“Oy, listen to this,” Ron said, scanning his letter in slight disdain. “This bloke says that I fought ‘very well, but let’s save that conversation for another time’,” Ron snorted. “I’m not having a chat with this bloke ever. And then he proceeds to ask me what sort of herbal tea I drink? What in hell does that have to do with anything?”

Harry glanced up from his pile of letters—actually it wasn’t really a pile, not for any of the seven bedridden at the moment, it was a nifty box at the end of the bed, piled high sorted letters—and smiled at his friend.

“Say you drink it Irish,” he declared causing Hermione and Ginny to instantly snort loudly, Madame Pomfrey, who was missing with her medicine cabinets to glare at him sternly, and Ron to smirk evilly.

“That I might just do,” he breathed.

“I would reframe from such an act, Mr. Weasley,” Snape’s silky voice slithered out abruptly. “It would spread rumors.” Ron glanced at the Professor, annoyed, while Harry rolled his eyes before sitting down his letter.

Snape was a strange fellow and that was that. There was no way about it. They all been in the Hospital Wing for three days, and he barely uttered a word—beside the occasional insult, sarcastic remark, or ‘helpful advice’ that really sounded like ‘just go shoot yourself’ advice.

Though Harry would never forget the look he had when Dumbledore declared that he was going to let the letters of the public come through to the Hospital Wing so they could sort them out, read them and figure out who they wanted to respond to, and the man looked like he was ready to spontaneously combust, or rather, leave the Wing and turn anyone who dared to interfere with his departure into ingredients for his next potion.

Somehow he did neither, yet, the look was still there. Since then he had enclosed himself in his curtains of the bed, neither touching nor looking at the letters. It wasn’t until they were nearly overflowing and Madame Pomfrey kept stepping and nearly slipping on them that he even considered looking at them.

Apparently, from Ginny’s quick fingers having stole one when the man slept, they just letters of praise for finding the ‘light’ and being the responsible adult in a bad situation. Other then that, many were just requesting proper potions ingredients.

A bit like several of Harry’s requested helpful tips on Quidditch, or Ron’s being herbal tea.

“Well,” Luna’s dreamy voice suddenly woke up. “You know what they say, the more herbal tea you drink, the more freckles you have.”

Ron just blinked at her, while Ginny and Harry shared a long, amused look, and Hermione just ignored her. Neville didn’t seem to have heard, engulfed in a terribly long letter that dropped from his hands onto his bed.

Poor boy.

“Erm, right,” Ron cleared his throat awkwardly as the girl turned back to her letters. “You know, mate,” he hissed at Harry. “Starting to become fond of the little nutter.”

Harry snorted in his letter, successfully showing that old man from Newberry what he thought of teenagers ‘this day and age’ before tossing it to the side. He had a pile of letters he was going to respond to, and ones he wasn’t.

The ones he wasn’t was infinitely higher then the ones he was.

“Hey,” Fred suddenly bounded into the Hospital Wing, earning a disproving look from Madame Pomfrey. “Guess what,” he waved a group of Daily Prophets in his hand. “You’re all stars.”

“Yeah!” George leapt in after him, frog-hopping his twin.

“Well honestly,” Madame Pomfrey huffed out, stalking off.

“Stars?” Ron asked, annoyed with a letter.

“Aye,” Fred threw a Prophet at him. “Whole issue, dedicated to just you guys.” George and Fred passed out all the Prophets to the bedridden souls, Fred being the brave one and daring to walk past Snape’s glaring shield, before setting back, laughing almost.

Looking down, Harry found a picture of the group of them all standing and laughing in their Halloween Costumes. The one that Dumbledore had taken.

HALLOWEEN FIGHTERS THAT DESTORYED YOU-KNOW-WHO

Well that was a, um, nifty headline.

Flipping the pages, he found himself staring at him from the first page, blinking and waving slightly, his smile weak. It was a picture he had never known had been taken. He was sitting in the Great Hall during a study period apparently.

Skimming the page, he found that it recited his side of the story, and some of his back history. He had that longest section—go figure—but soon the rest of the ‘seven’ had their parts, each with their own page article.

All of the teenagers’ pictures were somewhat bemused, never having known their picture was taken, except Luna—who just hadn’t cared—and Snape, who just glared at the camera, scowling and glaring at any who dared to look at the picture, let alone in real-life.

Snape was the only adult in the whole ‘seven’ and therefore, next to Harry, he had the longest article himself. Secretly Harry grinned to himself—whatcha think of the fame, ‘our new celebrity’ Professor Snape? Yet, his story was highly abridged, and he wasn’t known as the spy that he had been, nor was he receiving the acknowledgement of what he had done as a spy.

Tossing the Prophet aside, uncaring, Harry glanced about the Wing.

All the others, beside Snape—who merely glanced at his article and tossed it aside himself—seemed to be rather taken with their articles and their limelight. He sighed to himself.

Maybe they would be more content with the fame then Harry himself was.

Casting his eyes around, he briefly met Snape’s, and for a moment they just stared at each other, neither loathingly, angrily, or anything really—except there was a slight silence of an agreement to each other.

They had accepted each other’s ‘thanks’.

Then Harry broke eye-contact, and went to his hand lessons which weren’t improving.