When Harry arrived in the Great Hall he breathed a deep sigh. It was wonderful to be back at Hogwarts, to be back home. Oddly enough, however, home now also conjured vague images of a neat room done in various shades of blue. Harry hastily shoved that thought out of his mind. It had come to him one of the nights he had sat up watching the moon in the last week and it made him uneasy. What did it mean, he wondered, at the same time, however, he found himself avoiding finding out.

It was, he supposed, for exactly this sort of thing that Professor Snape had given him the journal just before he had left the Dursley’s house, but he hadn’t started writing in the book yet. He could imagine the humiliation he would suffer if his relatives had found such a manuscript, though an ardent desire not to be “contaminated” usually kept them well away from any of his things. He would start his attempt at writing tonight or tomorrow, he decided. Perhaps just write about what had happened every day or in the last week, just to get used to it. Later on, after he felt more comfortable, if he felt more comfortable, a part of his mind whispered darkly, he could write about the...other stuff, the stuff the journal had been intended for.

As he walked toward the Gryffindor table with Ron and Hermione, just behind Neville and Ginny and Luna who split off a moment later to float over to the Ravenclaw table, Harry swept an idle glance along the Head table. Most of the professors were talking amongst themselves, all but two. Professor Snape was glowering at anything that moved, as per usual for him, and a new professor, someone Harry had never seen before and could therefore only assume was the new DADA professor, was observing the students closely. He was graying, though he didn’t seem that old, and his hair stuck out from his head in several directions; all in all he looked rather like the lion Harry had seen when he went to the zoo with Dudley that one summer.

In a few minutes, the students were settled, or very nearly and Professor Dumbledore gave Professor McGonagall a nod as she stood to fetch the first years. They appeared a few moments later. It was obvious that they had started as a line, but nervousness made them bunch together until the line looked rather clumped and straggly instead of the thing of precision Harry remembered learning at his primary school. Soon enough they were sorted, Gryffindor got nine new first-years, and the Headmaster was standing to invite them all to enjoy the feast that the house-elves had worked so hard at preparing. It was, as always, a marvelous meal, filled with more good things to eat than Harry reckoned even Dudley could manage to ingest, though it might be a near thing.

After the feast Dumbledore stood again and gave them the usual talk, full of admonishments about staying out of the Forbidden Forest and not using magic in the halls or tracking mud into the castle. This year, however, he also said, “I am heartened to see so many new faces this year, especially in light of recent events. I should like you all to remember that we are at our strongest when we work together and respect one another. And now, let me introduce to you your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Lyons.”

Professor Lyons, the man Harry had noticed earlier and whom he now saw had eyes rather like Madame Hooch’s, nodded to them all and said, “thank you,” in a low, gravelly voice as they tentatively applauded.

“Thank Merlin he didn’t get up to give a speech,” Seamus noted.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “that alone makes him a better professor than that Umbridge.”

Lavender and Parvati were agreeing when Headmaster Dumbledore said, “And now, before we all head off to bed, let us sing the school song.” For a moment, Harry considered singing to a funeral march in honor of Fred and George, but as it was too late to consult with Ron, he thought he’d better wait until next year. He wasn’t really sure he could pull off something like that anyway; he had nothing like the twins’ reputation, after all. He sang to a jaunty little tune, instead, that he had picked up from his cousin summer before last. The original song had been intended to be a sort of drinking round, but it was a catchy tune and no one noticed in the cacophony of other voices and melodies.

When they had finished, everyone stood and the Great Hall was soon filled with a seething mass of teenage humanity trying to get through the doors. He could hear the voices of several prefects, including his two best friends, calling for first years to follow them and not to get separated as he, too, tried to leave the Hall. A moment later he heard Professor McGonagall, his head of house, calling for him. “Potter,” she said when she caught up with him.

“Professor,” he greeted her.

“I must say that I was pleased with your overall results from the OWLs, but your potions score needs work. No doubt you remember that I told you Professor Snape accepts only the highest scoring students into his NEWTs class.”

“I remember, Professor. I was still planning to take the NEWT, though. Hermione is going to help me study.”

The tartan-wearing witch pursed her lips. “As advanced as Miss Granger is, I’m not sure it would be entirely wise to allow her to teach you advanced potions. Why not talk to Professor Snape about it?”

“If he’s not going to let me in his regular advanced class I doubt he’s going to want to make a special class just for me,” Harry replied.

“True enough,” McGonagall’s lips thinned even further. “When I said I would help you become an Auror I was quite serious Mr. Potter. May I assume you are still interested in following that path?”

“Yes Professor,” he replied surely.

“Very well then. I will talk to Professor Snape.”

“I’m not sure,” Harry began before his professor smoothly interrupted him.

“Not to worry, Potter,” McGonagall said, “it will be taken care of. All I have to do is point out what could happen if you were to run around making Polyjuice, say, without proper supervision. I think that would convince him quite nicely, don’t you?” Her eyes twinkled merrily at him for a moment before she strode off in search of Snape.

Harry made his way to the Gryffindor common room hoping that no one would ask what McGonagall had wanted. He managed to laugh and joke with Ron and Neville despite the fact that he was worried that his head of house had done what she threatened. If either of the boys noticed that his heart wasn’t in the antics they were up to, neither of them mentioned it. He would have thought he had gotten away with it if it were not for the curious little looks Hermione kept shooting him.

On the other hand she had been looking at him that way almost since they got on the train. His friends had, of course, asked him what it had been like, living with Snape, but all he had said was that he didn’t want to talk about it. It didn’t satisfy them, but they didn’t ask again. Perhaps, Hermione reasoned, he was embarrassed. She would wait a bit, and then try again later, when he wasn’t surrounded by everyone.

He knew, when he saw her striding toward him, that unless he did something to defuse the situation, he could only leave the conversation with an entirely unenviable headache. “Severus!” she called from a distance, as though concerned that if she waited any longer he would find some way to slink out of her grasp.

“Minerva,” he replied evenly.

“I want a word with you, Severus,” she said as she drew closer. He was amused to note that she was breathing just slightly too fast, having hurried to catch him, and was now trying very hard to hide it. As he waited a moment for her to catch her breath and begin, which she did almost immediately he said, “Really, Minerva, running through the corridors? What will the children think?”

She glared at him before saying, “Severus, I know Potter didn’t do as well as he should have on his potions OWL, but—“ “Calm down, Minerva,” he said with a brilliantly executed artificial sneer for the subject. “Your Golden Boy has already been admitted to my advanced class.”

“Already admitted?” Her curiosity rapidly turned to suspicion. “What do you mean, he’s already been admitted?” She was so bewildered by his statement she forgot to snarl at him for calling Harry a Golden Boy, he noted.

“I mean, I have been ordered to include him in my class.”

“Severus,” she began sternly, “I sincerely hope you aren’t going to tell me that Albus was ordering you when you and I both know he probably only just asked. Why, I was going to ask you myself,” she said with a small tilt of her head.

He quirked an eyebrow at her before saying, “You are not alone in that endeavor, I assure you.”

“Oh,” she said eyes widening as her mouth thinned. “I see. I didn’t know He—well,” she sounded a trifle flustered and backpedaled. “Well, in that case, Severus, I’ll just let you get back to your work.”

He sneered again as he said, “Thank you, Minerva,” in a faintly mocking tone. She was just preparing to say something when he swept off and left her glaring after him.

Surprisingly enough, or perhaps not so surprisingly, it had been much easier to get the boy enrolled in his class than he had been expecting. He had put himself on his guard and marched firmly up to Albus’s office. The old man had a nasty habit of eliciting more information than Severus wanted to give, and this time he was determined that he would give nothing away. He gave the latest confectionary password to the gargoyle with an absent-minded wondering if he should be brushing his teeth afterwards and allowed the staircase to take him up. He raised his hand to knock on the door before him but heard the old man inviting him to come in before his knuckles had touched the wood. “What can I do for you, Severus?” Albus had greeted him as he entered the office.

“I need to add a student to one of my class rosters,” he had replied.

“Oh?” Albus had asked, eyes twinkling madly. “I think that’s more Minerva’s department than mine, Severus.”

He had scowled a little at the headmaster, “I have been ordered to put Potter in my advanced class. I’m supposed to keep an eye on him, keep him close.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Severus, that is the only reason, I’m sure.”

The white-haired mage had smiled in response to Snape’s deepening scowl. “Very good then, Headmaster. I’ll let you get back to your work.” He had then turned and strode out of the office.

“Good afternoon, Severus,” Albus had called as he left.

When he had reached the relative safety of his own office he sighed with relief. Severus thought that, all in all, he had done quite a good job of ignoring and dodging Albus’s jibes, and he felt some small self-congratulations were in order.

Of course, he snorted, getting the boy enrolled in the class was the easy part, keeping a proper balance of visible hatred and tolerance every day while still maintaining the fragile relationship he had managed to create with Harry, that was the hard part. The most difficult obstacle in that respect would be Draco Malfoy. The boy was devious and too observant for his own good, especially when someone else was getting something. The others would not be nearly as difficult. Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson were too busy trying to pretend they knew what they were doing or asking Malfoy for help. He had thought he might get rid of Malfoy’s two shadows, but as they had applied to the class he had had to let them in, for political reasons. Thank Merlin Longbottom wouldn’t be there this year. Zabini kept his own council, the boy was doing his best to fade into the woodwork and stay neutral. Unfortunately that meant that he was forced to keep himself aloof from his head of house. He would have liked to help the boy, but he could not do that without giving his own position away. In any event he did not expect any trouble from Blaise, which was fortunate, since he suspected Draco would provide more than enough. Then, shaking his head at his own pointless worrying, he had stood and left his office. The students would be arriving that night and he needed to check on the common room and the dormitories.

Draco Malfoy stared up at the canopy of his bed. It was green, but you couldn’t tell that in the dark. The first night back at Hogwarts he always missed watching the moon. He could see it from his bedroom window at home and he often liked to look up at it as he drifted into sleep. He supposed it was something of a morbid fascination, given his aversion to werewolves, to watch it wax and wane each month, but he found himself drawn by its cool, aloof beauty.

He had not, on his father’s orders, antagonized Potter on the train that day. It had been very tempting to walk over and say something, anything, but if word got back to his father, and it would he knew, he was likely to get a very irate letter from home, Malfoys, after all, did not do Howlers, unlike certain other families he could mention. He had gotten some small satisfaction from seeing Potter looking askance at him when they passed on their way to the carriages, but it was rather cold comfort.

It was odd, how his father’s brief stint in Azkaban had changed the family dynamics, he mused, not for the first time. He had not been looking forward to going home at the end of last term, especially after he had gotten hexed by Potter and company on the train. Instead of the dressing down his father would have given him, though, his mother simply reversed the spells and said, “Do be more careful next time, won’t you,” before gesturing for him to take hold of the portkey.

After that they had gotten on quite well, and grew closer than they had been since he was very young. He wasn’t sure if his mother had had more time that summer, or if she just chose to spend more of it with him, but either way he had thoroughly enjoyed getting to know her. She had a dry wit that always made him laugh, and he liked the way she smiled at him, the way a mother should smile, he thought, though he could not remember her doing it often before. Perhaps he simply hadn’t noticed?

It was possible. His father had always been around before, and Draco had idolized him from the moment he could tell the difference between his parents. There had been a distance between them since he had started Hogwarts, it was true, but he had put that down to his failure to best Granger and Potter at school.

Lucius had returned the morning his OWL results had arrived. He had hurried into the breakfast room to show his mother and only after handing them to her did he notice his father standing in the corner of the room. “Good work, Draco, I’m very proud of you,” Narcissa had said. Draco had glowed.

When his father got the sheet, however, he merely said, “Hmmm. You could have done better. I heard that Granger did better.” Draco could not help but droop a little, though he tried very hard not to show it. A Malfoy did not openly display his emotions, nor did he let others know they had power over him. At that moment, Draco felt that he resented his father, they had been much happier without him, but he immediately buried that thought as deeply within himself as he could, where no one would see it. “You will study more this summer,” Lucius had instructed.

“Yes, father,” Draco intoned in response. When the older man nodded Draco had known he was dismissed. He was still prepared to obey his father, indeed, he felt he had little choice, his father was still they head of the family, and it was faintly worrying to him, the amount of time his father spent at the Dark Lord’s side, but Draco resolved he would go and talk to Professor Snape soon. Perhaps his head of house would have some insight into his father’s latest directions.