The only thing more dangerous to him than his suspicious enemies, were his suspicious friends.

-from The Boy-Who-Lived, A Biography by George Fiddler

Ron stepped into the smallest bedroom at number four Privet Drive directly behind Harry. Harry moved to the desk. He lifted off the top and set it in the corner, still covered in books and paper. It revealed a small freezer/refrigerator. With a grin he opened the fridge. Milk was set down. He opened a drawer and removed a microwave. It was plugged in and he heated water.

He had bought the appliances but magically wired the desk.

For a few minutes Ron stood, bewildered, in the doorway, but finally regained the ability to walk and moved to sit on the bed. “Who put all this in?”

“No one of consequence.” Was Harry’s cryptic answer.

“Uh-huh, where did you-”

“Oh be quiet and drink your tea.” Ron, despite wanting to know how everything had been created decided that it was better to gorge himself first and ask questions later.

“So, how are you doing, Ron?” Harry asked over the meal.

“’m good. Busy, but that’s to be expected, what with-.” He stopped suddenly, trying to hide what he had been doing.

“Ron, you might as well tell me.”

“But I promised Dumbledore that-”

“Ron,” Harry said quietly and dangerously, “do you remember last summer? Do you remember how I was when I found out what everyone had known but I hadn’t because everyone had ‘promised’ Dumbledore that they wouldn’t tell me? Do you remember what happened because of it? Do you remember seeing me at Number 12 during that first bit of time? Do you really want me to do that again?”

“Harry, I promised-”

“Ten….nine…”

“-I’d love to tell you, but-”

“Then do. Six…”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Five…”

“I want to tell you, it’s just that-”

“Four…”

“-it isn’t your right to know.”

“Like hell.”

“Harry, this is NOT about you.”

“Two…”

“Harry, please, it will just make it worse.”

“One…Zero.” Harry pulled out his wand again, knowing that he would go through with whatever Ron made him.

“Put it down, you don’t even have your wand rights.”

Harry smirked in an almost Malfoy-esque manner; “Actually, Fudge gave them to me about a week ago.”

“Oh.” Ron’s ineloquence for once was a perfect match for the situation. No matter what he had said it would have been out of place. He had, for once, found the right thing to say.

“Ron, I am your friend. I have known you for five years. You were one of the first decent wizards I met. I know your family. I know where you live, and I have saved your life on multiple occasions. Oh, and if that isn’t enough, I am the boy-who-lived. Tell me what it was because at the moment you are being a complete prat.”

Ron sighed in resignation and rubbed his hands over his face. “I only found out when the Order asked me to work on it, so I’ve only known a few weeks, but for the last few months Remus has been disappearing on the moon, and since we know that he isn’t drinking his potion, we were concerned, but now…Harry the number of Werewolf bites has nearly tripled in the last few months.

“The Order had me and Ginny trying to find anything: information, other werewolves, anything. But what they really wanted us to find was a cure, but as of now…

“Harry, even Remus doesn’t know. They keep saying that it’s too much like last time. That last time they thought Remus was the traitor and so they put faith in Peter, and, well you know what that caused. Harry the Order is terrified that Remus might be a traitor, and if he is, Harry, you won’t make it to see You-know-who again, let alone fight him. You’d be killed in your sleep.

“All we want to do is prove that Remus isn’t a traitor, and to find a cure for him. Merlin, I shouldn’t have told you this.”

Harry sat down, feeling a bit confused and rather vulnerable, a feeling that had become nonexistent in the last week.

Remus might be a traitor.

Again.

And again the Order was accusing him of it.

“Nice to see it has so little impact on me.” He said sarcastically. “Well Padfoot, Prongs,” He continued under his breath, “What do you think? He IS the last of the real Marauders. That should count for something, but he does have one hell of a case against him. Maybe I should actually talk to him, not my ceiling. Maybe. Why do I even bother anymore, Sirius? It’s not like any of these people have enough of an IQ to be worth saving.”

“Umm, Harry, are you talking to two of your…deceased relatives?”

“It’s not any stranger than praying.”

“What praying?”

“Wizard-borns,” Harry said, using it like an insult, “It’s like an extended apostrophe to someone who is dead.”

“What’s an apostrophe?”

“It’s talking to someone that isn’t there, but acting like they are, it’s a literature term.”

“A what?”

“Dammit Ron, take a Muggle Studies class, call Hermionie, or talk to your dad, for the moment just ignore the fact that I was talking to the dead and keep explaining. Have you found anything about a cure?”

Ron sat on the bed, doing an impressive imitation of a deer in headlights. “See Sirius, my point is proven. It’s a clear case of nonexistent IQs.” Harry said to the ceiling once more.

“We- we found one rumor, but it wasn’t much more than that. There’s supposed to be one potion that can help, but it’s almost impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because the potion involves ingredients that are exist in about three locations world wide. One with you-know-who-”

“Dammit, Ron just call him Voldemort!”

“-one with the Malfoy’s, but they don’t have enough, and one with a wealthy American wizard. The American won’t sell, and it’s not like we can just ask either of the others, so the potion is almost impossible. The spell that goes with it is just as bad. There’s no one that can do it. You have to have someone who wants to kill the person, attack with Avada Kedarva while the person is in wolf form, but only target the spell to kill the wolf not the person.

“It was only tried once and the inventor just ended up being bitten, and then there were just two of them. That was back in the thirteen hundreds in China, the Yuan dynasty. It turns out that Shamanism had a lot more magic in it than most wizards give it credit for. The Pax Mongolica, combined with the educated class in China developed it. But like I said, it was only tried once. And after the Mongols were ousted, it was ignored. It’s only in a few books in the world, all of which are supposed to be in the hands of the people with the supplies. The other problem is that the ingredients are counteracted by the Wolfsbane potion, so the process would have to be done while Remus was out of control.”

Harry nodded to himself, a bit shocked that Ron knew so much, but staying as focused as he could. “What are the difficult ingredients?”

He pulled out a sheet of parchment and began to write while Ron continued. “The most basic ones are wolfsbane, Unicorn horn and Phoenix tears, but that’s where simple ends. You need four teeth from a sphinx that were willingly parted with, a sorcerer’s stone, yeah like the one that was destroyed in our fist year, a live basilisk egg. Basilisk blood, scales and a fang. The water has to be from a specific spring on the Asian Steppe. The cauldron has to be made of solid silver, even though it will probable melt through. And then there’s the most random one, Three dozen long stemmed roses with their thorns still on and their stems cut to exactly forty centimeters.

“So basically the spell is impossible, and me and Gin are trying to find another. Fat chance of that.” Ron finished sourly.

“What was it called?” Harry asked, still scribbling furiously.

“Er…um…er…oh, there it is, Frean Coriathal.”

Harry stared at the name and tried to remember if it was in one of the books Snape had handed him. “Accio Index.” It flew into his hand, and dropping of Ron’s jaw was audible.

While Harry scanned through looking for it, Ron made a few garbled noises in an attempt to ask his question. Harry finally found the note on the spell and summoned the proper volume.

The Frean Coriathal, a brilliant display of effort between two conflicting cultures, is a rumored cure to the curse of a werewolf. It has never been proven to work, but by all analysis, it should. For further information refer to Very Hard Magical Cures and Other Silly and Pointless Efforts.

Harry laughed mentally. All of the books were Dark, and therefore the referenced book was Dark, but the title made it sound like a kid’s book.

Unfortunately, at that moment, Ron found his voice.

“Harry, first of all, how did you summon those books without using your wand?”

Wait a minute, how did I? Harry thought. He didn’t have time for a response before Ron picked up speed and began to look more and more like Mrs. Weasley when lecturing. Had his friend not been so upset, it would have been funny. “Second, WHY DO YOU OWN SO DAMN MANY DARK ARTS BOOKS?! These aren’t kids books, these are ‘how to commit a crime so heinous that you will be thrown to the dementors for even thinking about it’ books, how in the hell do you have them? And more importantly WHY do you have them?”

Harry’s attempts to interject an explanation were quickly overrun. “The only person that owns those books is You-Know-WHO! How did you get- oh sweet Merlin, you traitor!”

“Hey! I’m-”

“You bloody turncoat, you treacherous little bastard! THIS is why you aren’t upset over Sirius anymore isn’t it? Well I guess it’s good he never knew you were just a backstabbing rat, outstripping even PETER! You deceitful LOUSE! We TRUSTED You! You ignorant, Heartless, DESTROYER OF HOPE! I HATE YOU, YOU TWO-FACED, DARKNESS CORRUPTED, SON OF A BITCH!”

Harry chose that final insult to lose his own temper. He jumped up with his wand out and held it towards his friend. “I truly appreciate the level of trust you have in me, friend, now get out.” He flicked his wrist and Ron disappeared. He wasn’t quite certain what he had done, but knew that it worked.

In a brief spat of curiosity that intermingled with his anger, he did a translation spell on the books’ titles. The shining silver letters shifted to spell, The Dark Arts and How to Use Them, by Link J Grow.

“Oh. Shit.” He said.

The books were written by one of Voldemort’s predecessors; one of the Dark Mages Merlin had fought, and one of the most powerful ones too. Ron had obviously spent some time around Hermionie to be able to translate the Latin so well.

Pigwidgeon landed on his shoulder and trilled loudly.

Then Harry realized where he had sent his very angry and very vocal friend.

Number Twelve Grimauld Place.

Where everyone was suspicious of everyone.

“Double Shit.”