A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.

– Saul Bellow

A moment after having hurried from the room on Albus’ orders and slamming the door closed behind him, Snape spun around to stare at the door, clenching his fists in fury. He *hated* that stupid boy—that stupid Potter. The arrogant, idiotic brat always had this effect on him, and *Snape* was always the one who got in trouble, never Potter. He shuddered slightly as the headmaster’s expression floated to the front of his memory for a moment; he didn’t think he’d ever seen the man so mad at him, and certainly not anytime in the last decade.

A less-than-subtle cough pulled his angry glare from the door. He spun and sneered as he saw that Remus Lupin was seated on the stairs up to the next floor, and was now watching him with an expression somewhere between concern, amusement, and anger. The werewolf had been underfoot near constantly whenever he had been in Grimmauld Place lately; apparently the mutt’s death had awakened protective instincts in him, and the best way he could find to protect Potter was to get in Snape’s way as much as possible. The Potions Master sharpened his glare for a long moment on the man, before spinning and stalking in the opposite direction, down the stairs to his Potions lab.

*His* potions lab, he repeated to himself with a sneer, but the infuriating boy had infiltrated even this space. To ‘learn potions’ he had claimed, and then he had made an irritatingly Gryffindor attempt to engender some sympathy in his professor by telling some sob story about how awful his life had always been with his relatives. The ungrateful brat, obviously Albus Dumbledore would never have allowed Harry to live in such conditions. He couldn’t understand how no one else could see that he was clearly playing up his injuries in order to get more attention. Likely he *had* tripped down the stairs, and probably gotten into a fight with whatever Muggle friends he had by acting the stupid, arrogant, foolish Gryffindor that he apparently couldn’t escape.

Slamming the door to his Potions lab open and then closed again just as quickly, Snape eyed the shelves dangerously. He resisted his first urge, which was to grab something suitably breakable and hurtle it at the wall. He prided himself on being intelligent and unemotional, and he would *not* let the boy undermine that any longer. Even if he *did* look like his father and make Snape alternately want to shrink back into the shadows or attack him with full force and in as embarrassing and public a way as possible.

A vial had found its way into his hand, and Snape had to drop it onto the table when he realized he was about to shatter it by the sheer force of his grip. He couldn’t replace the root of Asphodel it contained, nor put himself at the mercy of any of the occupants of the house if he managed to damage his wand hand sufficiently. They were all angry at him, convinced that it was all *his* fault that Potter was dangerously underweight and the dose he had been given (the right amount for a thirteen-year-old!) had been too much. It was obvious to *him* that it was *Potter’s* fault for not having eaten while he was staying at home. Probably another ploy to get attention—he had wanted to come and live at the mutt’s house with his friends and adults to fawn over him, and would the werewolf ever be able to leave him at home if he was clearly emaciated? Of course not!

With practiced movements, Snape retrieved a cauldron and ingredients, not even consciously considering what he was going to make. His anger kept him moving with frustrated jerks rather than his usual graceful movements, but he tried to take his anger out by powdering the root of Asphodel that he had earlier held with excessive force. In some potions (including the Draught of Living Death) the care taken to reduce the ingredients to exactly the right consistency affected the strength of the final product. With the way that he was making sure that even the powder was powdered, he knew that this would be a particular strong draught.

When that process was finally completed, the adrenaline of his anger was leaving him, and he was beginning to move shakily instead of in angry, jerking movements. The import of having Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore furious with him was beginning to sink in. He had narrowly averted this disaster previously by being the one to admit to the headmaster that he *had* made a mistake, but was prepared to correct it. Since the elder man knew how rare it was for him to admit having made a mistake, he had given him the benefit of the doubt about his behavior. Apparently, though, he had crossed a line that he hadn’t even known was there by casting Legilimens on the boy.

He paced back and forth as he waited for the infusion of Wormwood to be ready, nervously slipping his wand back and forth between his hands, needing the movement to distract him. How would the headmaster punish him? One horrifying possibility came immediately to mind—the old wizard might *demand* that he apologize to Potter. He quickly pushed that thought away; it wasn’t really Dumbledore’s style to try to force apologies. He would be much more likely to wait until the offending wizard felt the apology necessary—one reason why Snape had never gotten his much deserved apology from Sirius Black for nearly killing him. And now the mutt had gone and gotten himself killed. At least there was *some* fairness in the fact that he had outlived the idiot Gryffindor, but Snape could not be satisfied by a glorious Gryffindor death in battle for the Azkaban escapee. There would have been so much more delicious irony if the mutt had had his throat slit in the night by his disillusioned House Elf Kreacher. Or been mauled to death “accidentally” by his dear werewolf.

“Severus.”

Snape froze. How long had Dumbledore been there, watching him pace back and forth and worry his wand like an eleven-year-old? Slowly, he turned, and saw not only the headmaster, but also Lupin, standing in the door watching him, both with grim expressions on their face. “Yes, Headmaster?” he replied as evenly as he could, desperately holding on to his urge to make a snide comment or at least sneer at his ex-colleague.

“We need to discuss your behavior,” replied the old man in his gravest voice, nearly sending a shiver down Severus’ spine.

“We?” he prodded carefully, sparing a glance at the werewolf. Surely Dumbledore wasn’t considering scolding him in front of the other man, was he?

“Remus has some concerns as well, which he has convinced me are better brought up now.” Snape’s eyes met Dumbledore’s and he fought desperately not to lower his gaze from the onslaught of frustration, anger, and sadness from the one man whom he trusted and was trusted by in return. He swallowed uncomfortably.

“Y-yes?” he managed finally, his entire body tensed for the onslaught.

Instead of responding, Dumbledore let the silence stretch for a moment while he moved the table that was not being used out of the way and conjured three armchairs. One the perfectly straight back that Severus appreciated, another was so cushioned that the headmaster was nearly falling into it when he was the first to take a seat, and the third was a nauseatingly bright pink color that Lupin examined with a dubious look before waving his wand to turn it brown and taking a seat. Fighting his urge to stay standing and pace, Snape forced himself to sit in the chair, stiffly and with as straight a back as the chair.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and stared at Severus over them with the same expression as before. The Potions master tensed and raised his shoulders slightly in response, but carefully allowed no other reaction. His hands were folded in his lap, one gripping the other nearly tightly enough to cut off circulation. “Your behavior toward Harry is completely and utterly unacceptable, Severus.”

Snape gritted his teeth and fought not to sneer, clenching his hands even more tightly. It was always *him* that was in trouble, never ‘Perfect Potter.’

“How can we resolve this problem?”

He dug for answers for a long moment before suggesting with a sneer, “You could stop insisting that I spend time in his presence, or him in mine.”

The headmaster frowned disappointedly and began to open his mouth to speak, but Remus interjected first, apparently unable to hold on to his ‘words of wisdom’ any longer. “He’s *not* James!”

“He might as well be—just as idiotic, arrogant, and Gryffindor as the last Potter. And more spoiled, besides,” he responded with an exaggerated sneer at the werewolf, glad of the distraction.

Lupin appeared to be more shocked than anything. “How can you *say* that? After everything you’ve seen, in this summer if not before—his clothes, how emaciated he was and still is, and the bruises—and you still call him *spoiled*?” he exclaimed.

Snape shrugged confidently, not feeling particularly challenged. Smoothly, he replied, “It is not my concern if you are too *Gryffindor* to recognize such an obvious ploy for attention, but if you insist on rewarding him with what he desires, it will only continue.”

The werewolf choked on his shock and indignation for a moment. ‘Let him finish the job,’ Severus thought amusedly, but unfortunately the man recovered and managed a response. His shock seemed to have turned to anger, and a little of Snape’s confidence drained away. “A ‘ploy for attention’? Would this be like when he was ‘exaggerating’ his reaction to the Calming Draught?”

He tensed at the reminder, wishing that Lupin had not brought that up. He was already in enough trouble as it was. “I gave him the right dose for a *thirteen-year-old*. Unless I am mistaken, he is now *sixteen,* and it was a reasonable assumption based on his past behavior that he might be exaggerating his symptoms in order to get his way.”

“Sixteen, and obviously far underweight! Can’t you *see* that, and get it through your thick skull?”

“I apologize, Lupin,” he replied in a sneering tone, “but I took him at his word that he had received regular meals on most occasions. You can hardly blame me for not having considered the possibility that he was not *eating* those meals, since you clearly haven’t considered the self-same thing and insist on believing that he has simply been ‘mistreated’ by his relatives.”

The werewolf exchanged a desperate glance with Dumbledore before turning back to Snape for one last word. “You may have ‘apologized’ to me, and to Albus, but you haven’t even considered apologizing to the one who most deserves it—Harry.” He shook his head sadly, his anger apparently spent. “It wasn’t managing much to completely alienate him from you—but to destroy his ability to trust in anyone else in the house, *that* was an accomplishment, and not one to be proud of.” Snape wondered if someone could die of too much self-righteousness. If so, Lupin was in grave danger.

“Is that all?” he responded coolly.

Remus snorted in frustration and bitter humor. “Yes, Severus, that is all. I’ll leave you and Albus to discuss.” He stood quickly, every line of his body indicating his frustration, and strode from the room without a backward glance.

Rolling his eyes as he watched the werewolf attempt to stalk from the room, he muttered, “And how do *I* interfere the trust between *you* and *him,* genius?”

A sad sigh emerged from the still occupied chair, and Albus (whom Severus had almost forgotten) replied, “The same way you have also greatly interfered with the trust between me and the adults in Grimmauld Place, particularly Remus and Molly. I *trusted* you not to hurt Harry, and I pressured them into doing so as well. Harry is clearly well used to you attempting to make his life miserable, but when the rest of the adults that he is just beginning to trust begin to do the same, that is shattering. And their ability to trust *my* decisions has been affected just as surely as their trust in your own decisions, because I took your side.” He paused, his blue eyes glittering sadly as they remained fixed on Severus. “Remus was indeed correct; this is quite a mess that you have created, Severus.”

“Don’t try to blame it all on me,” Snape replied defensively, fixing his gaze on the wall rather than the headmaster’s eyes. “Potter was already angry at you and Lupin before I did anything.”

He caught the sober nod from the corners of his eyes. “Indeed, I do not intend for you to take full responsibility. Remus and I have our own issues to work out with Harry. However, that does not change the fact that your abominable behavior toward him has had consequences.”

Snape continued to stare at the wall, letting the silence stretch while he waited for the other shoe to drop. Finally, he was forced to look toward the older man and ask quietly, “And so..?”

Albus nodded grimly. “It is only common sense that you are making the situation significantly less workable, and you have made it abundantly clear that you are incapable of behaving differently toward Harry. Therefore, I need you out of the house while we attempt to work things out, hopefully with Gordon’s help.” He paused, and Severus felt his heart lift slightly. He hated having Albus angry with him, but perhaps he was going to escape with ‘only’ that as punishment, simply hiding out in his manor as he had after correcting his mistake with the Calming Draught? “However,” Snape’s heart dropped again, “we will need an additional adult in the house, I suspect, to keep things under control.” He paused, and the Potions master furiously considered where the headmaster was going with this. “Therefore, you will be replacing Nymphadora on the imminent sojourn in the Dursley’s home.” At Snape’s blank look, he reminded, “Someone will need to be there for several days while Cornelius ‘checks in’ on Harry, if you’ll recall?”

Severus actually stood up in his surprise, and immediately allowed himself to begin pacing to cover his embarrassment. “But—“ he choked out, “—the Dark Lord? And Lucius? I will be unable to respond to summons, and Lucius will certainly attempt to search me out!”

Of course Dumbledore had already considered these things; his expression remained calm as he explained. “You will inform them that I have ordered you on a mission for the Order of the Phoenix, and you cannot refuse without raising suspicions. You do not know what the mission is as of now, and I will inform you when you return from the Dursleys’ home and before you report to either Tom or Lucius what your mission entailed.”

Snape felt a headache coming on, and it was not because the infusion of Wormwood was overdone and filling the room with its pungent scent. “But—“

Albus cleared his throat to interrupt his attempt to come up with an excuse, and when he glanced at the conniving old man he saw a bit of a twinkle. “Tell me, Severus… if you are truly convinced that Harry lives with such doting relatives and all damage that we saw to him is a result of his own attention-seeking behavior, then you should be looking forward to several pleasant days, correct?”

“I suppose…” he responded slowly. “Except that I will look like Potter,” he sneered as a final excuse.

“You’ll understand how Harry feels looking like his father, then,” Dumbledore responded smoothly, standing to his feet. “Now, I believe that that lovely odor means that you had better hurry or you will have wasted rather a lot of Wormwood, and failed to replace the Draught of Living Death that you so graciously provided, so I will let you return to your work,” he excused himself smoothly. Severus muttered something incoherent that included the words “thank you,” despite the fact that he wanted to curse the old man for his dangerously Slytherin tendencies. It appeared that he was going to get to know Potter’s relatives, firsthand.

Harry had surprisingly little hunger, despite the fact that he had missed lunch while he was out. He forced himself to eat, though, slowly and methodically, his mind reminding him of the many times that the Dursleys had refused him food in punishment for some perceived wrong. He couldn’t let this food go to waste.

Several times he tried to ask Remus what the book was, but Remus kept the cover hidden and refused to answer. Harry had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Weasley when she had brought his food, and she looked stern but more upset than angry. He almost felt bad for making her worry, but then he remembered how desperate he had been for a break and how they had been treating him. And he still could have disappeared, and if the Order couldn’t find him when they *knew* he was missing, then what danger was he really in?

He sighed and set his fork down, having only eaten half of what he had been given but still not having recovered his appetite entirely from the Dursleys. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, standing to his feet wearily and waiting for Remus to respond. His father’s only remaining loyal friend glanced at him in an expression torn between a reassuring smile and a stern glare. Harry could nearly have laughed if he hadn’t still been worried about what the book was.

Remus gestured for him to lead the way, presumably so he could keep an eye on him. He stepped out of his room and was immediately ambushed by his friends.

“Where did you go, mate? You were gone forever!” was Ron’s exclamation.

“Oh, what were you *thinking,* Harry? You’re supposed to be *safe* here!” Hermione contributed. When they were done speaking in unison, Ginny chimed in.

“And what did you do for all that time?”

“To the park, where I took a nap,” he answered, hiding a grin when he glanced back and saw Remus’ shocked expression. “As for your question, Hermione,” he continued, his voice quite a bit harder, “I was *thinking* that I was never going to get a break here, and if I could escape the Order who *knew* I was missing, then I was probably relatively safe.” Hermione’s question had sounded a little too much like one of the adults for him, after everything.

“Come on, up to the room now, Harry,” Remus interjected when all three looked like they were about to speak again. “Running away has consequences,” he said to the others in his most Professor-ish voice. Harry rolled his eyes now that he was past everyone, but turned back when he heard two identical groans.

“Oh, no, Harry, not the book…” said Ginny.

“Sorry, mate… but good luck,” Ron added. Harry opened his mouth to ask what they meant, but Remus had moved up right behind him and was nudging him forward.

“Go, Harry,” he said firmly. So the dark-haired teen went, dragging his feet up the stairs to the empty room that Remus had indicated.

There he found Mr. Weasley sitting in a single chair. The rest of the room was barren, but there was plenty of space in front of Mr. Weasley. “I’ll take that, Remus,” Ron’s father said, holding out his hand for the book. Remus handed it to him, nodded, then looked to Harry.

“I’ll see you again in a little while, I’m sure.” He seemed to consider saying something else, then shrugged and left instead, closing the door behind him.

“Alright, Harry,” Mr. Weasley began, uncommonly serious. “Remus probably already told you this, but we’re giving you a punishment because we want you to know that running away is not an acceptable solution to your problems. We were very worried, and many people had to be pulled away from other duties in order to join the search for you.”

Harry huffed a sigh. “Did Tonks tell you all that I came back voluntarily? If you can’t find me and drag me back, how are Voldiewarts and his gang of incompetents going to manage?”

Arthur sighed too, though more wearily. “Do you really want to test V-Voldemort? What would have happened if he *did* find you first? And did you really expect us to just leave you out there, in danger?”

In his mind, Harry had to wonder why it was okay for him to be left to the mercy of the Dursleys but not to take care of himself when he was almost an adult as far as the wizarding world was concerned. Instead of grumbling this aloud, though, he just shrugged apathetically, wanting to get on with whatever they had cooked up for him. It couldn’t be any worse than being locked in his cupboard for days without food or being kicked around while attempting to do three days of chores in one—he hoped.

“Alright,” Arthur said again. “This is a Weasley family heirloom, Harry. Generations of Weasleys have served punishments by reading from it, and later contributed to it as adults. It has many magical enchantments on it, most important of which is the one that allows it to personalize what you are reading to what you have done and what you need to hear.” He let the silence hang, waiting for questions.

“Erm… What ever happened to ‘Never trust anything if you can’t see where it keeps its brain’?”

Mr. Weasley smiled softly. “I suppose you’re going to have to trust me at least a bit, but as I said, it is a Weasley heirloom and can only be enchanted by a Weasley, and is incapable of being enchanted to be controlling in the way that Tom Riddle’s diary was. In fact, Ginny knows that saying from this very book.”

“Oh,” Harry managed.

“Speaking of the magic, I need you to make one promise before I hand the book over to you and let you get started. Will you promise that you will not remove or alter the magic in this book? Albus has told us a little bit of your new abilities, and I don’t think they should be tested against the book—not to mention, as I’ve said, it runs in the family and I’d like to be able to pass it on intact.”

Harry shrugged, then spoke when Mr. Weasley seemed to expect a verbal response. “Okay.. I promise.”

“Good. In that case, I think you’re ready to get started.” He held the book out, and Harry hesitated before taking it. “You can just stand right there. You’ll be reading sayings, but you’ll need to wait until a title appears on the cover.” He felt a strange tingling sensation as the book’s magic interacted with his own, and he resisted retaliating or merely sucking the magic out of the book. Finally it finished, and gilded letters began to appear on the cover.

“Harry Potter is authorized to use the Weasley Family Book of Sayings,” it read. Then it vibrated in his hands, and Harry nearly dropped it—nearly, because he discovered that it was now sticking to his wand hand. He stared at it bizarrely, shaking it once, but it buzzed again, and Mr. Weasley spoke.

“Open it and follow the directions.” The buzzing was not painful, but it was uncomfortable, so Harry opened it and hoped that it would stop. It did, and fancy lettering began appearing on the page that it fell open to.

Read the saying, then repeat, he read silently. It buzzed. “Read the saying, then repeat?” he read aloud hesitantly. It disappeared, then buzzed at him again. He was getting irritated by the thing already. “Read the saying, then repeat?” he repeated, feeling horribly silly, but the book seemed pleased enough. New words appeared.

All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.[1] He read it aloud without thinking about it, but realized his error when the words disappear and his mind was as blank as the page. “Erm.. All men should learn to strive before they die…?” The book started buzzing at him and the saying reappeared. All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why. He read it aloud, and this time he focused enough to repeat it word for word. As the words were beginning to appear again, he spoke.

“How long do I have to—“ he broke off when it buzzed irritatingly in his hands, causing him to jump. “This is so stu—“ the buzzing seemed to be becoming stronger, and Harry almost felt as though his hand should be going numb. “I’m not—“ He stomped his foot angrily, glaring at the book and then at Mr. Weasley, who smiled at him as if to say, ‘Did you think this would be fun?’ Remus *had* mentioned that he didn’t think he would find it very pleasant. He tried to focus on the next saying.

We run away all the time to avoid coming face to face with ourselves[2]. Harry read and repeated, but he didn’t agree at all. He wasn’t running away to avoid himself, he was running away to avoid others—adults that he didn’t trust.

You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment unless you trust enough.[3] Harry definitely felt like an idiot, repeating these stupid sayings to a nearly empty room. “You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment unless you trust enough,” he muttered as quietly as the book would let him—it buzzed when he became unintelligible and he was forced to raise his voice in response.

In between sayings, he looked up to see that Mr. Weasley was now reading a copy of the Daily Prophet. Then Harry noticed a bit of movement down next to his chair, and saw that it was a piece of a parchment with a quill standing up on it, waiting to write down each quote that Harry read. Angry but tired of feeling the buzzing against his hands, Harry made to take a step forward to kick the quill away instead of speaking—only to discover that he could shift his weight from foot to foot, even lift his feet off the ground one by one, but he could not move either of them forward or backward. He growled and the book buzzed more insistently, waiting for him to read the next saying.

To spare oneself from grief at all costs can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness.[4] “Life sucks,” he paraphrased angrily, trying to detach the book from his hand. Instead, his other hand stuck too. “To spare oneself from grief at all costs can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness,” he read, this time rather louder and more angrily than was strictly necessary. However, the book didn’t buzz, so he repeated the phrase shouting at the ceiling purely for his own amusement (and to try to take his mind off the words).

“Quiet down, Harry,” Mr. Weasley admonished. Harry glared at him, willing him to hear what he was thinking: ‘If these are supposed to be good for *me*, why not for everyone else too?’ One must be fond of people and trust them if one is not to make a mess of life[5]. This one he read monotonically and then repeated sarcastically, “One must be *fond* of ‘people’ if one is not to make a mess of life.” How stupid, he was trying to convey. Mr. Weasley turned the page of the Daily Prophet and seemed to have tuned him out entirely.

Truth hurts - not the searching after; the running from![6] read the page now. Using Mr. Weasley’s extra energy, Harry focused on amplifying his voice, and then yelled, “TRUTH HURTS!” as loud as he could, his voice echoing through the house. As he muttered the rest of the saying without amplification, he smirked to hear the commotion he had caused. While was repeating, he saw that though Arthur had tried to recover, he had clearly dropped the newspaper in his startlement. Now he seemed to be rifling through his pockets for something.

If a donkey bray at you, don't bray at him.[7] Mr. Weasley had found what he was looking for—his wand. He pointed it at Harry. “Silencio!” Harry grinned at him and immediately channeled the energy to his amplification—he hardly had to yell, at this rate.

“If a donkey bray at you, DON’T BRAY AT HIM!” he exclaimed gleefully, much to the dismay of Mr. Weasley. Suddenly the door slammed open and Remus Lupin entered, wand at the ready.

“What is going on?” he exclaimed.

“If a donkey bray at you, don’t bray at him!” Harry responded, his voice still booming through the house. Remus winced dramatically and started to lift his hands as if to cover his ears. Then he stopped himself and pointed his wand at Harry.

“No!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed. “He’ll just absorb it—cast it on the *room*!” Lupin nodded and turned toward the door to do so.

Harry had mercy on his former professor, even though he had decided that his game was far from up. The spell, when reflected, came back much to fast for him to dodge. However, it was altered, care of Harry, to not only stop sound from coming *from* Remus but also to prevent sound from getting to *to* him. Satisfied that he wouldn’t damage the werewolf’s sensitive hearing, he looked back to the now buzzing book and laughed out loud.

Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?[8] The book might have been ridiculous, but at least it seemed to *know* it. “DOES A ONE-LEGGED DUCK SWIM IN A CIRCLE??” he questioned as though it were deadly important. “HUH? DOES IT?” he added in giddily, hardly noticing the buzzing the book gave him. “Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?!” he asked again, his throat tiring from the yelling but the magical amplification still holding strong.

Harry’s eyes widened when he saw the next one. Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.[9] He read it easily enough, and was about to repeat, only to find that he had forgotten how the saying had begun. The book buzzed angrily at him, and he attempted, “Tomorrow is a new day…?” The book didn’t appreciate that. He didn’t appreciate the buzzing. He wanted to throw the book against the wall, but it still stuck just as tightly.

Tonks burst through the door as Harry began to read again. “Finish each day,” he muttered slowly, trying to hear what she said.

“What on earth?!” she exclaimed. Mr. Weasley was trying everything he could to cancel the charm on Remus, but Harry was easily reflecting each Finite Incatatem back at Arthur, where it would do no harm but no good either. “Why don’t you just cast a Silencing Charm on the r—“ she began, but Arthur interrupted.

“*Remus* tried, and you see what that got him!” Remus had turned and was babbling something at Tonks, but of course he could not be heard. “Any other bright ideas?”

“…SOME BLUNDERS AND ABSURDITIES HAVE CREPT IN,” he read with an extra flourish and some extra volume. He missed what Tonks responded to Remus, though, which could have been a problem.

“Stupefy!” she exclaimed suddenly, and the flash of light raced toward him. Just as he had with the headmaster, Harry found it easiest to reflect the spell rather than altering it or absorbing it without any preparation. Tonks was unconscious a moment later.

“Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it SERENELY AND WITH TOO HIGH A SPIRIT TO BE ENCUMBERED by your old nonsense,” he finished reading. Then he realized with a silent curse that he had forgotten the beginning AGAIN.

“Begin each day anew..?” he tried. BUZZ! went the book, and he stomped his foot angrily. “FINISH each day and be DONE with it!” he read furiously. “You have done what you could,” he continued to read, trying desperately to focus. He felt a spell impact against his barriers and reflect and refused to break his concentration to see what the result of the reflection had been; he was going to finish this! “… some BLUNDERS and ABSURDITIES have crept in; FORGET THEM as SOON as you can. Tomorrow is a NEW DAY; you shall begin it SERENELY and with TOO HIGH A SPIRIT to be encumbered with your old NONSENSE,” he finished, out of breath. Then he began to repeat as quickly as he could. “Finish-each-day-and-be-done-with-it; some-blunders-and-absurdities-have-crept-in—“ The cursed book was buzzing at him again.

“I HATE YOU ALL!!” he yelled frustratedly, and the book buzzed so sharply that he felt he could go mad. He hardly heard the exclamations of protest, as he was focusing every bit of attention he could muster on the quote. “Finish each day and be DONE with it,” he read desperately, “You have done what you could,” he realized what he had missed, and finished as quickly as he could. The commotion around him seemed to have calmed down, though maybe he was just focusing more closely. “Finish each day and be done with it,” he repeated immediately. “You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it SERENELY and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old NONSENSE!” he finished with satisfaction, and looked up to assess the situation.

A still silent and magically deaf Remus was crouched down next to an unconscious Tonks, as was Mr. Weasley. Harry had to assume that he had been the one to cast the reflected spell, and that he had been Silenced in consequence. Beyond them, by the door, were Harry’s friends; they all looked a bit worried, but Ginny and Ron looked a bit amused, while Hermione looked irritated or worried. None of them seemed at all interested in entering the room at the moment; either that, or they weren’t able to.

Mrs. Weasley had arrived, too, and was apparently taking in the situation. Harry was forced to look down to read the next saying. When degnoming, longest throw wins. Make sure you let go in the right direction[10]. He read this in his most knowledgeable tone, and gained a snort from Ron. He looked up and saw that Tonks was now waking up, and Mr. Weasley was looking in his direction with a confused expression on his face. “I’ve never seen that in there,” Ron’s father commented absentmindedly.

It was buzzing *again*. Harry was getting so sick and tired of this whole routine. And he was tired of standing. “When degnoming, longest throw wins. Make sure you let go in the right direction!” he said in a slightly more urgent tone of voice, wondering when he would be done reading and repeating.

Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis[11], Harry muttered. “Please, Harry, will you let me cast a Silencing charm on the room? Then you can yell all you like…” Mrs. Weasley appealed. Harry shook his head angrily.

“SOMETIMES a SCREAM is better than a THESIS!” he yelled, his voice cracking under the strain slightly. He swayed slightly on his feet and blinked rapidly. I hate quotations[12]. Now *that* he could yell twice—or more. “I HATE QUOTATIONS! I *HATE* QUOTATIONS! I HATE *QUOTATIONS*!” he screamed, ignoring the way his throat felt more raw each time he yelled. “I HATE QUOTATIONS!” The book was buzzing at him. “I HATE THEM, I HATE YOU, I HATE—I hate—“ He wasn’t screaming anymore, he was crying. “Stop it, stop it, stop it,” he shrieked at the book, shaking his hands as the book stuck to them as though it were part of him. He sat suddenly, right where he was, not moving his feet since he couldn’t. Then he looked at the next quote to read it, his eyes swimming with tears.

"Contrariwise," continued Tweedledee, "If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic."[13] He giggled hysterically. “Contrariwise,” he read bemusedly, “If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.” He giggled a little more, dislodging a few more tears. “Contrariwise… Contrariwise… Contrariwise…” he began to repeat like a mantra. The book didn’t buzz at him. “Contrariwise, contrariwise, contrariwise,” he babbled at whoever was putting his or her arm around him. “Contrariwise, contrariwise,” he continued as a weight lifted from his hands. “Contrariwise contrariwise contrariwise?” he asked esoterically. Someone was putting their hands below his knees and behind his back and picking him up. “Contrariwise,” he giggled. “I hate quotations. When degnoming, some confusions and absurdities have crept in. Contrariwise, make sure you let go in the right direction,” he finished with a smile, and laid his head against the shoulder of whomever was holding and stared at the pattern of the sweater that lay across the chest.