about it, and Georges leans in, nudging his nose against Harry's forehead and blowing hot air through his fringe.

"Hagrid said you bred them," Harry says, glancing back at her. Hagrid, at the time, had seemed already quite in awe of Madame Maxime, and knowing that she had got dangerous animals to beget more dangerous animals had, of course, delighted Hagrid more than any other fact could possibly have done. "Do you really like magical creatures, Madame Maxime?"

"Oh, of course," she says gravely, "Otherwise I would not teach children." Harry grins, and when Georges nudges him again, Harry nudges him back, playfully, and pats his muzzle gently. "I went to school with Fleur's grandmother, Harry. She wrote to me also - you came to speak to her, yes?" Harry nods his head, and Madame Maxime puts one of her huge hands upon Harry's shoulder, patting him hard enough to wind him slightly. "Focus on losing to my girl for now, Harry. Ignore what is outside for now."

"I'm not going to lose, Madame Maxime," Harry says, grinning slightly, and he gives Georges one last pat on the muzzle before he steps down from the trunk. Maxime smiles back at him as Harry finally moves a little way away from the carriage.

It isn't even 11 o'clock yet, and Harry desperately wants something to do with his day that doesn't involve lingering in the castle and avoiding Blaise, or avoiding other people, or being around people. When Harry reaches the courtyard, he hesitates at the top of the hill, and he turns to look at the Whomping Willow, which is enjoying the summer weather and occasionally plucking birds out of the sky.

In the distance, slightly away from the village, Harry can see the roof of the Shrieking Shack, and with a nod of his head, he makes his way into the castle.

---

Neither Blaise nor Draco are in the Slytherin common room, and when Harry glances at the Marauders' Map, he sees that the both of them are upstairs in the library. He goes to the wardrobe, pulling out an outer set of green day robes, and he puts on his latest jumper from Mrs Weasley and a pair of jeans, retaining his dragonhide school boots. With the day robes over top the outfit, he's dressed in a way not dissimilar to Arthur Weasley, and then he looks to the mirror over his desk.

Taking off his glasses, he charms the metal of the frame green so that they're wide and square, and then he focuses on his hair in the mirror. It's not really possible to spell one's hair convincingly a different colour in a way that lasts, but he doesn't need it for too long, so he charms his hair an auburn red. Looking at himself in the mirror, ginger fringe combed over his scar with square glasses and a mix of Muggle and magical clothing, he knows that he doesn't look like Harry Potter.

Smiling a little, he shoves his coin purse into a satchel, and he throws his father's Invisbility Cloak over his shoulders.

As Harry moves to the edge of the Shrieking Shack, where Sirius had kicked out a few boards in order to get in and out last year, he pulls on his cloak again, and he's invisible as he makes his way slowly down the hill and into the edge of the woods. He's careful about glancing around, and then he pulls off his cloak, setting it neatly inside the satchel.

After making sure his fringe is pulled down over his eyes, he puts his hands in his pockets, and he makes his way out of he woods and into the village. He's conscious of the way he walks, wondering if it in itself is recognizable, and he's not stupid enough to go into the Three Broomsticks or into the Hog's Head, where he knows Madam Rosmerta or the old man in the Hog's Head will immediately recognize him, vague disguise or not.

There are people walking in Hogsmeade, chatting together and buying pastries from a stall on the green; with the early summer sun shining down, various wizards and witches are walking through the streets of Hogsmeade in mixed kinds of brightly coloured clothes, and he can see people on dates, people out with their families, children playing over the green. Harry's only ever seen groups of magical people this big in King's Cross Station or the Ministry, or in Diagon Alley, and it feels completely different to see them in Hogsmeade like this.

It seems so naked and lacking in the usual secrecy - there are no cavernous ceilings over the crowd, and no high walls on every side. Harry never realized how good the brim of a wizard's hat was for keeping off the glare of the sunshine.

He takes a step away from the main street of Hogsmeade and down to a side street; the post office is here, as well as a small pet shop, a modest stationery store and a secondhand store. It's the latter that Harry makes his way towards, and as soon as he's inside, he feels the pleasant difference in temperature, letting the coolness of the cluttered room settle on his skin.

He likes antique shops and secondhand stores, the way they pile up junk and flotsam around on all the shelves, and he takes a long time moving slowly through the room, peering with interest at all the objects on the shelves. There are toys, records, knick-knacks, clothes, jewellery, instruments...

Harry reaches up and onto a shelf, taking down something that glints in the light from the window. The dagger is perhaps six inches long with a bronzed hilt, and he finds that he likes the weight of it in his hand. On a whim, he places it on the side of his hand, and the hilt and blade are perfectly balanced, remaining still and not bobbing at all one way or the other.

He takes it over to the front of the shop, and he looks at the old man behind the counter. He's a wizened old wizard with slight bags under his eyes, and he squints at Harry for a few moments as he sets the dagger down on the glass surface between them.

"Shouldn't you be in school, young man?" comes the quavering question, and Harry stares directly into his face for a second or two.

"Er, no, sir," Harry says. He glances down at his feet, making himself sway awkwardly as he tries to think desperately of something. Being expelled would be too much to explain, and Harry doesn't know enough about any of the other schools to use them as a lie... "Er- I'm here with my family for the day. I'm a Squib, sir." Immediately, the man's suspicious demeanour drains away like water down a plughole, and he hurriedly takes up a brown paper bag, neatly wrapping up the dagger and mumbling the price. Harry hands over the coins, offering the old man a small smile, and he gives a nod of his head in response, obviously trying to be as friendly as possible without actually talking to him.

Harry steps out into the street, neatly placing the wrapped dagger into his bag, and he thinks as he walks, his hands in his pockets. He walks more casually than he had before, not overthinking every step he makes: instead, he thinks about the old man's reaction to having a Squib in his shop. It wasn't hostility or anger or fear, but simple embarrassment, maybe mixed with sympathy, and Harry can't help but keep on thinking about it.

The dagger in his bag had been a complete whim, and he doesn't even know what he'll do with it - maybe use it as a letter-opener - but this is something slightly different. He doesn't wish to linger in Hogsmeade, and instead he dips into the woods again and out of the way, throwing his cloak on over his shoulders and dipping his head down, but rather than making his way back to the Shrieking Shack, he begins to walk up the path towards the mountains.

Keeping his Invisibility Cloak on his back and fastened shut, he walks quietly in the middle of the dirt path, keeping away from the outcrops of rock and the trees on either side. He keeps his eyes open for the signs of thick strung webbing between the trees, but he doesn't see any at all, and he's almost disappointed: he'd been interested in seeing how the Acromantula were adjusting to the lighter forests outside in Hogsmeade. They're far enough from Muggle towns that they can linger for the time being, but Harry knows that the Ministry will try to contain them if they branch out as they had done in the Forbidden Forest.

He knows the path up towards the mountains, even though he hasn't walked it very often, but he doesn't really have a focused idea of how far he's going to walk or where precisely he's going. He just knows that he has no real wish to be in Hogsmeade, where he can't risk going in too many places even whilst pretending to be a Squib, and he knows he'll not really cross paths with anyone up near the cliff edges, where the mountains tower high above you. Harry's seen videos on the news of people climbing or abseiling, and he vaguely thinks that he might like to do it as he lets his gaze flicker up to the yellow cliff side that banks up before him in the distance.

It must be so exciting, to climb like that without knowing at any time if you might fall or not, trying to get footholds and handholds in the side of something as huge and unyielding as a mountain...

Harry reaches, after walking for maybe forty minutes or so, a wide, open clearing, trees on all three sides with the fourth opening right up against the cliff face. The path continues in two directions, both clinging to the side of the mountain to the left and to the right, and when Harry turns around, looking down the path he'd taken, Hogsmeade is further away than he'd thought it could be. The path hadn't been too steep, but he realizes now how much he'd climbed, and he feels a vague sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, sitting down on a smooth rock to the edge of the flat space.

He'll stay here for a little while to think, letting his legs have a rest, and then he'll make his way back into town and in towards the Shrieking Shack. He glances around the clearing, and then he frowns slightly.

The floor of the clearing is... Very smooth.

It isn't like the dirt path he'd walked up of, naturally giving away in places under the pressure of his boots or with weeds growing here and there. There are no weeds at all, and the the oval of space between the trees has no weeds at all, no imperfections. The stone Harry is sat on is one of the only different things about the smooth, flat ground, but the other large pieces of rock are the same: no moss on them, no plants, and each smooth and at the perfect height for someone to sit on.

Six of them.

Harry freezes in his place, even under the safety of the Invisibility Cloak, and he looks to the side of the mountain, he sees absolutely nothing odd about it. It seems just as normal as the rest of the cliff spanning up above him, or to the sides, but the ground here is so smooth.

Harry pulls himself to the edge of the stone to walk down the path again, but he freezes as he turns to look the other way. With a quiet pop of sound, Gilderoy Lockhart appears before Harry's wide eyes, a smile on his face. He's wearing a set of forest-green robes at the height of fashion, and his hair is longer than Harry's ever seen it, down to his shoulders and tied neatly behind his head by a green ribbon. It's thick and wavy, and the ribbon seems to be struggling to contain its volume.

"Now then," Lockhart says, clapping his hands together, and he leads a group of four people forwards - but Lockhart couldn't possibly have Side-Along Apparated with four people. Harry scans the faces of each of them, and finds he vaguely recognizes them all, but he doesn't know any of their names. A keeper of records for the Ministry, a butcher who works in Diagon Alley, a model Harry recognizes from a poster of Fred's, and a train conductor Harry's seen the past few years on the Hogwarts Express all stand around Lockhart, who looks more serious than Harry's ever seen him.

Lockhart's lost a little weight, and the effect is to make the bones in his face stand out more, but there's a pink scar under his jawline against his neck that Harry's never noticed again, and Lockhart's hands have more muscle on them than Harry's seen before. He looks like a completely different man, and he steps forwards into the centre of the cliffside, glancing back to the people with him.

"Well, then!" Lockhart says, and then, "I suppose this is your last chance to back out, really. We shan't do anything about it, if you do change your minds - we shan't force you."

"We want to be here," says the train conductor - he has a thick Scottish accent. "You know we do, Gilderoy, after weeks of this." Lockhart's smile is small, not one of the big, fake things Harry's seen before, and so he takes another step back.

"Well," Lockhart says, "The secret hideout of ours is located... Just here!" He flourishes his hands in the overdramatic way Harry is used to, and Harry follows the point of his hands. For one moment, the cliffside is completely the same as it had been before, but when Harry blinks, there's a broad opening to a cave, and Harry can't believe he hadn't noticed it before. It had been right there, after all - it's like his eyes have just come into focus. Inside the cave is a red rug covering its floor, and hanging from its ceiling are oil lanterns. There is normal furniture inside - sofas, a chair, even a huge, old-fashioned stove with a small chimney. "Come in," Lockhart says. "We've a lot to talk about."

Lockhart leads his little crew of people into the cave, and Harry creeps after them, taking a little distance.

At the back of Lockhart's effective entrance hall is an archway, and Harry follows as silently as he can up the little corridor until they all arrive in a huge atrium of sorts. Harry has never seen wallpaper on the walls of a cave before, but it is extremely fashionable in black and gold, and somehow Lockhart's managed to make it look like it should be there.

Around this great hall are a lot of circular tables with chairs dotted around them, and with different people sat at them, people Harry recognizes and those that Harry does not.

"Welcome, all of you," says a voice Harry recognizes, and he turns to see Gladys Gudgeon with her arms open and a smile on her face. "Come, take a seat - Sara is just bringing in a few more people, and then we're all going to eat together." Gudgeon smiles at them, and then she moves to Lockhart, catching him by the arm with one of her perfectly manicured nails. Harry creeps forwards, ensuring he keep out of the way of people moving, and he follows Gudgeon and Lockhart as they walk down another corridor and into a beautifully decorated room with several ovens running, the stove tops covered. Harry sees several corridors leading off the atrium, and there are others leading off this kitchen. How much have they carved into the mountain, these people?

"Did they all come, Gilderoy?" asks Jacqueline Flockhart, who is sat at the table in the kitchen, and Lockhart nods his head. Bonnie Darling, who is moving at speed around the kitchen with her wand in her hand shoos Lockhart and Gudgeon to sit down at the table, and with casual wand work sets a dozen plates on the surface of the table, beginning to fill them with food. Harry stares at the perfectly prepared little pies, chips, plates of pork and chicken wings, and when he breathes in, he's reminded of how hungry he is.

"They all came," Lockhart confirms, and he smiles slightly. "Ladies, I do believe we'll be able to go right ahead."

"Shouldn't Sara be back by now?" Darling asks, a little anxiously, and Flockhart hushes her quietly, reaching out and touching her back as she stops beside them, a spatula in hand.

"She'll be back in a few minutes, Bonnie, don't worry so. She's not nearly so young as she looks." Darling huffs, but she gives a reluctant nod of his head, and Harry frowns from the side of the room, looking between the lot of them and trying to figure out what is going on. "We're ready, Gilderoy, I'm sure. This is brave of you, I hope you realize."

"What else could we do, at this point?" Lockhart asks, and Harry's frown deepens. "With Chad dead-" He trails off, and then he nods his head. "After food, we'll get into it." Lockhart actually looks worried, and Harry can't really believe it: Lockhart has lines on his face, a frown twisting his features, and he awkwardly moves his knee under the table, bouncing it again and again. What the Hell could possibly be going on?

"I'll help you, Bonnie," Flockhart says, standing as Darling puts out another set of plates, and before Flockhart can make her way down corridor with the plates hovering behind her, Darling grabs her by the front of the robes, and kisses her on the mouth. Harry stares, shocked, as the two old women kiss, smile into each other's mouths, and then draw apart again, with Flockhart taking a series of plates down the corridor with her.

Lockhart and Gudgeon didn't seem to have even noticed.

"You're ready, darling," Gudgeon is saying quietly, and she puts one of her hands on Lockhart's. "And we're all ready with you. Come on, now." Harry stays stockstill as Lockhart and Gudgeon move down the corridor, and he keeps in his place as Darling finishes plating up her day's labour, making the plates hover down the corridor in front of her.

For a long few moments, Harry stays still in the empty kitchen, wondering if he's having some sort of very real, very abstract dream.

And then, steeling himself, he follows Darling down the corridor.

Harry spends the next few minutes hovering at the very edge of the atrium of Lockhart's hide-out, looking out across the tables. Fed by Bonnie Darling, there are maybe forty or fifty wizards and witches throughout the room, settled and eating, but they're all preoccupied. They constantly glance up to Lockhart, who remains on his feet to speak with Gladys Gudgeon, and when she arrives, a very young woman in a set of blue dress robes with glitter shining from her skirts. She brings another half-dozen people who settle down at the tables, and Harry frowns deeply as he tries to understand what the Hell Lockhart has these people for.

"Sara," Gudgeon says, touching the young woman's forearm, and Sara meets the older woman's gaze before giving a nod of her head. Sara's magic is silent as she draws her wand across the room, dimming the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and she Vanishes the empty plates from the table with an obscene ease. Harry can't help but stare, as Sara looks like she might be perhaps nineteen or twenty, and her command over the magic around her is more like something he's seen from Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick.

"Thank you ever so much for joining us," Lockhart says, and he stands before a fireplace that has been carved directly into the rock of the large cave (although, Harry notes, the wallpaper has been perfectly moulded around its edges). Lockhart's expression is serious, and he doesn't gesticulate as much as he does usually. "You know how we came to be here: no doubt you've followed the story in the papers the past year - Azkaban, our appearances in Hogsmeade, and Chad." There are a few murmurs about the room, and Lockhart nods his head, studying the faces of those around him. "Chad was murdered recently, as I'm sure you know: it was retribution, in part, for a murder he committed of Belle Rosier."

There are murmurs around the room, but Lockhart doesn't seem to be annoyed or interested by them: he doesn't seem to even notice the reactions of his audience, his blue eyes glazed over and focusing somewhere else entirely.

"Chad was murdered by Death Eaters." Abruptly, the whispers cease. Every eye in the room is on Lockhart, and he takes in a few breaths before he goes on, keeping his audience rapt as he says, "You-Know-Who has returned, and he is slowly gaining power. All of you here are old enough to remember the war, old enough to have lost people during the fight. I myself left Hogwarts and immediately began to travel abroad - I missed the true horrors of that time." Lockhart stands a little straighter, his hands clasped solemnly before him - this is the first time Harry's ever seen him address an audience and not gesticulate wildly.

"When I was broken out of Azkaban, I didn't have a plan. I wanted revenge on those who'd put me there, and I didn't think of what had truly happened - we destroyed the wizarding prison, and as someone who has spent time there..." The glazed look intensifies for a moment, and then Lockhart says, "You cannot possibly know how truly terrible that place was." He speaks in barely a whisper, and goes on to add, "But the Death Eaters escaped with Chad and I, and now they surround You-Know-Who as he readies himself for war once more."

"You suggesting we build an army?" asks the train conductor of the Hogwarts Express, and Lockhart turns to look at him.

"Yes," he says simply. The word rings through the room, and Lockhart studies the faces of the people in front of him. Harry stares, silent, and he looks from Lockhart to the others in the room - there are quietly interested or shocked expressions on each of those gathered, and Gladys Gudgeon is serious, standing behind Lockhart and looking for all the world like his mother. "Would you have You-Know-Who's forces take the world by storm?"

"Why us? Why you?" Lockhart hesitates, and then he looks to Bonnie Darling and Jacqueline Flockhart, who are standing together. Harry follows his gaze, and he sees the way the two women's hands are still entwined.

"I never planned to build an army," Lockhart says. "But during the war, the fight was between You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, killing Muggleborns and those sorts, and between light wizards and witches - but did anything change? Those of you who are Muggleborn, do you truly feel accepted by the world around you? Those of you with mixed blood in your veins, the w-werewolves, don't you still have to keep yourself registered with the Ministry as if you're less than people?" Lockhart stumbles on the word "werewolf", but none of his audience seem to really notice: they're all focused on him, and Harry wonders which of them are werewolves until he notices the two of them with the familiar shabby clothes, the tired, sickly looks about them. They remind Harry of Remus, and he feels a twist of something in his gut.

There's something not quite right about this situation, and he wonders, for a second, if this is some incredibly abstract dream, if he'd fallen and hit his head on the walk up the mountain.

"You-Know-Who, for the time being, doesn't really care about us," comes the strong, ringing voice of Gladys Gudgeon, and she looks around the assembled witches and wizards with her carefully glossed lips pursed, her expression focused. "He should like Gilderoy and the rest of us dead, like Chad, but we're not high on his list of priorities. We have an opportunity to work together and become a force of our own."

"A force? Why should we fight someone like You-Know-Who?"

"We all have something to fight for," Jacqueline Flockhart says. Her voice, usually sharp and piercing, is slightly quiet, but Harry still hears it at the very edge of the atrium. Flockhart's hand is entwined tightly with Bonnie Darling's, and Harry stares at the way their fingers look; Flockhart's fingers are thinner and bony, with bright green polish upon the long nails, and Darling's fingers are more plump with flour still dusting the knuckles. "War is coming. Why should we go through another war, see more of our children, our loved ones die, to go back to the same state of things? Don't you wish life were different than it is? Don't you wish-"

Flockhart trails off, and she seems uncharacteristically uncertain. Silence abounds in the room, and then someone's watch chimes.

"Sorry!" the wizard in question says, dragging it from his pocket by the chain. "Seven o'clock, need to drink my potion." Harry stiffens. Seven o'clock? Shit. He begins to shuffle as silently as he can around the edge of the room, barely daring to breathe as he makes his way behind Lockhart, behind Dean-Smith, and as fast as he can out of the cave's entrance - he runs as fast as he can possibly manage down the hillside and towards the Shrieking Shack, doing his best not to stumble as he goes.

---

Harry manages to sneak up the grassy knoll and towards the castle, and once inside, he moves down two or three lesser-used corridors from the entrance hall and begins to make his way towards the kitchens. He'd barely been aware of how long it had taken to walk up into the hills, and now he's back in the castle, he's aware of how utterly ravenous he is. Dinner will just be ending in the great hall, and he doesn't wish to try to explain himself as he heads in, so he walks carefully down a corridor towards the portrait of the fruit that leads to the kitchen.

He sets the heel of his boots down first, putting his sole down on the ground quietly enough that he doesn't even make a quiet tap as the toe of his boot touches the stone flagstone beneath him. He has to move slowly, but he doesn't truly mind - the corridors are entry during dinner, and when he tickles the fruit and slips inside the kitchen, he lets out an exhalation of utter relief.

Flying through the air are soaped dishes and trays and serving platters, being wiped clean or dried off and stacked in gigantic cabinets.

"Sorry," Harry says, and one little elf with huge, watery eyes stares up at him. "Could one of you give me a plate of some sandwiches or something? I'm sorry, I missed dinner-"

"Oh, yes, sir!" says the little thing, rushing off into the mess of the kitchen's action, and Harry makes his way slowly towards the stools settled by the fire. He looks at the back of the deep, red armchair settled by the fire, and he sighs a quiet sigh of relief: he can't wait to just settle into that big, cushioned thing, kick off his boots and-

"Is there a reason, Potter, that you have been absent from the castle for the past half-day?" Harry stares at the back of the armchair. Oh, no. No, no, no. Harry's shoulders slump, and he pads forwards to stand beside the armchair. Straight-backed, a copy of a German newspaper Harry can't read folded across his lap, Snape's black eyes meet Harry's.

"I guess I'm in a lot of trouble, huh?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And I'm not going to be able to sit in that chair."

"Assuredly not."

"And you're angry."

"You overestimate my investment."

"You're going to give me detention?"

"At least."

"You want an explanation?"

"Get on with it." Harry meets Snape's gaze, sitting slowly on a stool, and he glances at the fire as he politely takes the plate handed to him by a little house elf at his elbow. Should he lie?

"I snuck out," Harry says, voice quiet. He breathes in, breathes out, closes his eyes. He feels the warmth of the plate in his hands and, most crucially, it's wonderful weight. He opens his eyes and looks down at the stacked sandwiches on the plate, all made up of mixed fillings, and he worries his lower lip under his teeth. He's ridiculously hungry, but he knows he won't be able to eat with Snape's eyes boring into him, so he sets the plate aside, turns to Snape properly, and begins to talk.

"Didn't know you could speak German," Harry says some time later, picking at little pieces of a ham sandwich and eating barely a mouthful at a time as he looks not at his Head of House but at the newspaper discarded on the table; Snape is holding his head in his left hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. Snape's thin, pale lips are pressed together in a very thin line, his black eyes closed, and although he's almost perfectly composed, Harry can feel the fury radiating from him. "So, yeah, Lockhart's, like... Building an, uh, army. And I-"

"What do you think would have happened, Potter," Snape says, in a very quiet, very measured voice, and despite the position of his hand it isn't muffled in the least: Snape's tone is cool and his vowels are clipped, making it all-too-easy to understand him. "Had Lockhart discovered you?"

"I-"

"Or if one of his lackeys had?"

"Well-"

"Or if you had been spied in Hogsmeade by a follower of the Dark Lord?"

"But-"

"Shut up." Harry does. It's actually difficult to tell whether Snape is tired or not, most of the time, because the man always has dark circles under his eyes and gives the impression of one of those genius types that doesn't sleep much anyway and just gets by on a mix of black coffee and loathing for everyone around him, but Harry would guess that he's tired now - tired of Harry if not in general. "I find it difficult, Potter, to even conceive of what manner of idiocy you must hold in that head of yours."

"It's not all bad, though," Harry says, speaking quickly so that Snape can't shut him up. "I know it was dangerous but I found out something really important and I-"

"Potter, do you think the Order was not already aware of Lockhart's plans?" Harry stares at him.

"You knew? Why wasn't I told? I'm a member, I-"

"Do you wish for me to spell you silent, Potter?" Harry shuts his mouth. An icy cold shiver runs down his spine, and Snape's hand slides slowly down to his chin: he looks at the low fire in the hearth before them, the flames reflected in his black, black irises. Harry's never seen a Muggle with irises as black as Snape has - maybe only wizards can have eyes like that. "For the duration of the next month, without my express permission, you are not to leave the castle. Should you need to train with Mr Diggory in the grounds, you will ask me personally for the privilege."

"Are you serious? I'm not allowed to go outside?" Harry stares at the other man, utterly taken aback - what sort of insane punishment is this? What happened to detentions, or taking away points? "With due respect, sir, just because you have a vitamin D deficiency doesn't mean I should have one too!"

"For your lack of understanding as to what the phrase "due respect" might entail, Potter, I will remove twenty points from Slytherin house. You will be serving detention with me every Friday, Saturday and Sunday evening for the next month also." Despite Harry's rudeness, Snape seems to become calmer by the second, his posture remaining stiff but not as plainly furious, and there isn't as much tension in his tone.

"Sir, come on-"

"Do you truly wish to add to your punishment, Potter?"

"It's just-" Harry sighs, putting his head in his hands. "Professor, isn't this just punishing you as much as me? You don't want to hang out with me for three days a week for the next month." He doesn't think he imagines the momentary twitch of Snape's upper lip before it thins into a line again - he might not have convinced him, and he knows it's not in Snape's nature to be soft on anyone, but he maybe managed a half-second of amusement.

"We will not, Potter, be "hanging out". You will be scrubbing cauldrons, silently, and thinking on your very deserved punishment, and I shall be continuing my usual business." Taking a miserable bite of a cucumber sandwich, Harry looks into the fire, leaning back in his seat. "One would think you might have realized, Potter, that your life is not about yourself only. You must be aware of those around you: those who might have grieved your loss had you been killed or attacked, particularly given the prophecy you released - you cannot afford your usual stupidity, and ought borrow the use of someone else's sense of self-preservation if you cannot muster one yourself. Go to bed."

"Yes, sir," Harry mutters, and reluctantly, he stands. He hesitates for a few, long seconds, and when he meets Snape's gaze, the Potionsmaster arches one eyebrow expectantly. "You going to tell Dumbledore?"

"I can leave the privilege to you, if you'd rather."

"No," Harry says immediately, shaking his head, and then says, "Thanks, sir." He walks at speed from the kitchen, feeling from pure instinct that Snape isn't bothering to watch him leave, and he makes his way down towards the Slytherin common room. Draco is already fast asleep in bed, despite it not being very late, and Harry quietly takes off his boots and slides into his own bed, blowing out the candles. Closing his curtains, Harry lies on his back in bed, looking up at the filtered moonlight coming in from above. With the lake acting to colour the light, his bed is bathed in soft, green hues that shift with the wind above on the surface of the water, and usually this would soothe him, but it doesn't tonight.

Harry stays awake for the longest time, lying in his place in bed and barely moving. Snape was just being dramatic - he'd had the cloak on nearly the whole time, and he'd charmed his hair at one point anyway, so it's not like anyone would have recognized him even if the cloak had come off for some reason.

And when had the enchantments fallen away from his glasses, from his hair? He hadn't even noticed, but when he'd come into the Slytherin common room he'd noticed in a mirror that they were completely gone - and maybe it was stupid of him not to keep an eye on them.

Harry sits up in bed, setting his candle alight and looking at the small clock upon his bedside table: coming up to two in the morning. That means there are two days now, until the final task - he has today, and he has tomorrow, and then he and Cedric face up against whatever's going to meet them on the dirt ground of the arena.

Harry sighs, blowing out his candle and lying on his belly in bed, pressing his face into the pillow.

Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as a misfit army captained by Gilderoy Lockhart, or worse, a blind basilisk.

---

"You look terrible," Hermione says when Harry sits across from her at breakfast, settled as she is next to Ginny Weasley; Ginny gives Harry a sympathetic wince, shaking her head.

"Didn't you sleep, Harry?"

"Not really," he admits, shrugging his shoulders a little. The shadows under his eyes are very dark, as he'd seen in the mirror that morning, and his eyes feel very, very dry. He'd planned to sit alone at the Slytherin table for breakfast, having come down very early in the morning, but he'd seen Blaise sat there and--

Well. Harry had thought better of it.

"We should go for a walk after breakfast," Hermione says quietly. "Do some training for the Task on Tuesday."

"Can't," Harry mutters, and Hermione's bushy eyebrows furrow in confusion, her head tilting slightly to the side, until Harry says, "Snape's banned me from going outside without permission." Hermione stares at him, opening and closing her mouth as she tries to think of some way to respond, but Ginny just sniggers.

"Merlin's beard, Harry, you really know how to piss that man off. Even Fred and George have never got a punishment like that." Harry gives Ginny an awkward, self-deprecating smile, and she shakes her head, laughing, before pushing her empty bowl of porridge aside. She lingers at the Ravenclaw table for a few moments, talking with a girl Harry's seen Luna talk to, and then the two of them walk off together.

"We can just walk through some of the upstairs corridors," Hermione says, her voice quiet. "No one wanders high in the castle on the weekends anyway." When they stand, they walk together; Harry's hands settle in his pockets, and he moves slowly beside Hermione as they walk up the moving staircases - it's better not to move too fast anyway, so you can't lose your balance. They walk in silence until they reach one of the landings on the sixth floor, on the opposite side of the hall of staircases to the Fat Lady's portrait - Harry can see her squinting at him and Hermione as they slip off and into one of the well-carpeted, warm corridors.

They walk until they reach one of the outer walkways, where the wide windows let in the bright, summer sun and make motes of dust dance obviously in the air, dragged up from the carpets and rugs and pulled out of the tapestries and quilts hanging from the walls. The sixth and seventh floors aren't bare as a lot of the lower corridors are, but seem to be the place to store the knitted or sewed or embroidered things, just as hundreds of paintings and portraits hang about the hall of staircases.

Harry's sure that there'll come a day when Hogwarts is just so full of magical artifacts and knick-knacks and ornaments that they'll have to actually start chucking some of it out, but that time won't be for a while yet.

"You didn't sit next to Blaise this morning," Hermione says softly.

"No," Harry says, "We kind of, uh, broke up. I broke us up." Hermione is silent for a long time. Their boots don't make any noise on the mismatched, colourful carpets covering the stone floors, and their steps are synchronized. "Yesterday, I left him in this clearing by the gate, and then I talked to Fleur, and then- A lot happened."

"I didn't see you," Hermione admits, "I thought something must be wrong. I was desperate to interrogate you about it, but I thought you might tell me before I needed to." Harry laughs. The sound is muffled a little by all the fabric hanging from the walls and covering the ground, and he nudges Hermione in the side. "What did you do? To make Snape say that?"

"I snuck out of the castle." Hermione's eyes widen, and her light smile fades away, replaced by an expression of mixed indignation and horror.

"You didn't, Harry!"

"Wait, Hermione, just listen..." And Hermione, reluctantly, does.

---

By the time Harry's done telling her everything, having suffered only very minor interruptions and threats upon his life for having risked his life, he and Hermione are up in one of the attic-like corridors just above the seventh floor - there isn't really an eighth floor per se, but there are a few little walkways with low ceilings and cobwebs all around, where the House Elves don't bother to clean and virtually no one ever goes.

"I'm not surprised they didn't tell us," Hermione murmurs, bowing her head to duck under a low-hanging beam as she follows Harry into a right-turning. They stop, holding up their illuminated wands, and Harry watches as Hermione traces the ancient, musty books scattered along a shelf in front of them - a shelf that seems to be held together with mould and spiderwebs rather than its original nails. "If they're basically putting a spy in with Lockhart's group, I mean, and they could hardly put it in a letter. That's so weird, though - Lockhart getting together his own- his own army. He's an idiot. Did he really look that different?"

"Completely different," Harry says with a nod of his head, and they begin to walk again as Hermione abandons the books in front of them. They have to walk slowly here to make sure they don't step on any loose boards or on anything that might break or shatter, but it's nice to know they probably won't run into anyone. "With the scar on his neck, with the long hair... I think he's even put on a little bit of muscle. I mean, he's not a body builder or anything, but he definitely looks more solid than before." The two of them duck under a low beam, and they come into a little attic room with a round window to one side, decorated with stained glass: the Gryffindor lion is in its centre, and when Harry looks out of a piece of red glass, he looks down into the grounds below. "I think we're in the Gryffindor tower, between the common room and the dormitories upstairs."

"Mmm," Hermione says. To the edges of the room are a few stacked crates, and when Harry glances in one he grins. "What is it?"

"Gripton's Firewhiskey," Harry says, taking out a bottle and examining it. "Bottled as of 1977." Hermione laughs, taking another bottle from the crate and looking at it before glancing around the room. It's thick with dust, and other than the crates stacked in the corner and a few books, there's just a table with two chairs either side of it, and a half-finished chess game. Harry doesn't know much about chess, but he can see that the white side is winning, as the black has lost its queen, its queenside rook and both knights, as well as half of its pawns, and the white side still seems pretty strong.

"No one's been up here since the seventies or the eighties, I'd bet," Hermione murmurs, and she crouches on the ground, looking through the stack of books. She pulls out a magazine from the pile and shakes of the dust, and then she groans, throwing it to Harry.

"What?" Harry asks, and he looks at the cover. Harry laughs so hard he breathes in a lungful of dust, and he ends up trying to cough it out even while laughing. On the magazine's front is a young, oiled-up wizard, being made love to by a centaur. The enchantment's died a little from the pages, and so the movements of the man and the centaur are a little bit stunted, but the scene is still pretty filthy. "It's porn."

"Of course it is," Hermione says, putting her head in her hands. "Centaur porn!"

"It isn't all centaur porn," Harry murmurs, trying not to laugh for the sake of his sore throat, looking through the pages. "I think it's just Ancient Greece themed." He drops the magazine aside, looking back to the chess game, and he frowns slightly, drawing his thumb over the side of the board. There, engraved in a thick cursive, it says, To our son, Sirius Black, on the auspicious day of his thirteenth birthday.

There's no signature.

"Come on, Harry," Hermione says, smiling at him, and Harry follows her back into the little walkway - though not before grabbing three bottles of the Firewhiskey and shoving them into his bag. After all, with the Tournament nearly at a close, they're going to be celebrating or commiserating, and he knows he'll want some alcohol to hand either way.

"Hey, there, kiddo," Sirius says as Harry crosses the threshold from the great hall into the entrance hall, and immediately Harry throws himself at his godfather, enveloping him in a hug. Sirius laughs, hugging Harry tightly back, and then he smacks Harry affectionately on the back before letting him give Remus a hug as well. Standing in the doorway, he sees Lucius and Narcissa standing together, and he gives them a smile, heading over to them - he's not surprised when Narcissa gives him a tight hug, nor when Lucius gently pats the side of his cheek.

"You guys here to watch the Third Task?" Harry asks, and Lucius gives a small incline of his head. Harry taps his fingers against his thigh, bouncing a little from his toes back onto his heels, and he feels Sirius' hand touch against his shoulder. He'd spent all day in one of the unused classrooms with Cedric, going through drills for one situation or another, and now the day is finally here, he is...

Well.

Harry actually doesn't feel anxious, or worried, or anything like that - if anything, he just wants to get going. He guesses this is what Muggle sprinters feel like just before the starting gun goes off: he just wants to start already, without wanting to wait around, but he isn't really scared. He'd been rushing around that morning, throwing on his cloths - he'd laid a robe out ready to take up in the morning, but one of the lads must have stolen it during the night as a joke, and he'd had to rush around to grab a different one.

"Have you been training, Harry?" Narcissa asks, her expression serious and her tone slightly stern, and Harry nods his head. Narcissa's arm is linked with Lucius', and she leans slightly against him, but while Narcissa seems the epitome of calm, Harry can see the slight tremor through the dragonhide of Lucius' black gloves.

"Yes, Ma'am," he says, nodding his head, and then he says, "Me and Cedric are going to win this, Lucius - don't worry."

"Cedric and I," is all Lucius says in stiff response, and Harry hears Sirius laugh.

"He's been worrying about you all week," Sirius says gleefully, and although he isn't at all deterred by the furious glare Lucius levels at him, Remus seems to be deterred on his behalf, and nudges Sirius in the side. "But, uh, so have I, obviously," Sirius adds after a pause, and Harry laughs.

"Good luck, Harry," Lucius says quietly, in a voice that isn't especially warm but nonetheless holds a quiet gentleness, putting his hand on Harry's shoulder, and then he and Narcissa move out into the courtyard together, making their way down the hill and towards the colosseum.

"How are you feeling?" Remus asks, and Harry examines his face - in the past few months, Remus has looked healthier, less pallid, with more colour coming into his face, and Harry's seen that he's put on weight. He looks a little pale today, and Harry can see that he's stiff with worry, but he's trying to hide it.

"I'm feeling pretty great," Harry replies lightly, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. "Really, Remus, I'm feeling confident."

"That's what worries me," Remus murmurs, displaying the mildest hint of further anxiety, and Harry laughs. Sirius does too, smacking Remus affectionately on the back, and when McGonagall comes out of the great hall, Remus steps away to speak with her. Harry walks outside alongside Sirius, their steps in sync as they move out of the courtyard and over the grass down the hill.

"Found your old chess set," Harry says, and Sirius glances at him, confusion on his face. "In the crawlspace in the Gryffindor tower - we found some crates of firewhiskey, your old chess board halfway through a game... Some magazines." Sirius begins to laugh, first a little chuckle, and then a loud guffaw that rings out over the grounds as he throws his head back, clutching at his own belly. When he finally stops, catching his breath as best he can and wiping a tear from one of his eyes, he shakes his head, looking up at the fluffy, white clouds in the sky.

"Merlin, those magazines..." Sirius mutters, shaking his head. His cheeks are red from laughing, the tops of them wet with tears, and he grabs Harry in half a hug, pulling him close and pressing his nose into the top of Harry's hair, his breath hot against Harry's scalp. "I'd forgotten about that." Sirius pats Harry's shoulder, walking with him, half-leaning on Harry, and he says, "That was just me and James' spot. We'd go there when Peter and Remus were in class, or when they were off doing something. Me and James were friends first, before the four of us all really got friendly together." Sirius lets Harry go, and they walk side-by-side again, with Harry glancing at Sirius thoughtfully.

There's quiet between them: the only sound is the light rustle the summer breeze makes in the leaves off to the side of them, and distantly Harry can hear some cries far off in the Forbidden Forest. Sounds like something's being disturbed, whatever it is, but it's not uncommon to hear weird noises from the woods on the wind, especially in the summer time.

"Who was winning?" Sirius asks. "The chess game?"

"White," Harry says, and Sirius' chuckle is rueful.

"Yeah. James always made me play black - said it was my namesake." Harry sniggers, shaking his head, and Sirius' grin is soft. Looking off to the side, Sirius' fond smile only lasts a few moments, and then it fades away from his face, replaced with a frown. "Who's that?"

Harry turns his head to look, and he sees at the edge of the wood a short figure disappearing under the canopy of the trees. Harry frowns, furrowing his brow slightly, and he shares a look with Sirius before he realizes.

"It must have been Flitwick," Harry says, understanding dawning, and he shakes his head, turning with Sirius away from the forest to walk towards the colosseum. "Probably doing some extra wards at the edge of the forest - you know how they're taking security a little more seriously with people on the grounds for the tournament."

"Harry!" calls a voice from the path, and Cedric waves to him, gesturing for Harry to join him. "Come on, they want us to get in the tent!"

"Good luck, Harry," Sirius says, giving Harry one last hug, and he ruffles Harry's hair. "You don't need it, though." Harry nods his head, and he sprints up the grassy knoll up to Cedric, and the two of them walk through the side entrance under the colosseum's walls, into the little tent with Viktor and Fleur. At the tent's entrance, looking like he's lost weight and shaking slightly in his place, Ludo Bagman stands, regularly pushing aside the tent flaps and peering outside into the arena.

Harry leans forwards, trying to sneak a peek as to what's waiting for them on the dirt ground, but before he can look the tent flap closes again. Bagman's fat fingers tap constantly against his thighs, and rather than his usual, casual slouch he stands very straight and rigid, his eyes flitting nervously around the room.

Frowning at Bagman, Viktor shoots a glance at Fleur, Cedric and Harry, and Harry gives a shrug of his shoulders. Before any of them can venture a question, however, Amelia Bones strides through the tent flaps, clapping her hands together, her chin raised.

"Now then, Champions!" Bones says, looking between the four of them, and they all give her their full attention. Bagman hovers awkwardly behind her, shaking like a Bludger in its casement, but Bones ignores him. "The task before you is a simple one - simple, though not easy. Platforms will raise from the arena floor, and it is up to you not to drop to the ground - you'll be facing spells and curses designed to throw you down, and there'll be beasts facing you too. The last champion standing will win - Diggory, Potter, I'm afraid you count as a duo here too: if one of you hits the ground, you're both out of the running."

"Is that it?" Harry asks. "A glorified game of don't touch the lava?" Bones looks at him, a slight furrow to her brow betraying her momentary confusion, and then with a serious expression she shakes her head.

"This isn't a game of anything, Mr Potter." Taking a step back, Bones gestures for them to follow her, and the final words she says are a quiet, "Good luck."

The seats in the arena are full of people, and the yells and cheers ring in Harry's ears as a vague amalgamation of loud noise as he and Cedric stand on a chalked out circle in the ground. Viktor stands in another, and Fleur in a third - each of the circles is painted in white on the ground, and they're perhaps five metres in their diameter, but each of them makes the decision to stand in the middle.

Harry looks out around the stands as Bagman makes his announcements, his wand held in a shaking hand to his throat, and he looks at the other students, at various people he recognizes and those he doesn't - some of the wizards and witches wear robes that are fashionable abroad rather than in Britain, but others Harry recognizes from around Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. He freezes, however, when he sees Professor Sprout sat in the middle of a stand, not because he's surprised she's watching, but because she's sharing a paper bag of sweets with Flitwick.

How could Flitwick have possibly managed to move so fast, from the edge of the woods to the stands?

"Cedric," Harry says. "There's something not quite right here." Cedric frowns, looking at him concernedly, his blue eyes wide.

"What? What do you mean?" Ludo Bagman is looking right at Harry. Harry meets his gaze, and immediately Bagman looks elsewhere, looking up to the sky as he keeps on talking, and Harry shakes his head.

"I don't know. I don't know, but Bagman's done something, there's something not quite right--" He's not able to say anything further. With the sound of crumbling dirt and stone in his ears, the platform they're on begins to rise into the air, along with fifteen or sixteen others, and the sound of running water rings loud in Harry's ears as the base of the arena begins to fill.

Within a few seconds, the brown, sandy ground of the arena is completely covered over, and murky water sloshes around at the base of the colosseum below them; by the time it stops flowing, Harry knows it would be over even Cedric's head. Something to give the champions a softer fall, Harry supposes - or something worse to hide a monster in.

The platform is perhaps forty feet in the air, and looking down, Harry can see the rapt audience filling the stands, their eyes staring up at the four champions in the air above them. The platforms are stable, hovering in place with a few feet between them, and from a distance Harry expects they might look like a rounded, magical staircase, but up close the gaps are far from easy with just a step.

For a few moments, there is silence - even the crowd below are quiet, and Harry and Cedric remain frozen in the centre of their platform, glancing to look up to Krum and down to Fleur on their own.

Harry's grip on his wand is tight as he tries to think, tries to think what Bagman could possibly have done - someone heading into the Forbidden Forest, what could that mean? Flitwick's height---

"Duck!" Cedric yells, and he grabs Harry by the shoulder to pull him down into a crouch as a ball of flame whistles but an inch over his head. It heads straight for Krum, but before it can come to him he snaps out an incantation Harry doesn't recognize and the ball bursts into several dozen shards of burning metal. As they fall down to arena below, they hit the water and hiss with steam.

"They're like Bludgers on fire," Harry says, and thoughts of whatever Bagman's scheme is fade away: he has to focus on the task at hand. "Reducto!" This one shatters right before their faces, and Harry and Cedric both lean away, shielding their faces. The air around them is lit up with streaming flame, and he and Cedric share a look before they begin to move.

The leap between platforms isn't an easy one, but Harry can do it while keeping his balance so long as he braces his legs as he lands, and he keeps on the move. Cedric is doing the same on another hovering shelf in the air, and Harry casts as quickly as he can, throwing spells to blow the Bludgers up, the freeze them, to douse their flames - he tries to Transfigure one into something softer, but the spell doesn't take, and Harry has to drop like a stone to keep it from hitting him right in the chest.

He can hear the others moving, throwing spells and curses into the damn things and jumping from shelf to shelf, but he can't spare a glance in anyone else's direction as he focuses on the singing projectiles in the air. He takes a running jump up to the next platform, where Krum and Cedric are back to back, and he joins them so that all of their shoulders are touching and each of them faces outwards.

"I'm going to try something," Harry yells to be heard over the hiss and squeal of metal and flames in the air, and he feels Krum and Cedric stiffen slightly behind him, in readiness. Harry throws out a magical shield, and as the next Bludger passes through the silver sheen of its sphere-shaped influence in the air, its enchantments are dispelled. It drops to the ground and rolls harmlessly from the side of the platform, and many others do the same, like hail made from steel.

Obviously, of course, that's only the first challenge of the day.

They have to keep moving, after that - gusts of magical wind throw them off balance and tremors hit hard against the shelves they stand on; pixies fly through the air throwing enchanted bombs that are intended to hit them with curses; huge walls of flame unexpectedly fly up between platforms, forcing them to dodge back and nearly fall straight to the arena below.

It all seems so minor, Harry thinks as he's thrown back from a platform and lands on his back on the one below: it winds him, making him drag in desperate, slightly wheezing breaths from his place on his back, and he pulls himself to his feet. They're forced to run one way and then another, but it's all a test of agility, nothing else. And then--

Harry feels like he should hear something as the lowest shelf crumbles underneath Viktor Krum, but he doesn't hear anything at all - Krum had been midway through a stumble, and he falls without being able to throw himself in another direction. Harry hears Fleur cast a spell to slow his progress so that he doesn't hit the water too hard, and then he hears Bagman announce that Krum is out of the running.

Harry sees Krum in his peripheral vision as he swims to the edge of the arena and pulls himself into the stands, and then he has to focus on the task again.

"Our Champions are next to face some monsters!" Bagman says, his voice echoing over the grounds of Hogwarts, but there's an awkward quaver in his voice. Harry freezes in his place, looking down to Bagman. He shares a glance with Cedric, and then he feels his stomach leave him.

He drops to a crouch on the shelf he's on as he flies downwards at speed, and there's an almighty splash of water in every direction as he lands upon the surface of the water. He's still on the platform, and it hasn't fallen away from him, so no one declares that he's out of the competition, but the other platforms are still hovering above him.

"Harry!" Cedric calls. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine!" Harry yells back. He braces himself, holding his wand outward as he turns slowly in the centre of the platform; the next shelf hovers ten or twelve feet above him, and he'll need Cedric to help him up if he's to climb to one of the higher platforms again.

Above him, he hears a yell from Fleur, and when he glances up, he sees- what is that? A Dementor? But no, no, it's not - her Patronus doesn't cause it to cry out, but makes it almost shrivel as it shrinks away. It looks like a black cloth flying in the sky above him - a Lethifold.

He hears a caw, and something throws Cedric down - something Harry can't see, but that Cedric apparently can. He lets out a sharp hiss of pain as his sleeve is ripped open, and Harry sees the blood drip at the cut on his forearm. The creatures that attack Fleur and Cedric don't come down lower - it's as if they're enchanted to stay above the stands where the audience sits, but if that's the case, why drop a platform down like this?

He conjures a knotted rope, throwing it far above his head to attach it to the nearest platform over his head. He isn't entirely certain of it - he's never conjured rope in order to climb it, and he tests it a few times with his whole weight before he puts his wand between his teeth and grabs hold of the first length of rope before him. He presses his knees tightly together, using them to climb as much as his tightly gripping fists, and he pulls himself upwards. It makes his arms ache terribly, as he isn't used to climbing like this, but he knows full well he won't be able to levitate himself or something similar, and so he keeps himself on the rise.

There's perhaps a foot between him and the ledge of the shelf when a knife flies through the air and slices thickly through the rope. He grabs his wand from his mouth as he falls, but he isn't fast enough to actually cast something, and he lands hard on his chest on the circle of dirt beneath him.

He groans, pulling himself up and wiping the dirt from his chest. He's going to have bruises, Harry knows, but it's the least of his concerns at the moment - he turns his head in the direction the knife had come from, and he sees a group of goblins sat together, a little behind Bagman. Members of the crowd are examining Harry closely, looking at him with concern and perplexity, but Bagman doesn't announce what had happened - he's focusing on Cedric and Fleur.

Harry leans down, grabbing the knife that had been thrown - it's made of silver and as sharp as anything, with a hilt made of some kind of bone. He holds it in his hand, feeling the weight of it, looking at its eight-inch length - this can't possibly be within the rules of the tournament, and why the Hell would they want to do that anyway?

Goblins. Harry glances up to the teachers' stands - barring Snape, who is keeping his eyes only on Harry, the teachers are all focused on Cedric, including Flitwick. Flitwick's lips are moving fast as he talks with Sprout, the two of them leaning right forwards on their benches.

Flitwick is about the height of a goblin.

There's a sudden splintering of wood at the side of the arena, throwing shards of the gate in every direction, and Harry's head isn't the only one to whip in the direction of the wooden explosion. Harry breathes heavily as smoke rises away from the destroyed gate, obscuring his view of what comes through, and when Harry sees it, everything clicks into place.

The goblins, Bagman, the Forbidden Forest, the falling of his platform, and he hears the truth of it ringing in his ears as much as he hears the water rushing away through the break in the arena. "Cedric!" Harry yells, "Cedric, Fleur, just- I need to get up there!" He sees the silhouette of it first, and then it pushes forwards through the grey smoke, the sunshine glinting off its silvery-green scales and the sick, shiny scar-scabs where its eyes ought have been. Black venom oozes from its sharpest teeth as its tongue darts forwards, tasting the air and looking for Harry - and he hears it hiss, "Kill..."

Harry is hit suddenly by the spell, and he feels awkward and out of place as Fleur fucking Summons him up to the next platform. He grabs hold of her arm as he lands on his feet, nearly stumbling, and she squeezes his arm tightly.

The basilisk slowly moves forwards and into the arena as water streams past it and out onto the grass of the hill outside; Harry can hear the soft sound of its scales rubbing against each other, its hissing, the dart of its tongue - and when its tongue darts out, its head shifts abruptly towards Harry and Fleur.

"'Ow is that?" Fleur whispers. "It can 'ear you?"

"No," Harry says. "No, fuck, no- it can smell me." When Harry looks at it, he sees the scrap of fabric hanging from the side of the gigantic snake's mouth, black fabric - Harry's robe from that morning. Not a prank by the lads, but one of those goblins--- "Fleur, get to the next platform - don't stay on the same one as me." She lingers, obviously not wanting to do so, but she reluctantly steps backwards and throws herself up to the next shelf.

The basilisk draws itself up like a cobra, its huge length enabling it to meet Harry's height. The hide of the basilisk is resistant to most spells, Harry knows - any creature born of magic usually has a special resistance, so what is he supposed to do? Harry looks down to the knife in his hand - an enchanted knife, of goblin make.

"Is this what you want?" Harry hisses. "You just want to kill me, is that it?"

"You blinded me, lying child!" He can hear the rage in the basilisk's voice as it sways, as he looks directly into its face. "I will kill you. I have wanted for ssso long-"

"What will that do? You'll just die! You're the only basilisk anybody's ever really heard of, and after you kill me, you'll just die! Let me help you, let me get you-" He's desperate to say anything that will stop the thing short, make it stop - he doesn't want to kill it, not really, and not just because trying to kill it will no doubt get himself killed.

"Blood traitor! Lying infant, monssster!" The basilisk hisses back, and it lunges for him. Harry dodges to the side, stopping it from grabbing him between its teeth, and he throws himself at the basilisk's head. He straddles it like he'd straddle a Hippogriff, his knees tightly pressed against the side of the snake's head, and as it rears back, Harry can do nothing - he has the knife in one hand and his wand in the other, with Fleur, Cedric, with everyone in the arena looking down at him, and he does what he has to do.

He brings his left hand down as hard as he can, slamming the length of the blade through the basilisk's skull - ordinarily, he'd never have the strength to do so, but the blade is enchanted to cut through nearly anything, and the hide and bone of the gigantic snake doesn't hold him back.

The basilisk screams, lurching forwards, and Harry drags back the knife and stabs again, and again, and again - when the basilisk falls forwards and Harry tumbles onto the hovering platform, its blood is soaked into the front of his robes and spattered across his arms. The basilisk's great head falls to the floor of the arena with a thunk and a splash, and Harry stays in his place, breathing heavily, clutching the blade in his hand.

There's a yell above him, and this time it's Cedric who casts, "Arresto momentum!" as Fleur falls towards the arena's wet ground, nearly landing on the back of the dead snake - she'd lost her footing in a sudden wind. She lands softly on the ground, and Harry can't process what that means as he sits on his arse, covered in the basilisk's thick, red-black blood, until the arena's stands explode in a cheer.

He and Cedric have won. That's what it means.

Harry doesn't stand up and raise his hands in a cheer, however - he throws himself from the platform to the stands, landing hard and scuffing his knees on the wooden stairs - and he brandishes his new knife at the leader of the goblin contingent, who'd been just about to leave.

Harry stands very, very still, looking down at the goblin in front of him with his lip curled in a silent snarl and the knife held out in front of him, his wand held loosely in his left hand. His hands aren't so much as trembling, and he stands very stiffly: the goblins mirror him in their unmoving posture, and all of their eyes are on his face. The contingent betray a little bit of fear, but their leader, wearing a blood-red tunic, looks Harry up and down and scoffs.

"You think you could kill us, boy?" The goblin talks loudly, obviously trying to make his voice carry over the rest of the arena, but Harry doesn't flinch or look away.

"I could," Harry says. His voice carries even though it's quiet: his tone is deliberate, and slow. "There's basilisk venom on this knife, now, I bet you - goblin knives absorb that sort of thing, don't they?" Two of the goblins take a trembling step back. "But I don't want to kill you. Let me get this straight, sir. Ludo Bagman owed you money, yeah? Bagman, don't you dare!" Harry snaps, and the man freezes where he'd been heading towards the edge of the arena to leave - in a second, Nymphadora Tonks has him by the scruff of his neck, and drags him back to the judges table. "Ludo owed you money, and you were gonna kill him, but he suggested something really clever. See, during the Quidditch World Cup, two lads bet a lot of money to him that Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch - and he suggested something like that, didn't he? Two Hogwarts Champions, one of them Harry Potter - and Hogwarts would win, but Harry Potter would get killed. That's it, right?"

One of the goblins lunges past him, but Harry kicks him hard in the thigh, sending him tumbling down the wooden stairs and hitting the edge of the stands with a thunk and a soft groan.

Harry leans in towards the goblin in the red tunic, meeting his gaze. The goblin's expression is neutral, and Harry hates him for it - he thinks about the adrenaline that had rushed through him as he'd stabbed the basilisk, and he wants to stab again.

"So you nicked my robe this morning, yeah? Oh, and I bet you've been working on the basilisk in the forest for fucking months - killing all the roosters, feeding it up. That's why the Acromantula left, isn't it - you were making it stronger. And today, you went off to find it, let it smell my robe, let it trace me here, yeah? So it would kill me, and only me. You know, for a betting agency, you don't seem to be all that good at maths - seems to me you miscalculated here." The goblin's expression turns in a second, showing fury, and his wrist shoots out, showing the glint of metal - it's pure luck and adrenaline-enhanced reflexes that let Harry meet the blade with his own. There's a hiss of steel on steel, and he and the goblin stand face-to-face, their respective knives held in a parry.

A few drops of blood fall to the ground - the basilisk's, still clinging to the knife Harry holds.

"Too bad Azkaban's gone," Harry says in a very soft whisper. "You'd fit in well there." He takes a step back as Kingsley Shacklebolt comes forwards, two younger Aurors trailing him on either side - none of them are in uniform, but Harry can tell by the way they look to Shacklebolt and the way they walk that they're magical law enforcement too. Then again, Harry thinks as a bitter aside, as soon as they get to Ministry the goblins probably have to go through the Department of Magical Creatures.

Harry walks very slowly to the edge of the stands, and he jumps to a platform as it lowers to the ground, taking a stand beside Cedric in front of the judges' table. Karkaroff is very pale, looking at the basilisk with an expression of outright horror, though Bones, Dumbledore and Maxine don't seem nearly so perturbed. Bagman is at the edge of the arena, being dragged out by Tonks, and Harry looks after him for a long second.

"Tournament was rigged," Harry says, just as Karkaroff seems to gain back his breath and open his mouth. Karkaroff hesitates - Harry is voicing the thought he'd been about to, and he obviously doesn't know what to do with the concept. "But given, Headmaster Karkaroff, that me and Cedric still managed to survive pretty good odds, given the basilisk and everything-"

"You can hardly prove it's a basilisk - it has no eyes--"

"I saw the eyes get cut out - it's a basilisk. And you just saw me stab it in the head." Karkaroff recoils slightly, staring at Harry with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Usually, Harry would probably be amused to see him like this, but he doesn't feel anything right now, except tired, and angry. He meets Karkaroff's eyes directly, staring right into them, and for a second - just a second - he feels the barest hint of sadistic delight. There's a change in Karkaroff's eyes, a subtle alteration behind them, as Karkaroff's pride is replaced with a twinge of fear. A fear of Harry.

"Nothing about this tournament was fair," Cedric says. "But we still beat the odds." Dumbledore is still quiet for a few, long moments, looking between Cedric, who is covered in dust and his own blood, though he'd managed to heal up his arm, and Harry, whose scarlet coating is mostly from the basilisk.

"I believe they are correct, Madam Bones, Madame Maxine, Headmaster Karkaroff." The two women nod their heads slowly, and even Karkaroff gives a terse, irritable incline of his head.

It is Amelia Bones that stands, places her wand to her throat, and makes the announcement.

---

Harry doesn't bother taking his robes off when he initially steps under the spray of the shower. He just stands there under the hot water, letting it soak into the fabric of his robes and send a cascade of swirling, brown-red water onto the tiled floor. His glasses are neatly folded atop his change of clothes, and so as he watches the blood drain away, he sees it blurry on the clean, mint tiles of the bathroom. He rubs half-heartedly at the fabric, trying to stop the stuff from matting into it or coagulating any further, and Merlin knows what the stuff is going to do to his skin, but he just wants the robes to be halfway clean before he puts them aside for the house elves to have a go at.

It's one thing for there to be a little tear or a scuff from a miscast spell, but this is a bit different.

"Harry?" He sighs, putting his head to the wall of the shower, and he looks at the blurry figure in the doorway. There is a bath for each two to three students in the Slytherin dormitories, each with a little half-room for the sake of privacy, but the showers are in a large, open washroom with drains in the centre of the floor and a heated enchantment coming from the walls: there are screens if people are shy about showering, but so few of the Slytherin students choose to use showers that it's really an issue.

"Blaise, I'm kind of busy," Harry says. His finger catches on a rather thick lump, and it falls with a soft plop onto the wet floor. It's white, and hard - a shard of bone. Harry stares down at it, and is very glad he isn't squeamish. "There's basilisk on me." Harry had helped Snape, Sprout and Flitwick carry the basilisk out to one of the open yards outside the greenhouses - Sprout had been about ready to sow a dozen rows of some magical fruit bush Harry is too tired to remember the name of, and it's big enough to house the basilisk's corpse until Snape can dismember it.

Harry has a suspicion as to what his detentions are going to be like for the rest of the Hogwarts term.

"I was worried about you. During the task." Blaise's tone is forcibly dry, but Harry can hear the slight tremor in it. It doesn't make him feel guilty or upset like it might have done even a week ago. It doesn't make him feel anything.

"So was I," Harry says, dropping his outer robe to the side and beginning to unlace the underpiece. His hands are stained a rusty brown, and he wonders if the stuff will ever come off. "But I'm fine now." Blaise takes a step forwards and into the shower room: his clean, dragonhide brogues make a soft splash in the water. Harry is glad his face is too blurry to see.

"Harry, I didn't- I was worried-"

"Blaise," Harry says quietly, and his voice rings in the room. The intimacy of the situation hits Harry hard, the two of them looking at each other across the dimly lit, steamy room, the water soaked into Harry's clothes and wetting his skin. Blaise could join him in the shower, Harry supposes, and they could kiss under the spray like a couple in a French perfume advert. Harry doesn't want that any more. "Piss off." Blaise stares at him, absolutely still in his place. The hem of his robes dips into the water, and although Harry can't really see them clearly, he sees the dark spot that rises up the skirt of Blaise's outer robe. He doesn't say any more - he just turns on his heel and leaves, and Harry tips his head back under the water, soaping his hair and scratching almost painfully hard at his own scalp to ensure he gets out every last piece of the snake that clings to him.

Once Harry stands naked and nearly dry, the shower turned off and a towel messily wrapping up his hair (it doesn't matter what he does to dry it: it'll look the same as always), he picks the goblin's knife up from the window sill. He'd wiped off the blood with a clean cloth, and he fingers the bone handle, feeling the grip dug into the bone - it might be made for goblins, but it fits Harry's hand perfectly. Just like the knife he'd bought on a whim in Hogsmeade, he finds he likes the feel of it in his palm, its weight.

Most wizards never use real weapons, these days, not unless they conjure them during a duel.

He sets the blade at his hip for the time being, held by a stupid holster for his wand someone had bought him one Christmas - Alastor Moody, Harry thinks, who has a weird aversion to just putting a wand in a pocket - and lets it be hidden by the fabric of his outer robe.

---

"A party in Hogsmeade tonight," McGonagall says, standing straight. Harry frowns slightly, but she goes on to say, "Aurors are already remaining in Hogsmeade for the time being, and everyone will remain within the Three Broomsticks, which Madam Rosmerta has agreed to make private for the occasion - your parents have assented, Mr Malfoy, Messrs Weasley, and Mr Black has assented for you, Mr Potter, and assured Professor Dumbledore he will keep a particular watch over Ms Granger."

"This is with Professor Dumbledore's approval, then?" Hermione asks, and McGonagall's lip twitches.

"He believes you deserve some time to celebrate," she says, and Harry can't help but smile. Time to celebrate sounds... Good. Even if they won't be able to sneak that Firewhiskey for the time being. They make an agreement to meet in the entrance hall in twenty minutes or so, where they'll walk into town with Cedric, Fleur, Viktor and some of the professors, but rather than head down to his dormitory to get changed again, Harry meanders through the dungeon corridors and towards Snape's office.

Uncharacteristically, his door is slightly ajar, and Harry realizes why when he lingers in the doorway to look in - Snape has a Bubblehead charm over his head and a ward around his cauldron, working with something that appears rather toxic, and had someone knocked he'd never have heard. His black eyes shift from his work, and he holds up his left hand in a silent gesture for Harry to wait.

It's fascinating, watching him work. Harry wishes he understood potions as well as he understood charms or defensive magic - Snape works with a natural skill, and Harry's sure it comes from more than just years of practice. Snape seems to understand ingredients and the way they come together in the same way Neville Longbottom understands plants, and he can't help but envy it a little. Snape tips a vial of something red slowly into the softly smoking cauldron, and the smoke begins to tinge green. Snape's stirs the mixture three times anti-clockwise, and immediately, the smoke disappears. A soft glow emanates from the cauldron, now, and Snape leans back, banishing both the Bubblehead charm around his head and the ward around his cauldron with two flicks of his wand.

"Pass me that tray of flasks, Potter," Snape orders, and Harry takes the silver tray carefully, setting it down on the work surface beside the cauldron. Snape doesn't need a funnel: he tips the cauldron with the most delicate of charms, and it doesn't dare spill a drop as he fills the three, oblong flasks, each engraved with the words HOGWARTS INFIRMARY. "What potion do you suspect this is?"

"It's an antidote for Venomous Tentacula bites. That's what the red stuff is - juices from one of their leaves." Snape looks at him in a way that Harry can't really define - he feels like he's being appraised, somehow, and then Snape gives a small inclination of his head. He doesn't smile, and his thin lips don't even twitch, but something changes for a second in his eyes, and Harry feels the barest hint of approval.

"Three points to Slytherin," Snape says, delicately filling the final flask, and then he stoppers the three of them. "What do you want?"

"Professor McGonagall says there's a party in Hogsmeade tonight." Snape examines him, his dark eyebrows shifting slightly. The and? is silent, and yet completely understood. "I wanted to ask permission to go, sir. You said I had to ask if I wanted to leave the castle." Snape's laugh is short and grim, but it seems genuine, and as he turns to return ingredients to their shelves, he shakes his head slightly.

"Yes, Potter, you may. I have no wish to engage in the two-step the Headmaster will draw me into if I refuse."

"Aren't you going to come, sir?" Snape turns his head, glancing at Harry as if he's worried Harry's become somehow unhinged.

"No." The response is emphatic, and Harry doesn't bother to say anything in argument or response. He says a polite thank you, steps from his head of house's office, and draws the door shut behind him.

---

Lindon and Cecilia are dancing, and Harry doesn't think he's ever seen a couple so good. The music coming from the gramophone in the corner is bright, fast and brassy, and the two of them swing one way and then the other in perfect sync, keeping step with each other with their chests together, and they keep laughing into each other's mouths as they keep up their rhythm. Others are dancing, too - Sirius is dancing with Madam Rosmerta, and Lucius and Narcissa are swaying slightly together, his hands upon her hips and her arms around his neck.

It's warm inside the Three Broomsticks, but not unbearably so, and when Hermione gestures for Harry to get up, he reluctantly does so, and he lets her lead him in a cha cha. Draco, who had moved in the hope Hermione was inviting him, tries to sit down again, but Fred already has hold of his hands, and forces him into the same steps until Draco is laughing as much as he is. When the song finally winds down and becomes something slower, Narcissa and Lucius keep dancing, and Ted and Dromeda Tonks dance together, occasionally stepping on each other's feet - Harry can't actually tell whether it's accidental or on purpose.

He smiles as he orders another Butterbeer from the bar, sipping at it and allowing it to fill him with the pleasant, cheery warmth it's known for.

It's busy in the pub - he sees members of the Order of the Phoenix dotted around, but also Aurors, Ministry workers, and some of the handlers who'd worked with the Triwizard Tournament, as well as various members of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons contingents. It's a genuinely celebratory atmosphere, and even Igor Karkaroff seems to be having a halfway good time, talking with a pretty woman from the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

"So, Harry," Lindon says quietly. There's a red tinge in his pale cheeks, and Harry wonders how much he's had to drink - the man is swaying ever so slightly. "Are you glad?"

"Yeah," Harry says, glancing over to Cedric, who is dancing with Cho Chang. The two thousand Galleon prize had been split between the two of them, and Harry has already put the entirety of his half into the Weasleys Wizard Wheezes account. He glances back to Lindon, and he smiles a little. "Yeah, I am. I'm tired, obviously, but I'm just glad it's all done with."

"Yes, well, we'll see what the Ministry do with those goblins. Bagman will undoubtedly be imprisoned somewhere or other, but goblins are always a tricky subject - the Ministry will want to be strict, though. They hate betting shops so terribly, and they've been trying to cut them away for years, so they might well put in some legislation as to betting on blood." Lindon chuckles to himself, taking a sip of his very fruity-looking cocktail. "The world ever changes, young man."

"Yeah, I guess so," Harry says. "How much do you think it's going to change in the next year?" Lindon glances to him, his jolly expression faltering some. He reaches out, putting a tremulous left hand on Harry's shoulder, and he meets his gaze seriously.

"Harry," Lindon murmurs, and Harry can barely hear him over the chatter of the crowd. "I've no doubt much will change, with the Dark Lord, with Lockhart, with your schooling, with the world at large... Yet I assure you, one thing will remain quite steadfast: our loyalty to you, young man." It takes Harry by surprise, but then he smiles, and he pulls Lindon into a short hug before he goes to join Hermione and the twins again.

He thinks about what Lindon says the entire night, however, and when they all trail back up to the castle, he feels more content than he has in a long while.

Lucius smiles to himself as he moves through the pleasantly warm streets of Hogsmeade. The sun had gone down some time ago, but it's not truly so dark - the street lamps are all lit, and from over the mountains comes a very pleasant, violet glow that still lingers from the sunset. He is of good mood: Narcissa had returned home with Andromeda earlier in the evening, but he had stayed a little longer in the Three Broomsticks, embroiled as he had been in nonsense conversation with some of the Ministry employees.

How he has missed it, that light patter that is so constant amongst Ministry men and women, that almost political talk. They'd played a fast-paced poker game, and Lucius had enjoyed the company of Sirius Black of all people. He is of exceedingly good mood, even now, and he will take only a short walk through the woods before he turns to Apparate home.

Strange, he muses, how Grimmauld Place has become home to him - it is no Malfoy Manor, of course, and it has numerous flaws, but he feels so close to Narcissa there, and having people in and out of the place... Lucius should never admit it to anyone barring his dear and devoted wife, but he rather enjoys the hectic nature of it. It is what he might have felt, he thinks, had he and Narcissa ever had further children than Draco - but no, it is best he not think on that.

Lucius' head snaps abruptly to the side at a harsh, high, gurgling sound from a clearing to his left, and he frowns. Under the cover of the tree canopy, the green umbrella above him blocks out some of the summer evening light, and he is forced to squint through shadows to get a hint of whatever might be there. "Hello?" Lucius calls, and he steps away from the wooded path, into the treeline and into the clearing. He knows it well - once upon a time, he and Narcissa had taken promenades through this very wood, and in this clearing he would sit with her head upon his lap, and he would read to her: it is a scene they play out in the comfort of their library twice weekly, even twenty years later.

"Lucius," says a soft, hissing voice, and Lucius feels his blood run cold as the mark in his arm - so carefully bandaged, and yet so stupidly forgotten - tugs hard at him. A wand that is not his own raises, shedding light over the scene, and Lucius sees the figure of a young lady from the Ministry leaning against a tree, the glaze in her eyes betraying the Imperius curse, and he sees the bloodied figure on the ground. Igor Karkaroff is paler than he ever has been, his throat ripped away by teeth, and Lucius stumbles back, raising his wand as fast as he can, but he has no hope, and he knows it.

There are Death Eaters on his every side, and the one with the wand-

"Bartemius?" Lucius hears himself whisper, and the man cackles in that terrifying way he'd done at school. He thinks of Draco, of Narcissa, of the Order, of young Harry Potter.

And then a cloaked figure throws itself forwards, and his scream is torn away by a mouth more snake than wizard. The magic about him rings in his ears, electrifies his skin even as he ceases to feel sensation, as he feels so cold despite the summer warmth: he feels the pull of his Dark Mark through his entire body, draining away with his very lifeblood, and his eyes cease to see, he realizes what has happened, what was always destined to happen to him when he took the Mark in the first place.

It is the last of Lucius Malfoy's many regrets that he ever thinks to consider.