"And you believe Professor Gudgeon is attempting to kill you?" Snape asks, looking skeptical as he watches Harry from behind his desk. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, meeting his head of house's eyes and refusing to back down.

"Whoever it is has to have access at Hogwarts, or they wouldn't have been able to enchant the knight, and they would also need to have been at Lucius'-"

"Mr Malfoy's," Snape corrects.

"Lucius' party," Harry continues, ignoring him. "Let alone the whole thing with the unicorns - no one else has been nearly killed by magical livestock this year. And she has motive - she's got a picture of Lockhart on her desk, and I bet you she used to be in his fan club. I'm not asking you to send her to Azkaban this minute, sir! I just want you to you know, keep an eye on her." Snape stares at him for a long few moments, curling his lip before he finally replies.

"Is there no need to your arrogance, Potter? Do you truly believe me to be your personal guard?"

"You act like you are, half the time," Harry points out, and Snape scowls at him.

"Ten points from Slytherin." Harry scowls right back. "Go away, Potter. In the event of your death, I will investigate Professor Gudgeon's involvement to the best of my ability."

"That's all I wanted!" Harry retorts, and he leaves Snape's office, shutting the door behind him before he heads up to the great hall for breakfast. He has no Care of Magical Creatures today, at least, so his first day back in classes will hopefully be less than life-threatening. He settles himself down with Blaise and Theodore, who give him little grins.

"Amazed you survived the holiday," Theo says, and Harry wonders for a second if Draco had told him about the poison at the Christmas Gala, but then he says, "You just had to be in the middle of some madman's attack on Diagon Alley, didn't you?"

"Oh, you know me," Harry says, pretending to preen, "I do love to be at the centre of the action." Blaise snorts, and they settle into breakfast together.

It's a slow day - after so many days of just playing games and reading all day, being back in classes is something of a drag, but it's a relief, too: Harry really does enjoy a lot of his lessons, and it's nice to be using magic all day again. He'd been afforded just a warning for Stunning Arnett in Diagon Alley, but beyond that he hadn't been able to use any. He can't wait to be seventeen.

Assuming he lives that long, anyway.

---

"You alright, Ron?" Harry asks as he leaves the great hall that dinner: Weasley glances at him, obviously suspicious for a moment or two, and then he offers a small smile.

"Yeah, mate. I'm doing pretty well. Have a good Christmas?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll be wearing your mum's jumper all next Saturday." Ron laughs a little, and then he shakes his head.

"You won't be seeing me in mine. She made it maroon. I bloody hate maroon." Harry chuckles, and he gives the Gryffindor a little wave as he pushes the entrance hall's door open, stepping out into the courtyard. The moon is half-full but it's bright, and Harry sits down on one of the benches just outside the hall, enjoying the way the light of it gleams brightly on the water in the fountain.

It's cold outside, but the chilliness isn't biting - if anything, it's refreshing, and Harry decides to just enjoy it for a little bit. His gaze is caught by a bird flapping above him, and he looks up at it curiously: it's a screech owl with a golden ribbon around its neck, and it slows itself down as it approaches Harry, settling itself on the bench beside him and putting out its leg.

Harry frowns at it, wondering who's sent a letter to arrive at this time of night, but he takes the letter attached, having a glance over its contents.

Dear Harry Potter,

I heard my Aunt Jackie talking about meeting you at the Malfoy Christmas Gala a few weeks back, and I just wanted to offer a little friendly advice. Jackie Flockhart? Absolutely bonkers. All her friends - Gladys, who's the Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts - Sara Dean-Smith, Bonnie Darling or whoever? Much the same. Jackie was friends with Chad Arnett, to put this sort of thing in perspective.

I know it's probably weird of me to tell you this out of the blue, given that she's my aunt and that, but I just wanted to give you a warning.

She's not a fan of you after you "got" Gilderoy Lockhart sent to prison "for no reason", so just watch your back.

Feel free to write me,
Joaquin Lockhart
Flockhart's Locks
19 Slip's Crescent

Harry studies the curling handwriting on the page, and then he glances back into the entrance hall. It's a little past eight, and everyone will be heading up to their dormitories for the night: leaning behind the door for a moment, Harry pulls his cloak out of his back and pulls it over his head. Sirius had advised he keep it on hand with him, like his dad had used to do, just in case, and it's advice Harry is glad to take.

He makes his way quietly up the stairs and towards the Gryffindor common room, waiting for a gaggle of fifth year girls to say the Fat Lady's password and get the door open. He sees Hermione straight away, sat alone in a big armchair beside the fire: she has a book in her lap, and is utterly and completely focused on it.

"Hey," Harry whispers as he gets close enough, sitting on the edge of her chair.

"What are you doing?" Hermione hisses, keeping her gaze on her book.

"I've got something I need to show you." Harry goes quiet, leaning back against the arm of the chair and being careful to keep his feet under the cloak. No one really looks in Hermione's direction, though, and by half past nine the Gryffindors have gone up to their dorms. They're not asleep, Harry knows - he can hear laughter from different dormitories drifting down the stairs, but for the time being, they're out of the way.

Harry pulls the cloak off, folding it and slipping it back into the bottom of his bag, and he and Hermione sit on the sofa across from the fireplace. "Joaquin?" Hermione says, peering down at the page.

"Is that how it's pronounced?" Harry asks. "Wha-keen?"

"It's Spanish," Hermione explains, her gaze still focused on the parchment. "It means phoenix." Harry can't help himself: he sniggers. "Don't! It's quite a nice name. My parents-"

"They would not have called you that if you were a boy," Harry protests, horrified.

"It's a nice name, Harry!" Hermione argues, and Harry groans, putting his face in his hands. Hermione looks back to the letter, thoughtful, and says, "Well, at least this confirms the Lockhart thing. Didn't you say Jacqueline Lockhart put an advert in the paper, too?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Asking about Muggle explosives." Hermione is silent for a few moments, glancing at him. "You thinking about Arnett?"

"Yes," Hermione answers quietly. "What sort of explosives did he use?"

"The paper never said," Harry answers. "What is with these people? Have you ever heard of these other two, Bonnie Darling and Sara Dean-Smith?"

"Bonnie Darling sells designs cleaning products, I think," Hermione says. "She's got all these different cleaning agents and stuff out - Mrs Weasley was buying Darling Doxycide in Diagon Alley last summer. She's listed as a contributor in Lockhart's book about household pests."

"How do you remember this stuff?"

"There was a picture of her," Hermione says. "I remember thinking her hair was too blonde to be real."

"So, this team of five people love Gilderoy Lockhart, and presumably all want me dead, but aren't very good at managing it. Great. Just fabulous." Hermione laughs, passing him the letter back, and he waggles his finger at her. "Don't you laugh, now. It'll be you, next."

"I doubt it," she says, and she leans back against the sofa. He drops the letter into his bag, to be set with the rest of his letters tonight, and he leans back too, facing her. "At least you've got me."

"That's true," Harry says. "Wish I could trade you in for a better model, but you know-" Hermione slaps his shoulder, and Harry laughs, keeping her gaze and smiling at her fondly. "No, really, Hermione, thanks. I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad I'm here too," she murmurs. He's aware, suddenly, of how close they are on the sofa: there's not even half a foot of space between them, and the Gryffindor common room is warm with its thick carpets and the crackling fire beside them. The silence between them grows, pregnant, and Harry licks his lips nervously as Hermione leans towards him slightly. He bridges the gap, hesitating for a second, and then his mouth meets hers: it's wet, and odd, and when her tongue brushes his he pulls himself back, laughing.

Hermione is laughing too, hiding her face in her hands.

"Well, let's never do that again," Harry says.

"Yeah, that was terrible," she replies, biting her lip to try and stop herself from giggling too badly. "You sure you're not gay?"

"Shut up!" Harry says, shoving her, and they share a wide grin. "I hope boys are better kissers than you."

"Me too," Hermione agrees philosophically, "The girls too, I suppose, for your sake." Harry shakes his head, leaning forwards and pulling up his bag. "You heading to bed?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Night, Hermione. Bet you I'll get a decent kiss from someone before you will."

"Bet not taken, because I'm not that cruel," Hermione retorts, and Harry laughs, running over to the portrait and pushing it open.

---

"There you are!" Blaise says as Harry enters his and Draco's bedroom. Theodore and Draco are sat together on Draco's bed, but Blaise is sprawled across Harry's. "We did wonder."

"Do you two not like your room or something?" Harry asks, kicking the door shut and dropping his bag beside his bed.

"We like the atmosphere in this one," Theodore answers. "We're feeling Lixie's absence keenly, though."

"I forgot to pack her," Harry admits, looking at the blank space beside his bed. "I've got one of Celestina Warbeck, but it's just not the same." Blaise snorts, drawing his legs back so Harry can sit against the footboard of his bed. "What are you talking about?"

"We're making fun of Draco," Theodore says, and Draco kicks the other boy in the thigh. "Because he's young and ignorant."

"Isn't Draco older than you, Theo?" Blaise asks.

"Shush."

"I'm not any more ignorant than he is," Draco maintains sharply, jabbing his finger at Harry. "Do you know what a Dead Arm Charm is?" Harry furrows his brow, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Uh, no?"

"Ha!" Draco says triumphantly.

"It's different for him to not to know something," Blaise says, shaking his head, and Harry frowns at him.

"And why's that?"

"Because, Potter. You're an idiot." Harry grabs a a pillow, doing his best to smother Blaise with it, and the two of them wrestle across his bed for a minute until Harry manages to shove him off and onto the floor. Blaise accepts it, lying on his back on the carpet, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "What about the Dead Arm Charm, anyway?"

"I got an incantation," Theo says, and Blaise sits up, looking at him seriously. "My cousin Glyn was over for Christmas, and he left a copy of this behind when he went home." Theo holds a bright purple book up, emblazoned with its title in silver: Sex Charms for The Discerning Solo Artist. Harry reaches for it, but Blaise grabs it first, opening it up in his lap and laughing.

"What does it do?" Draco and Harry demand at the same time, and Theo snorts.

"Look, Harry, give me your right arm. Katarnarkis." Theo taps the back of Harry's hand, and he shivers, feeling a strange tingling run up his arm, but after it's passed, he doesn't feel anything. He gives Theodore a perplexed look, but the other boy just smirks. "Touch your nose." Harry reaches up, touching his nose, and then he lets out a surprised noise.

"That's so weird!" he declares. He can move his arm just fine, but touching his nose feels like someone else is touching him, like he's momentarily detached it. "How is this a sex charm?"

"The idea is touching something other than your nose, you dunce," Blaise says from the floor.

"Oh," Harry says. "Let me see that book-"

"No, I'm reading it!" Blaise retorts, and Harry groans, throwing himself onto the bed.

"Now, now, boys," Theo says. "Learn to share. It's not like we can get another copy."

"Is it from that shop on Fargo Alley?" Draco asks, not showing especial interest. "The one with the ageline?"

"The very one," Theo agrees, giving a nod of his head. "Shame. They've got sex books, posters that strip for you, all sorts of dirty stuff." Harry sighs. Now he really wishes he was seventeen already.

"Hey, guys," Harry asks, leaning back. "Someone mentioned Flockhart's Locks the other day - what is that?"

"It's a hairdresser on Slip's Crescent," Draco answers. "It's where Mother and Father get their hair done."

"It's expensive, then?" Draco frowns at him.

"Well, I suppose. Flockhart's a good hairdresser, though, so it's well worth the money." Harry nods his head, lying on his side in bed and doing his best to read over Blaise's shoulder about lubricant conjuration. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no real reason," Harry says, giving a shrug. "Sirius mentioned it, that's all."