Harry entertained the brief but heady fantasy that his paper idea had rocked his professor’s world to its foundations, but he found himself unable to support that. Surely Snape, a Potions Master, had at least considered the idea that Muggle sciences and his discipline were related in some fashion. In that case, he was really quite unable to guess why the idea had so unsettled Snape.Today was Harry’s meeting with Professor Lupin, after supper; the Professor reminded him of it after their lesson on vampires and ghouls. Harry was not looking forward to it; ever since Harry had cast Imperius, the Defense Professor had been oddly stiff and formal. He was beginning to wonder if Remus Lupin would ever forgive him.

All throughout the day, Draco persisted in his absence. At one point, Harry got curious enough to check the Hospital Wing, but Madam Pomfrey made it clear that Draco had not been there since the initial casting of Imperius. Draco was skipping out, probably to do some sort of underhanded thing using his father’s cloak...

Harry found that time moved rather quickly when he was awaiting something miserable, and the day certainly flew past as he awaited the interview with Lupin. Not having Draco around to fill his moments up with inane demands and dark looks made the day almost distressingly uneventful, which merely gave him more time to dread the meeting.

After dinner (at which Malfoy was, once again, not present) Harry wended his way up to Lupin’s office, and knocked. When Lupin answered, Harry slipped inside.

Remus’s office was unlike it had been in third-year; the professor had made good use of all of the items left behind by his predecessors. Moody’s Dark Detectors, several odd implements that Harry recognized as having been Quirrell’s, and...

“You didn’t keep those!” Harry sputtered, catching sight of a complete collection of Professor Lockhart’s books.

The Professor followed Harry’s eye to the books. “And why not? They’re entertaining, aren’t they?”

Harry rolled his eyes expressively.

“They also contain very excellent anecdotes. If you read through all the flourish, you’ll realize they contain good advice on dealing with Dark creatures; they were taken from credible sources, you know, before Lockhart stole and embellished on them.”

As ice-breakers went, Harry decided, that had been a good way to go. Lupin, leaning back in his chair with his waistcoat unbuttoned, looked more relaxed than Harry had seen him all term. “Have a seat, Harry,” he said, gesturing to a swivel chair tucked into a desk across the room. Harry turned the chair around and perched in it, unable to escape the feeling that he was three years younger, talking to Lupin about his parents.

The nostalgia seemed to be affecting Lupin, too, who smiled at him warmly. “Now, Potter, shall we discuss your first series of lessons?”

Harry nodded. “What’s your schedule for the twenty-ninth?”

Lupin scooted slightly closer and offered Harry his planbook. “I was thinking that we’ll probably be up to grindylows with the third-years; and with your class? We’ll probably have moved to our first real duels.”

Harry looked up to note that the professor’s expression had shifted to somber. “I’m sorry, Professor. I really am.”

“I have no doubt you are,” Lupin said, passing a hand over his eyes. He examined Harry, much as Snape had earlier in the day. “I never would have given you such responsibility, Harry,” he said suddenly. “You’re not ready for it.”

“Professor...!”

“No, Harry; and I am not seeing you as the third-year student I once had. You’re different now; I could spot it right away, and I don’t mean how you’ve shot up in height. But you’re still a child.” He frowned. “No one but me seems to realize that. Even Severus–”

Lupin broke off, then, shaking his head. “But it’s no use. You’re really the best we have, our best option. There is no one else who could fill the position as admirably. You will miss classes, but you’re clever enough to make them up, especially with Hermione’s help...”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir,” Harry said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin said, sounding like he meant it. “Really. I just think you’ve got people expecting enough of you without being a teacher, too.”

“I’m coping fine, thanks,” Harry said, his voice dripping with venom, before he realized that this wasn’t probably what Lupin’d meant at all.

“Ah. Yes, well,” Remus replied, catching on to Harry’s defensiveness quickly and backing off. “First-years will still be learning to handle their wands, so I’ll probably be on book-work with them. Same for the second-years. Fourth-years will be learning the protective and defensive charms. Fifth years will be just starting more aggressive magic. Seventh-years... well, we can hardly expect you to teach above your year, Harry.”

“I did at the D.A.,” Harry replied. “I’ll manage.”

Lupin nodded. “I don’t suppose that there’s much more to go over. I’m told your lessons for your D.A. were superb. But I did want to talk to you about some other issues.”

Here it comes, Harry thought.

“You haven’t noted any... side-effects... after doing the Imperius curse on Draco Malfoy?”

This was the last thing Harry expected to hear. “Am I supposed to be noting any?”

The Professor moved a hand through his sandy hair and shrugged. “Many wizards experience them, but not all. There must be a certain... compatibility between the caster and his victim, for any sort of connection to persist.”

Harry winced slightly at the word ‘victim’. “What are the side-effects?”

“Well – have you, for instance, been experiencing an urge to cast the curse again?”

“Once, the day after,” Harry suddenly recalled, “but not since.”

“An added closeness to Mister Malfoy?”

Harry winced more visibly. “Come again?”

“I suppose not,” Lupin said with a teasing smile. “What about any alterations in personality, in your need to command others? A certain detachment from everyday life?”

“No,” Harry lied smoothly. He wondered if all Dark Arts had similar effect on the caster, and, after a moment, voiced the question.

“Similar, yes, but it is specific to the spell cast,” Lupin elaborated. “Casting the Cruciatus Curse, for example, is also addictive, and increases the need to command others. However, it also increases the caster’s penchant for causing pain, both emotional and physical. It causes a far more marked feeling of distance from the rest of humanity.”

Harry shivered, wondering what might have happened to him if he’d managed to cast the Cruciatus on Bellatrix. “What if you were to cast a Dark Arts spell on yourself?” he inquired. He was pretty certain that Snape hadn’t casually informed any of the other staff about Obscura, and he didn’t want Lupin to know – but he needed to know more about it.

“On yourself?!” Lupin echoed, staring at Harry in distaste. “You have changed, Harry.”

“I’m growing up,” Harry said flatly, “or perhaps I never was the child you thought I was.”

There was a moment of silence in which Remus Lupin examined him carefully, this time with a far more thoughtful eye than before. He seemed to know Harry was quoting someone, and attempting to discern whom; Harry’s estimation of the Professor went up a notch. “Well – I’m not sure,” Remus replied, rather carefully. “You might end up with the worst of both sides of the curse; the side-effects of the caster along with the effects upon the victim.”

“Let’s say you cast Imperio on yourself,” Harry meditated, “ordering yourself to do something. Would that work?”

Lupin frowned at him. “Perhaps...”

“What would happen to you?”

The Professor tapped a finger against his lips as he contemplated this. “No, I’m relatively certain that wouldn’t work, Harry. A person under the Imperius Curse is nearly useless – they would be unable to order themselves to do anything. It would be a waste of time.” He eyed Harry again. “But it’s a very interesting thought, Mister Potter.”

Back to the ‘Mister Potter’ business again. Hmm, better back off somewhat...

“Er... what about the side-effects to Imperius? The one who it’s cast on, I mean,” Harry tacked on. “I want to be able to make sure Draco’s okay, too, and I doubt he’ll come and talk to you.”

Lupin nodded. “Well, let’s see. Has he demonstrated increased respect for you?”

Harry laughed aloud. “Definitely not.”

“Has he asked you to cast Imperius on him again?”

Harry froze. “Would... would someone do that?”

“Have you ever been under Imperio before, Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“Then you must recall the feeling...” Lupin sighed. “Imperius would be more addictive to someone with a great deal of troubles. With so much falling away, it’s far easier to note the lightness...” He shook his head. “In any case, the idea of no longer being responsible for one’s actions is a rather tantalizing one to the thoughtful wizard. No guilt, no self-recrimination, no second-guessing... everything’s decided for you before you even wake up in the morning.”

Harry shuddered.

“Yes, that’s it exactly, but when you’re a bit older, Harry, you’ll begin to see the appeal. Teenaged witches and wizards, incidentally, have less trouble concerning addiction to the curse.”

“That’s a relief, then,” Harry said. He frowned. “Come to think of it, Malfoy was a lot nicer to me than I expected, the first day I was under his control. At first, I thought it was just because he didn’t know what to do with me yet, and he said it was because it would be easier to start off simple... but maybe it was aftereffects of Imperius. He was almost decent.”

Lupin frowned, concerned.

“No need to worry, Professor, after a day he was right as rain. Trust me.” When the Professor continued to look anxious, he added, “I’ll keep an eye on him and tell you immediately if he shows any additional symptoms.”

“Thank you, Harry. That’s a great relief.”

Harry shrugged. “Just fixing my mess, Professor.”

When Harry reached the Common Room, Ron was scribbling Charms homework with Hermione.“Want to talk?” he inquired, without looking up.

“No, Ron,” Harry said. “For the last time.”

Ron put down his quill and raised his eyes. “It isn’t the last time, because I’ll keep asking until you give me a different answer.”

“I’ve got nothing to talk about,” Harry replied icily.

Hermione was now frowning at them both. “What’s this all about, then?”

“Ron thinks I’ve gone ‘round the bend.”

“No, I don’t,” Ron retorted, talking to Hermione rather than Harry. “I think we need to talk about Sirius, that’s all.”

“Ron,” Hermione said gently, “grief is a very private thing. People deal with it in different ways, you know.”

“Complete and utter denial isn’t a way of dealing with–” Ron paused. “How come whenever you argue with Harry, and whenever I argue with Harry, we always end up arguing together?”

Harry snorted, and whirled around to brood in the chair by the fireplace, leaving the other two to their conversation, or argument – whichever it was. He took out his own homework and sped through it, telling himself that he would check his answers at the Quidditch pitch tomorrow – alone.

Harry was up before dawn again, grabbing his books and finding an isolated bench by the pitch to study. This meant he had a good hour before the Unsorted House descended.Ewan, Lilac, and Rae were together again; this time they’d brought a handful of others. Harry recognized a Gryffindor second-year, and a Hufflepuff third-year along with two more of the Unsorted House.

“All right, Harry?” Ewan called, while Rae waved to him shyly.

“Great,” Harry said, closing his books up and waving in return. “How are you all? What do you think of classes?”

They discussed Transfiguration (“Easily our hardest class,” Ewan said), Potions (“Not too terrible if you read the text and ignore the giant bat up front”), Charms (“Bloody brilliant!”), and Care of Magical Creatures. “The flobberworms are sweet,” Lilac said, but everyone else shuddered.

“We hear you did a small class last year,” Ewan said, “of selected members. Are you doing it again?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Would you be interested?”

“All of us are,” he replied, and heads bobbed throughout the group.

“We’ve heard all kinds of stories,” Lilac supplied. “If even half of them are true, it would be marvelous to have you for a tutor!”

“Probably that’s about how many of them are true,” Harry supplied ruefully, “and likely not the ones you believe.”

She and Rae exchanged a glance and giggled.

“All the same,” he tacked on, “I’m not an...” Expert? he thought. He knew, without pride, that he was. “...er, a full-grown wizard, and I’m sure there’s a lot about Defense that I don’t know – but these tutoring sessions were really just to ground people in the basics, that’s all... I suppose you’re welcome to come, then, if I set it up.”

Lilac jumped up and down, bouncing on the balls of her feet with barely-restrained glee.

“We thought we might be too young,” Rae admitted, glancing at the other girl.

“You’re never too young to learn how to defend yourself,” Harry said sadly.

Rae nodded solemnly, her small face set in determined lines.

“I will have your classes at the end of the month,” he mused. “Professor Lupin wanted you doing bookwork, and wanted you doing grindylows,” he said, glancing at the third-year, “but... well, perhaps he’s underestimated you. We’ll see, won’t we? After that, I’ll be in a better position to see if you’re too young to be in the D.A.”

Ewan straightened self-importantly.

“Don’t worry, I promise we’ll work on simple things,” Harry said. “All right?”

Nods and murmurs moved through the group.

“And if I do set up the D.A. again, you’ll be the first to know.”

Draco had mysteriously reappeared, and was seated at the nearly-empty Slytherin table when Harry meandered into the Great Hall, a half-dozen children of assorted houses trailing in his wake. Several of them insisted on sitting near Harry, Yolande, or Hermione, but Harry couldn’t fault them. He couldn’t help but recall that Ewan, Lilac, and Rae had sought him out before they ever knew anything about the famous Harry Potter, his scar, or how he received it.“Harry’s going to teach us Defense!” Ewan chirped, sliding in between Harry and Draco.

“Wonderful,” Draco said flatly.

Ewan didn’t seem to note the sarcasm. “There are rumors he can do all sorts of things most wizards can’t, but he won’t say anything about himself. Can you tell me if they’re true?”

Draco made some small, noncommittal noise.

“Can he talk to snakes?”

Draco eyed Harry, then nodded grudgingly.

“Can he scare away a dementor?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Draco replied, slumping so that he pillowed his head in his arms. His voice emerged, slightly muffled by the black cloth of his robes.

“Was the Defense Association last year a secret organization, with magic coins that said the date of the next meeting?”

“Yes,” Draco repeated dully.

“Oh, wow,” Ewan murmured, looking up at Harry with awe. “Okay, last thing, Draco. Did he get that thing on his head from Voldemort, who tried to–”

Draco jumped at the mention of the name. “No more questions, Ewan.”

“But is it true? Is that why he has the scar?”

The blond Slytherin shifted once more into a proper seated position, glaring first at Ewan, then at Harry. “Let me tell you something about Harry Potter,” he said, venom dripping from every word. “He’s been in trouble since he was your age. He rushes where the angels dare not tread, and all of that. It’s gotten him nearly killed with regularity, gotten his friends nearly killed with regularity, and got one of his closest friends killed just several months ago. His penchant for tossing himself into danger – his hero complex, if you will – is nothing more than a desperate desire to be recognized, by an adopted child whose aunt and uncle never so much as–”

Harry pushed Draco so hard that he tumbled over backward out of his seat and onto the floor of the Great Hall. Several people laughed, but Harry was not in a laughing mood. He grabbed ahold of Draco’s robes and hauled him to his feet, and then out the door, and then outside to the thankfully still-deserted Quidditch pitch, where he let go abruptly enough to send the blond-haired boy sprawling.

“You idiot, Potter, what d’you think you’re doing?!” Draco yelled, drawing his wand.

“What do you think you were doing back there?!” Harry demanded. “Not everyone grows up with a silver spoon in his mouth!” His hands began to tremble, and he curled them into fists, hoping to hide the motion. “Besides... besides, it’s not my say whether my friends follow me in whatever I do, okay? It’s like you said, isn’t it, everyone wants power! So they’ll follow me, because that’s what I am to them! You think I like that? Huh? You think that makes me feel like I’m... bloody–”

“What, the Dark Lord?” Draco scathed. “Please...” He paused, his grey eyes narrowing. “Call them followers, then, and not friends, if you dare. I’m certain Weasley and Granger would appreciate your honesty.”

Harry went cold, his next breath leaving him in a small shudder.

“This isn’t about family, is it? It’s about friends. Or your lack thereof.” Draco examined him closely, pocketing his wand. “You think they like you because of your fame. And so? What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with it is that they’ll leave once Voldemort is conquered!”

“Once Voldemort is conquered. Goodness, you do have an ego. Don’t worry, Potter. If he is vanquished, you’ll always be the bloody Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived to Feel Sorry for Himself, you know. Even if it’s in your past, it’ll still have meaning to the teeming masses.”

“And what if I don’t want to be liked for that?”

“You don’t have a choice, you naive little snot,” Draco shot back. “Your name will always have power.” The Slytherin’s voice had gone slightly chillier at this statement, Harry noted.

“And yours...” he murmured.

“Right, won’t,” Draco tacked on. He sighed. “You’re worried that your name and history is the only thing that brings people to you? I know that’s true in my case; my name only ever really had prestige. And now... with my father in Azkaban... well, Potter, let’s just say that things aren’t looking very good for me.”

Harry stared. “I... I didn’t think–”

“Well, that’s your way, isn’t it?” Draco demanded. “To whinge and moan without consideration for those around you?”

Harry took in a shaky breath, trying to remember where he’d heard about the bottom dropping out of the Malfoy name before... “Hey... you were in class yesterday! In the cloak!”

“Give the boy a prize,” Draco intoned.

“Were you in every class?”

“I followed you, actually,” Draco supplied, “including into Professor Lupin’s office. Casting Imperius on yourself? What an intriguing idea. I simply must use it at Mother’s next cocktail party. Merlin knows I need to control my temper during, and that I’d really rather forget, after.”

Harry twitched a grin. “I don’t think that’s wise. Besides, I already have something for things that get beyond my temper, it’s just... not wise, either.”

“No quick fix is ever really wise, is it?” Draco inquired, moving to sit at the lowest seat on the Slytherin side of the pitch. Harry sat on the grass, pulling his knees up, and for a minute they were silent, Harry trying to process all that the other boy had said to him. It took a moment for him to realize that Draco had heard the entire conversation with Yolande and Hermione; he’d also heard Harry call him ‘almost decent’, along with the side effects of Imperio from Professor Lupin.

“You haven’t... er, had any of those side effects the Professor mentioned, have you?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No...”

When Harry glared up at him, the blonde boy shrugged.

“The first day, like you said,” he replied, his gaze going faraway. “It was... odd. I knew I wasn’t seeing you the same way, but I couldn’t really put my finger on what was different.” He frowned.

“What was different?”

Now Draco glared down at him, and Harry grinned innocently. “I’m curious,” he said.

“That expression may work on your precious little fans, Potter...”

Harry laughed in spite of himself, and pulled a face. “Fine. This better?”

Draco shoved him roughly aside, unamused. “I’m surprised you’d waste your time even speaking to a zealot,” he said coldly, standing from his perch.

It was impossible to tell behind Draco’s still features whether he were commenting absently, angry, or even hurt underneath the words. Harry opted to stay amused. “Well, aren’t you speaking to the Boy Who Lived To...?”

“...Feel Sorry for Himself,” Draco completed angrily.

“Whatever,” Harry said coolly, standing as well. He looked up to see that Hermione was making her way towards the two of them across the pitch, her brown hair flying back behind her.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaimed, catching sight of them standing, Harry with his hands in his pockets, Draco rolling his eyes and looking annoyed. “When you dragged him outside, Harry, I really thought you’d come here to fight... you did it so quickly, none of the teachers noticed...”

“Seems like you did, Granger,” Draco commented with a grin, striding up to Hermione and moving into her personal space. “Keeping an eye on your boyfriend, are you?”

Hermione leaned slightly away, but refused to give ground. “Stay out of it, Malfoy,” she said clearly. “I only wanted to make certain that the two of you hadn’t hexed one another to pieces, that’s all.”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Harry said. He turned to glare at Draco. “Aren’t we?”

“Oh, perfectly,” the Slytherin drawled, turning from Hermione to shove Harry ahead of him. “Come along, then, or we’ll be late for Potions. Coming, Granger? One would suppose you’d faint dead away at the mere thought of being late to a class...”

And together, the trio moved off of the pitch and into Hogwarts.