With a sudden crash and a shatter of glass, the goblet hits the point where the wall meets the ceiling. Crystalline pieces of glass rain down, and Harry turns away, waving a wand and focusing once more on Conjuring, feeling the magic run through him and understand as best it can his deep intent: a plate, this time, broad and white, with some messy detailing around its rim. Conjuration is one of the most difficult schools of magic under the umbrella of Transfiguration, and to be sure, it's difficult to Conjure into existence a plate that looks as delicate and satisfying to break as the expensive china in the Black display cases around the house, but...

That's hardly an option.

Harry hurls the plate at the wall with a scream, hears the crash of ceramic coming apart and dropping in messy pieces to the ground: although he throws each and every plate and glass and bowl with all the force he can muster, it doesn't take away the feeling inside him. The clawing, desperate fury, as real to him as the wetness of the tears on his cheeks, and it just isn't enough, isn't enough. With a flick of his wand, he sends the cheap old table - the Silenced anteroom's only remaining furnishing - crashing hard into the wall, scratching the green wallpaper. One of the legs crunches under the force, and Harry's smile is savage more than satisfied.

With a soft click, he hears the door open, and he whirls on his heel. Draco opens the door, steps neatly inside, and closes it behind him; with a calm, collected expression, he neatly examines the room's state of destruction, shards of glass and pot and china littering the ground, one of the window panes shattered and letting a rush of heated air into the room, the wallpaper coming off the walls in some places - but really, there's probably arsenic in the dye anyway - and now, the table, half-destroyed and standing pathetically low at one corner.

Draco arches one silver eyebrow. "Having some problems, Harry?"

"Fuck off," Harry says immediately. He mutters a Reparo under his breath, making a neat loop in the air with his wand, and the table comes back together, the leg straightening as if invisibly set.

"This is my home, you know," Draco says, in a mild and airy tone. "It's hardly pleasant to tell me to fuck off in my own home."

"Fuck. Off." Harry enunciates the fricative sounds in each of the words, drawing out the f, and Draco watches him. His icy eyes (he has his father's eyes, the thought comes, unbidden) are clouded with thought, and he looks Harry up and down as if Harry is a particularly complex Arithmancy equation.

"What's wrong?" Draco asks, softer now. Harry hurls the table at the wall again, but Draco doesn't so much as flinch, taking a step back and neatly leaning back against the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his left foot flat against the wood. "Nobody can hear you, you know."

"I know. This room is Silenced."

"I just came looking for you. Couldn’t find you."

"I was in here."

"Yes." Harry feels stupid, now. The bare satisfaction that the violence and magic was offering him is fading away, replaced with feelings of embarrassment at Draco catching him being so emotional, and he just wants Draco to get out, get out, get out.

"What's wrong?" Draco repeats.

"Oh, what isn't wrong? For fuck's sake, Draco!" Harry snaps, turning on his heel and walking right up to the other boy. He hates that Draco is taller than him, hates it, hates that he's inherited Narcissa and Lucius' height: he looks up into Draco's face, into his pointy chin and pointy nose and pale cheeks and strong forehead, whatever the fuck that means, and he says, "What haven't I got to be angry about, huh? Voldemort--" Draco flinches, and satisfaction flares inside Harry: that nasty, raging beast that had told him to come in here in the first place purrs its delight, "is back. Your father is dead. More and more people are going to die. And me, what can I do? I can't go out far, because Voldemort will come looking for me! I can't go out for a broom ride, or a walk in London, and not because anybody will stop me, but because it'd be irresponsible of me. I have to choose my own fucking isolation." Harry lets out an irritable groan, swings away from Draco, and he begins to furiously pace the room. He thinks of Adrian King in the little park across from Grimmauld Place, thinks of his hands in Harry's hair and his mouth on Harry's mouth, their legs close on the park bench.

"The school year's gonna start soon," Harry murmurs. "This... It's gonna have to sto."

"I'll ring you," Adrian whispers in his ear, his mouth drawing over Harry's skin; even in the dark light of the park, dimly lit by the street lamp some twenty feet away, Harry shudders.

"N-no. No outside phonecalls, I'm afraid, except from family."

"I'll say you're my cousin."

"There's a list of accepted numbers."

"I'll email, then."

"No Internet."

"You guys are really in the past, huh? Fine, I'll write." Harry stares at Adrian's face, stares right into his eyes, feels his mouth open, feels it close. "What? You don't have a postal address?"

No, Harry wants to say, We don't have a postal address, and the place is Unplottable, and I can't even tell you to send it to Harry Potter, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because you're a Muggle and you don't know I'm a wizard!

"I don't think it's a good idea," Harry says instead. Adrian pulls away from him, stares into his eyes. Hurt flashes across his features, and then anger.

"Don't you? What, I'm not good enough to send letters to your posh school, huh?"

"No, it's not that--"

"You have a boyfriend?"

"What? No, I--" The accusations hit him in the face, and he's flushing, overwhelmed, unsure what to respond with, how to get the other man to just calm down, and understand... But how can Harry make him understand? How can he tell him why without telling him why?

"No excuses. Tell me why." Harry flounders.

"It's not safe," he says finally, which is the best lie he can grasp hold of when put on the spot. "It's complicated, I'm sorry, it's complicated... But it's not safe. I can't."

"Not safe? What, are you in the bloody Mafia?"

"You can't write me, Adrian, I'm sorry."

"So when you go, you go."

"I--"

"Then why not go now?" Adrian stands, runs his hand through his thick, blond hair, and begins to walk away.

"Adrian!" Harry calls after him. "Adrian, you can't--" But he doesn't run after him. He doesn't give chase; after a long few moments of sitting on the bench, Harry walks into Grimmauld Place again, finds an empty room in the house, and feels the tears sting hot on his cheeks. Then, he conjures a plate.

"The Dark Lord has been a worry of yours for some years now; my father--" Draco hesitates, almost seeming to choke on the words. The words cut through Harry’s reverie like a knife. "That was months ago. Something has triggered this now, something tonight."

"Fuck off," Harry retorts, and Draco's features crumple. Harry doesn't know why he ever let himself believe Adrian and Draco looked at all alike - Draco's features are delicate and his skin is pale, like he's been painted in watercolours. Adrian looks handsome, touchable, real. Out-of-reach. Harry conjures a plate and throws it, but the monster isn't satisfied by smashing plates any more, now: Pin him against the wall. Go on, do it. You've got the knife in your pocket, haven't you? We can do him like we did Stan the man!

"Wanton destruction doesn't strike me as productive," Draco says. His tone is so mild and even that it actually angers Harry, actually frustrates him even more.

"What would you know?"

"Only what my father taught me." Harry is stopped short by that, and Draco seems to take it as a cue to continue. "When I was angry or frustrated, he made me exercise. It teaches self-control, discipline. You can't allow yourself to just smash things."

"Angry or frustrated, huh?" Harry asks, bitterly. "That explains the muscle he had on his arms."

"You're not angry at my father. Let us not pretend you are," Draco whispers. He says it so softly Harry has to turn to check he really said it at all. Draco has shifted his position slightly, his arms still crossed over his chest, but his stance less confident somehow. "What is it, Harry? Girl trouble?"

"Something like that," Harry says. Something changes in Draco's expression, as if he hadn't expected his first guess to be accurate. Recoiling the barest bit, he looks Harry up and down, blinking his blue eyes slowly as he examines Harry's form.

"I'll leave you to it," Draco says suddenly, and before Harry can respond he has opened the door and slammed it shut, no doubt disappearing to his room - or, Harry supposes sardonically, if he is "angry" or "frustrated", perhaps to the gymnasium. Harry wipes his cheeks with the sleeves of his robe, and then he leaves the room, making his way downstairs and returning to the dining room. His own anger bleeds away like water down the drain, leaving him feeling rather tired, and pensive. Gone are the violent thoughts and the desire for destruction: now Harry just feels slightly empty.

 Despite the forty minutes Harry had been gone, the meeting is only just finishing, although Sirius and Narcissa have already left. People filter past him, and Harry sits down in between Cecilia Hayworth and Hestia Jones, waving for Mundungus Fletcher to deal him into their game of cards. With Ted Tonks and Sturgis Podmore, there are six players in all, and although Mundungus Fletcher runs a masterful sleight of hand, Harry is far too used to counting cards for him to get away with it.

Used to the ways of the Slytherin common room, it feels slightly strange to be playing a game without betting money or secrets or even candy, and Harry plays as if on autopilot, barely registering when he wins or loses a hand. At ten o'clock, Andromeda Tonks comes over, putting her hand gently on Hestia's shoulder and murmuring something in her ear. Hestia winces, then she nods, rummaging through the deep pockets of her silver overcoat until she finds a vial of a grey potion. She tilts her head back, putting a droplet of it in each of her eyes, and then another on her tongue.

"What's that?" Harry asks, half-expecting someone to tell him off for doing so, but Hestia just shrugs her shoulders.

"Sturgis and I are accountants, but you know that I used to be an Auror?"

"Mrs Weasley's mentioned it."

"Had to retire in '82. Got Cursed. The potion staves off the worst of it - blindness, muteness, paralysis. The main things. I can't run, though."

"You can't run?"

"Can't run, can't exercise. Can't get too angry or too happy." Hestia lays an ace down on the table surface, drawing a soft "Bollocks." out of Ted. "Too much exertion activates its latent effects. I don't know the ins and outs of it, but the potions I take work by convincing the Curse I'm not still alive. If my heart rate goes up, though, it gets a sudden reminder, and begins shutting down whatever it can reach."

"That's awful," Harry murmurs.

"It's a nasty one, Potter," Mad-Eye murmurs. He sits watching their game, clasping hold of his walking stick, his wooden leg stuck out from beneath him. "One of Bartemius Crouch's little inventions."

"Bartemius Crouch?" Harry repeats.

"Not Barty," Ted murmurs. He is squinting at his cards, his glasses pushed up onto the top of his head. "Barty was a good man. No, his son, Bartemius."

"No, I know you don't mean Barty Crouch," Harry murmurs. "Bartemius Junior looked right mad when I saw him, at any rate." There's a pause: five and a half sets of eyes suddenly land on Harry, and he freezes, holding his cards up to his chest like a shield. He looks between each of them, and asks, "What? What did I say?"

"Bartemius Crouch is dead," Mad-Eye says, slowly.

"No, he isn't. Not unless there's many other Death Eaters called Bartemius walking around."

"What are you talking about, Harry?" Hestia asks.

"A few years ago, I had a vision, a little before Voldemort began to return to his full power - one of the Death Eaters was telling him Bartemius Crouch was requesting an audience from his sickbed, and Voldemort said Bartemius could see him when he was capable of standing on his own two feet. Unless you mean he's died since then, which I feel like I'd have heard about."

"Barty Crouch died in Azkaban," Mad-Eye says, squinting with his good eye; the other revolves rapidly in its socket, as if to put across Mad-Eye's fury. "His mother died of grief soon after. That was back in the '80s. I saw the body."

The door opens, and in walks Remus, his hair mussed and his expression a bit wild.

"You never heard of Polyjuice, Mad-Eye?" Harry asks, and he drops his cards, standing from the table. He feels Mad-Eye's magical gaze on his back, and then he hears a bark of laughter behind him, but Harry doesn't turn around. He looks at Remus carefully, frowning slightly, and then he reaches out, very gently touching one of his arms. "Shall we, uh, go for a walk, Moony?" Remus is already loping from the room by virtue of his long legs, and Harry follows him. Harry turns and walks up the stairs, heading up a few of the flights; the bookshelf that covers the final flight has already been pushed aside, and so he leads Remus up to the roof garden.

As they'd been cleaning Grimmauld Place, Harry had enjoyed spending time in the garden. Rarely did he actually do anything; usually, Harry would sit on the balcony, sometimes beside Draco, sometimes alone, and speak to Lucius as he worked on his plants. The garden had taken very little time to flourish, and it had been Harry who had suggested the Lightning Lilies, which flare and tingle beneath his fingers as he strokes over their wide petals. He sees that the Choral Bushes have been pruned, and he takes away the clippings from beneath them, sweeping them together to Vanish.

As he does all this, Remus paces up and down the garden's marble floor, which is ineffectual, as the garden is only ten feet or so wide, and perhaps twenty feet across - with Remus' long legs, there isn't all that much to pace.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asks.

"No," Remus says immediately. Harry walks to the edge of the roof garden's balcony, pulling himself up onto the wall and sitting on it, his back facing the city of London behind him. "It's not-- It's not really your concern." Harry swings his legs slightly beneath him, watching the other man anxiously run his hands through his hair, and he waits. Remus, at his very core, is a talkative man: as much as he keeps stuff bottled up, it's genuinely in his nature to talk through his feelings and make them clear to everybody around him, to voice his opinions. "I was speaking to Albus."

"What did Albus have to say?" Harry asks, evenly. For the barest second, Harry forgets who Remus could possibly mean, and then he realizes. It's strage, calling the headmaster by his first name, but it's not as if he'll be doing it to the old man's face, and it seems to keep Remus on track.

"He-- During the First War, I was a spy," Remus murmurs. His eyes are always moving as he seems to search the middle distance for some answers, as if some life-changing idea is going to spring to him, fully-formed, from the ether. "Well... I was an informant. Werewolves in Britain, they can't get work, nobody will offer us lodgings... We tend to be poor, forced to move often from place to place. That means werewolves band together, sometimes, and there was a werewolf--" Remus bites his lip. "I shouldn't tell you this. Harry, you're a child, I'll tell Sirius."

"Did he ask you to spy for him again?" Harry asks, keeping his gaze on Remus' eyes, but they widen, and the older man shakes his head.

"No, no, he'd never do that," Remus says. Harry feels that strange tiredness in him, of that emotional lack no that he has tired himself out throwing plates and screaming at the walls, and he wonders if Remus would feel any benefit from the same thing. "No. He was merely informing me on the situation."

"What is the situation?"

"Fenrir Greyback has been gathering contacts within the lycanthrope community. He's a terrifying man, Harry, a terrifying... Barely a man." Remus speaks in a whisper, so that Harry has to strain to hear him. "And nobody else in the Order is a werewolf: they have no window into that group. But me, me, I could. I did it before: I've no family to speak of, and to help the Order." Harry frowns at Remus, furrowing his brow slightly, and he takes in what the other man says with some scepticism. "It would mean I'd have to leave the flat, of course, I couldn't-- They'd smell it on me, if I was living comfortably. Know I was out of place."

Harry says, very quietly, "So what you're suggesting is that you quit your job, go back to your clothes, and go back to not eating, or sleeping at night. Abandoning Sirius. Let me guess - Wolfsbane is quite expensive, so you wouldn't be able to have that either, would you? What, you all just run around in packs?" Remus is staring at Harry, his mouth slightly open. "Remus, everything you just said sounds completely insane."

"But- but I--"

"No family, seriously? What, me and Sirius are just roommates, are we?"

"Of course not! But this is important."

"Why can't Dumbledore pick someone who's already in with the pack? You're not the only trustworthy werewolf in the world." Remus seems lost, opening his mouth, closing it again. "Remus, it doesn't have to be you. It shouldn't be you. You're happy now, aren't you? Painting, living with Sirius?"

"Of course I am, but this isn't about me, Harry," Remus says, half-desperately. He steps closer, no longer pacing but staying still in one spot. He looks down at Harry, his hazel eyes full of pain, his pale lips parted. "This is something I can offer the Order, something I can genuinely do to help."

"How many hexes do you know?" Harry asks, softly. Remus' brow furrows. "It's over a hundred, right? Do you really think the only help you can give the Order is without your wand, howling at the moon? I know what that transformation does to you, Remus. I might not know where you and Sirius disappear off to every month after you take your potion, but it puts the most horrendous of pressures on your body, rips you apart and builds you up again as something monstrous, and I know that in the past two years, you've actually put on weight. You look like someone who won't snap in half at the next wind, you look... Not healthy. But like you have something to live for, except for more bloody pain. Do you really want to give that up? Do you really think you deserve to?"

The shadow that passes over Remus' face sinks deep inside Harry, and all at once, the monster reels and roars. Harry feels like going out of here and ripping apart the Werewolf Registration office himself, feels like murdering everybody who ever read Lycanthropy: A New Plague, feels like going right up to Voldemort and punching him in the alabaster throat. He doesn't do any of those things: he pushes himself off the edge of the balcony wall, throws his arms around Remus, and wraps him in a hug.

Remus seems surprised at it, but he hugs Harry's back, leans his chin into Harry's chair, holds him tightly.

War.

And it hasn't even fucking started yet.

Above them, the thick grey clouds in the sky are forced along by a light wind, and moonlight comes brightly down onto the roof garden. It's a half-moon, thick and white and luminescent, and under its rays, the Choral Bushes begin to sing. It's a soft song, eerie and high, without words, and Harry and Remus listen to it for a long, long time, before they silently go down the stairs to wait for the result from the Ministry of Magic.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

"YOU-KNOW-WHO ORDERED TO SURRENDER!" Arthur Weasley reads from the Daily Prophet to an absolutely rapt dining room. Arthur begins to read the statement itself, and Harry feels himself tune out. Cornelius Fudge's stumbling style is immediately recognizable, and it's a good job the Daily Prophet decided to give it a headline, as he knows Fudge would never have bothered to give a simple summary. In short, Narcissa and Sirius’ motion in the Wizengamot has been voted through: if Lord Voldemort doesn’t surrender his wand (a symbolic gesture, Harry supposes) to the Ministry of Magic before midnight of September 5th, 1995, the Ministry will declare a State Of Emergency.

It’s better, he guesses, than declaring a “State of War, but Civil War, but not exactly, it’s actually hard to describe.”

At 2:04AM, the door opens, and in walk Narcissa and Sirius: immediately, the Order members gathered burst into applause. Narcissa looks exhausted, her eyes darkly lidded, and Sirius looks irritable enough to kill a man, but at the claps and few cheers, the two of them grin.

Well. Narcissa smiles politely, anyway.

As Dumbledore moves to leave, Harry follows him out into the hall, and he says, "Headmaster, if I might have a moment of your time?" Dumbledore seems surprised, his blue eyes turning on Harry with a seeming perplexity shining in them for a moment, and then they are just shining for no reason at all. "I'll walk you back to Hogwarts, if that's okay." A soft smile crosses Dumbledore's expression, and he gives a nod of his head. They step out onto the balcony, and Harry offers Dumbledore his arm: the older man takes it graciously, even though Harry is nearly a foot shorter than him, and Harry closes his eyes as he feels the familiar tight tube sensation of Apparition.

"You, of course, will begin to learn Apparition in your sixth year," Dumbledore says conversationally.

"It's a weird sensation," Harry admits. "I almost prefer portkeys, I have to admit. Is that on any of our syllabi?"

"Oh, no," Dumbledore says, shaking his head. "Portkeys are rather complicated magic that require an understanding of both Charms and Arithmancy, and, ah, truth be told, Harry..." Dumbledore reaches up and taps the side of his long, prominent nose, which seems crooked, as if it has been broken several times before. "The Board of Governors would rather we not spread it around too much." Harry chuckles. "I've always found, however, that there is a certain trick to it..."

Hogsmeade is brightly lit by the moon.

Although London had been cloudy, the sky above Hogsmeade is completely clear, and Harry matches Dumbledore's slow, easy gait as they begin to walk up the hill toward the castle. Dumbledore's robes, the skirt of which is down nearly to his toe, are a periwinkle blue, and silver embroidery of the constellations shines in the light as they move. Harry has to wonder where Dumbledore gets these wonderful, magical robes: they don't feel like dress robes, despite the incredible intricacy of them, and nor do they ever make someone feel like Dumbledore is an especially superior person. If anything, they add to his demeanour of a kindly old man, with their subtle charm. The monster inside him growls, but Harry ignores it. Dumbledore is no more an enemy than Hedwig is.

"What would you like to speak with me about, Harry?"

"Our policy on spies, sir," Harry says.

"Perhaps a muffling charm would be appropriate."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees, and he watches Dumbledore's easy wand movement. He feels the slight sphere of magic around them, and he reaches out, passing his fingers through the invisible ward: there is no real physical sensation, except for the slight, internal brush of his magic against the miniature ward, but Harry frowns slightly. He is reminded of television static. "I was talking to Remus a few hours ago. He seemed to think he should go back to spying on the werewolves."

"If Remus has come to that decision," Dumbledore says slowly, shaking his head slightly. "I will accept him as a volunteer."

"No, you won't," Harry says. "Sir... I have to admit, I'm quite surprised at you. I don't know what you said to him, under the guise of "informing him about the situation," but whatever it was, it's not on. He said you'd never ask him to volunteer, and that much is true, I'm sure, but there's something to be said for implying you desperately need someone for a job and have nobody except him to do it. Remus came away thinking of quitting his job, leaving the flat. And—Well. You know about the nature of his and Sirius' relationship."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Harry."

"Well, Professor, I'm sure you do," Harry challenges, and he sees Dumbledore softly sigh. Just outside of the Hogwarts gates, he turns to examine Harry, and for a second puts one of his old, wizened hands on Harry's shoulder. The touch is featherlight, and doesn’t last for long.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore murmurs quietly. "This war... It has come upon us all at once, hasn't it? Let me speak honestly with you." The gates open wide, and as they begin to walk up the hill, the gates slowly close behind them with a creak. "Sacrifices must be made, Harry. As Voldemort spreads his influence, we must be there to meet him: just as we have done our best to place our allies in Ireland, in France, and in other exiled communities, we must not forget the werewolves. So often forgotten by our society, they are vulnerable to Voldemort's manipulations in a way so few others are. It is essential we know what promises might be made to them, where they might strike... We know already that Remus can be trusted, and that he has performed most admirably at this work before."

"So admirably my parents believed he might have been a traitor," Harry points out. "Have you never wondered about that?" Dumbledore frowns, slightly, turning to Harry with concern on his face.

"You believe Remus to be a traitor? After all he has done for you?"

"No, Headmaster," Harry says. "I believe that whatever that situation was, whatever it was like being part of Voldemort's werewolf cabal, he had to get so into it he even convinced his best friends that he was going dark. That he was enjoying it. Can you imagine what it must be like in Remus' head? If he didn't get into that role, he was as good as dead, and could no longer feedback to the Order: he got so into it that his friends couldn't trust him anymore, and trusted a real Death Eater. Pettigrew. With the greatest of respect, sir, I don't feel it's ethical to send Remus back to a situation like that, especially not when he's the healthiest he's been in years. If he survives this war, Headmaster, only to drop dead of a heart attack or organ failure, what will you say to Sirius? What will you say to me?" Something deep in Dumbledore's eyes seems to change, and he seems to soften slightly. Harry wishes for a moment that he was some kind of Legilimens, that he could know what the old man was thinking, what he was going to say next.

"I think we might dispense with the titles, my boy." Harry blinks. Of all things, he wasn’t expecting that.

"Sorry?"

"Albus will do," the old man says kindly, and he looks up the length of the hill. Silhouetted by a backdrop of stars, the castle looks beautiful, and Harry is glad there is only two weeks between him and his return to its halls.

"I confess to you, Harry, I never thought on this matter from that particular perspective," Dumbledore says quietly, his voice shaking with age. He doesn't seem frail at all, not to Harry, but for the barest few moments, Albus Dumbledore seems slightly vulnerable. "Do you talk on these matters often at home?"

"No," Harry says. "Remus talks sometimes, and I listen, but we don't talk about the War. Sirius and Remus both just talk about the before, and the after. Never about the War itself."

"Does that not frustrate you?" Dumbledore asks: the monster gnashes its teeth, says yes, yes, yes!

"No," Harry decides. "I can't get angry at them. Not for that." He puts his hands in his pockets, watching as Dumbledore waves his hands and the gate to the courtyard (usually open wide at all hours of the day) allows them through. The doors to the entrance hall require no such instruction: as soon as the gate closes behind them, those doors open, seemingly beckoning them into the welcoming coolness of the castle. The magic of Hogwarts seems to settle on Harry's skin as soon as they step inside, and at a clatter, he turns his head. Momentarily, Dumbledore dispels the ward around them.

"Argus," he says, pleadingly. "Go to bed, my friend." Judging by Dumbledore's rather desperate tone, and by the way Filch jumps a mile, they have had this discussion a few times before.

"This statue 'as to be polished!" Filch says irritably. "Headmaster, I can't bloody well leave it - I'm halfway through!" Filch seems positively indignant at the thought, and Harry stares. The statue of the first Headmaster of Hogwarts, who nobody knows the name of, seems to glisten in the light. The bottom half of it positively shimmers, no doubt as a result of the carefully crafted goblin's gold, and the upper half is dull and thick with grime, as Harry has always known it.

"It looks incredible, Mr Filch," Harry says. "I had no idea it looked like that underneath."

"You saying I don't do my job right?" Filch demands immediately, whirling on Harry, and Harry gives him a look.

"Do you think I'm that stupid?"

"You rude little-- Headmaster, he--"

"Harry paid you a compliment, Argus." The Headmaster says, patiently. Loudly grumbling about disrespect, Filch takes up his bucket and his scrubber, irritably disappearing through the slightly ajar door into the great hall, and Harry sighs. It never seems to go well, even if he's as nice to Filch as it's within his power to be. Dumbledore reapplies their muffling charm, and Harry gives a longing look at Mrs Norris, who daintily passes them by. "She does look very soft, doesn't she?" Harry glances at Dumbledore, and then grins.

"I like cats. Theo Nott has one - Winston, his name is. Sometimes I wake up lying on him instead of my pillow."

"I'm terribly allergic to them," Dumbledore admits, as if telling Harry an embarrassing childhood secret. "Mrs Norris was once so kind as to allow me to scratch her ears, and my hand promptly coloured with hives. A rather dramatic overreaction of my immune system, Madam Pomfey declared it to be."

"You're a bit unlucky, really, aren't you--" Harry hesitates, and then says, "Albus. That's weird. Are you sure about this?"

"We are speaking as equals, Harry. It is only appropriate. In the school itself, of course, my title would fit, but... Well. I fear you are more man than boy, as these days pass us by. You would truly stop Remus from volunteering?"

"It's not that," Harry says, shaking his head. "It's just that it's a lot to ask him to sacrifice, and for something any werewolf could do. Remus is a huge asset as a duellist, sir, and as someone who can be called on to lead in a crisis. Sending him off to live in poverty, it… It rankles with me a lot. I think Remus has had enough hardship in his life, and to pile more on strikes me as unjust."

"War is not just, Harry."

"But you can be. Sir, I wasn't even there, and I know what you did. You played on his low self-esteem, his stupid Gryffindor rashness, and his overpowering feeling that he owes you something - and don't get me wrong, I appreciate that you're the reason he came to Hogwarts in the first place, and I'm so glad. I'm so grateful. But he's not a pawn in a chess game, sir. You can't ask him to do something like this, even if you ask him without asking him."

"Do you really think that's fair, Harry?" Dumbledore asks. His tone is even, but Harry doesn't believe he completely imagines the undercurrent of hurt.

"This isn't a confrontation, sir. I'm not angry, and I don't believe that I have any control over you, but I'm just saying something that I know a lot of people wouldn't say to you, because they respect you too much, or admire too much. Albus, to be completely honest, I can't be certain that I can trust you. I know you're trying to do the best for all of us, and leading the Order must be difficult; I know that sacrifices must be made... But not by him. This is the first time in his entire life, in nearly forty years, that he can lie down in a bed next to someone he loves, and know for certain that he's safe, and stable, and that the rug isn't going to be pulled out from under him if someone discovers his condition. Do you understand what I mean? Do you understand why Remus, specifically, means so much to me right now?"

"I do," Dumbledore murmurs as they come down the corridor to his office. "Ah, here is Severus." Harry meets Snape's gaze, but Snape seems to know immediately there is a ward around them, and immediately walks some way down the hall, politely turning his back. Harry looks at Snape's thin shoulders under the fabric of his cloak, at his stiff, straight form. "The professors at Hogwarts... You're not going to be sending them anywhere, are you? To do some stupid, risky thing?"

"Why would you think that, Harry?" Dumbledore asks, in so innocent a tone that Harry has to question if he has accidentally hit a vein.

"The people here have greater responsibilities than war. The children need to know the staff are united in protecting them, that none of them are going missing or... We need them here. The children, they should feel safe. And the prefects, maybe..." Harry feels Dumbledore's intense gaze upon him before he sees it, and he meets Dumbledore's eyes. He Occludes, of course, but he has no idea whether Dumbledore is a Legilimens, or even if Harry would feel it if he were.

"The children?" Dumbledore repeats.

"You think I'm wrong?"

"You speak of the students in the third person, Harry, as if you aren't one of them." He's right, Harry realizes. He'd even been thinking of Hermione, Draco, Ron - the twins, even, about to go into their sixth year - as much as the first and second years, but himself? He's a student, of course, but a child? He doesn't feel much like a child these days. Harry looks to Snape, and he presses his lips together.

"You should dispel the charm. He must have been waiting for you: it's probably important. Albus-- That's so strange, are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Thank you," Harry says, genuinely. "And when I said--" Harry puts his hand on his forehead, and sighs. "I didn't mean I didn't trust you. I know that's what I said, but that's not... I just meant..."

"I know," Dumbledore murmurs. "Thank you for being so honest. The year ahead will be difficult for us all, particularly upon you. I want you to feel I'm taking your opinions into account: regardless of whether you trust me, I want you to understand that I trust you, Harry. To do what is right." Dumbledore dispels the charm. "Severus, how kind of you to visit. The three of us will just go into my office."

"May I use your Floo, Albus?" Harry says, and he has to feel an inward note of delight at the way Snape's head whips to look at him.

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore says, cheerily, and tells the statue outside his office, "Blackjacks."