A Lamb Before the Slaughter by MerryMandolin, Cricket

The morning Dumbledore's second summons arrived, Harry was livid.

Spotting Ron's bright red head above the corridor's usual between-class crowd, he grabbed hold of the boy's sleeve and yanked him into an alcove.

The sudden confrontation sent Ron reeling, his wand halfway out his pocket before his eyes alighted with recognition. "Merlin," he exhaled, roughly shoving his wand back into his robes. "Warn a bloke before you do something like that, won't you? 'Bout gave me a ruddy heart attack--"

"Sorry, sorry," came Harry's hasty interruption, releasing his friend's arm with conciliatory delicacy. "I'm just--" He broke off with a violent exhalation, fists clenched at his sides. "I was this bloody close to breaking Snape's stupid bloody nose--"

"Oh ho, really?! I'm almost sorry I wasn't there to witness," Ron observed, wry, his arms crossing over his chest. "What'd the git get up to this time?"

Harry's grimace was pained, and his eyes rolled skyward before refocusing on Ron. "Not here."

"Alright," Ron grumbled, his head tilting. "Common room, then?"

"No," he refused hastily. "Too er, crowded."

"Bit picky, aren't you?"

He threw a baleful glare in Ron's direction. "That's--!"

"Oi, oi, I'm just taking the mick! No need to give me that look!"

Harry frowned, muttering, "C'mon, Ron, this is serious."

"Alright, well, if you need to talk that bad... Suppose I could skip Care of Magical Creatures, if we can avoid Hermione..." Harry felt his stomach twist as his friend continued, oblivious. "I'm peckish, but I guess the Great Hall's out, in that case," he mused, before glancing, conspiratorial, over his shoulder. "Haven't been down to the kitchens in a while. Maybe you can convince the house elves to conjure you up some-- what'd you say it was called?-- oh, tacos."

Considering the situation, Harry didn't particularly care; he had no appetite at all. "Sure-- fine. Let's just go," he urged.

Ron's eyebrows rose, but all he said was: "Lead the way."

When they arrived, the kitchen was filled to the brim with the high-pitched squeaks and murmurs from hundreds of house elves, all bustling about with platters of food that were larger than they were. Upon entering, they were nearly bowled over by three elves who were pushing a large cart, atop which were massive pots of steaming soup. In an instant, one of the elves appeared at their side.

"O-Oh," the little elf stuttered, wide eyes flickering between them both. "Zimsy is being sorry, but students a-aren't allowed in the kitchens--"

"Er..." Harry cast a look at Ron, then said: "We're only visiting."

Being forced to confront them further only appeared to make the house elf more distressed, as she cast her head about, ears flopping. "N-No. Zimsy isn't explaining properly to sirs. Zimsy is being most sorry. Students is not allowed in the kitchens under any circumstances, Headmaster says so."

"Harry Potter!" A familiar voice puttered, clumsy, through the din, and the elf that it belonged to bounced in their direction, a pile of multicolored hats teetering atop his head. "And Harry Potter's most admirable friend!"

Ron appeared slightly put off, but no more than Zimsy, who began clawing at her own ears, pulling them hard over the side of her face. "Not you again!"

Dobby approached them with overflowing excitement. "Dobby is so happy to be visited by such honorable sirs!"

Harry offered the elf a small smile. "Good to see you, too."

"Dobby is not supposed to be being in here either!" Zimsy screeched, pulling her ears so hard that Harry feared she'd tear them off.

Dobby scowled at the other elf, his face scrunching up as he informed her, "Dobby is being on a break!"

"Break!" Zimsy gasped, as if the word disgusted her to her very core. "Zimsy is continuing to tell Dobby to not be practicing weird rituals here!" She stomped her feet for good measure, looking as if she were about to burst. "And Dobby must be telling the sirs to leave!"

"The Headmaster is saying Dobby is doing anything Dobby is wishing on a break!"

The next thing that spilled out of Zimsy's mouth was a loud, horrendous scream, filling the expanse of the kitchen and causing some of the other house elves -- and even Harry and Ron themselves -- to cover their ears.

Dobby's tiny form puffed up and he spoke up over the cacophony. "Zimsy is being on a break too!" he accused.

In an instant, the screaming stopped. Zimsy trembled, her wide eyes somehow tearing themselves wider, as she stared at Dobby in horror. "W-What?"

"A break is stopping duties in the middle of the day!" the elf informed her.

Zimsy began to hyperventilate, her nails raking over her ears. "Oh no."

"If Zimsy is talking to sirs," Dobby reasoned, his pile of hats bobbing along with his head, "Zimsy is being on a break."

It took a moment of huffing and puffing until Zimsy burst into tears, panic awash in her limbs as she stomped and flailed. "Zimsy has to be punished!" she blubbered as she broke into a sprint toward one of the ovens at the far end of the kitchen. "Dobby is being a horrible influence! Zimsy was being on a break! Zimsy has to be punished!"

"Wait--!" Harry turned a beseeching look to Dobby. "Can you stop her...?"

"Of course! Dobby is doing anything for Harry Potter!" The elf had set off so quickly that he was halfway across the room by the time his sentence finished, putting his small body ahead of Zimsy to block her way.

Ron and Harry looked on as the two elves battled it out, one clawing at the oven door (no doubt in order to slam her fingers in or perform some other equally violent harm to herself) and the other with his arms wrapped around her shoulders, hats toppling off his head as he struggled to pin her arms. The other elves gave them a wide berth; Harry couldn't tell if it was because of the clothing strewn about or the vigorous nature of the fight.

Ron prodded his arm, and when Harry turned his way he inclined his head to a nearby counter that appeared to be human-sized. He didn't need to be told twice; they made their way carefully over, dodging all the elves on the way.

Harry let out a whoosh of air from his lungs as he settled himself on a stool. "Glad that's finally over with," he intoned to Ron.

"Right," the redhead muttered, leaning on one of the counters where a house elf was cutting open a pumpkin. "What's 'Mione see in these little monsters?"

"Er..." Harry cast a worried glance at the elf right next to them, though the creature appeared to take no notice of them. "Dobby's alright, though."

"Sure he's alright, for a bloke who tried to murder you."

Harry's laugh was short. "Well, of everyone in that category, he's the most preferable company I suppose."

"'Better than bloody You-Know-Who' isn't saying much," he remarked, sarcastic.

"Well I meant--"

Ron waved a dismissive hand. "I know what you meant, mate. I am, after all," he attempted to imitate Dobby's affectionate soprano, "Harry Potter's most admirable friend."

Harry's amused smile ended up looking more like a grimace. He could tell just by the look of worry that Ron gave him. Still, he tried to respond with some semblance of humor. "Your house elf impersonation needs some work."

Ron didn't reply. A quiet descended on them so thick that even the noise in the spacious room seemed to dim ever so slightly.

His friend gazed out across the busy crowd of elves, leaning both elbows behind him on the counter. "So... what was this about Snape, then?"

"He's a huge prick, that's what," Harry murmured, subdued.

"Wow, what a revelation!" Ron feigned surprise.

On the back of a sigh, Harry explained, "The git had us brewing a memorized recipe today. A month ahead of when he said we would."

"Memorized...?"

"Yeah." He slumped, resting his chin in both hands atop the counter. "Part of some 'field training' tripe. Hermione was, er... pretty excited about it," at this, his dejection reached its peak, "but I mean-- We weren't assigned any memorization for homework. Everyone just came to class, and he said, 'Make a potion, no books allowed', and that was it."

"I'm officially cured of wishing I was there to see it," Ron quipped, though his face was contorted in disgust. "How in the world are you meant to do that?"

"No idea!" Harry shook his head, miserable. "But there's everyone going for their supplies, and Snape's staring right at me, like he's waiting for me to say I don't know what to do."

"Sounds about right," the redhead conferred, scowling.

"So... I tried it," Harry said, words heavy. "I tried to remember, just so I could wipe that smug look off his face. Went and got all the ingredients I could think of for the Wit-Sharpening Potion."

"Wit-Sharpening--!" he spluttered with a disbelieving laugh. "He did that on purpose, the slimy git!"

"And it gets worse," Harry remarked, grim. "A lot worse. Er... I dunno, maybe we should have done this in the dormitory or something..."

"Harry Potter!"

Dobby popped into existence beside them so suddenly that Harry jerked.

"Dobby is stopping Zimsy from punishment, just as Harry Potter said!" he proudly announced. Ron snorted and, looking over, Harry could see the other elf struggling, her arms tied to a chair using dishcloths.

"Uh... great...?" Harry replied, unenthused.

"Oi, Dobby, mind fetching me some bangers and mash from over there?" Ron chimed in. "Oh, and some popovers! And the squash!"

By the end, he'd had to shout, as the elf had already skipped away, ecstatic to be of service. Harry scowled at his friend. "Seriously? Weren't you just calling them little monsters five minutes ago?"

"Changed my mind," was Ron's breezy reply.

"You're mental."

The redhead shrugged. "Nah, just hungry."

Harry raised his eyebrows as Dobby returned with an enormous platter of food. "Here is food for sirs!" the elf squeaked, beaming at them both.

"Er..." Harry looked down into those large, expectant eyes, gently pointing out: "Didn't you say you were on break, Dobby?"

"Oh yes!" the elf assured him. "Dobby is assigned to bathroom cleaning duty, but for a break Dobby wanted to clean in the kitchens!"

"Uh-- aren't breaks usually times where you don't have to work?"

"Professor Dumbledore is saying Dobby is allowed to do whatever Dobby is wishing on a break!" he repeated the same refrain he so gleefully offered to Zimsy. "So, Dobby is doing that!"

That was sort of missing the point, Harry mused, but it didn't seem right to call attention to it when the elf seemed so happy to be there. "Right," he conceded, though reluctantly.

Ron appeared oblivious to the entire exchange, exclaiming with a mouth full of food, "Dis is ban' on--"

Harry frowned and Dobby beamed. Shifting in his seat, he commented: "Do you seriously intend to eat all of that?"

Ron shot him a look that read very clearly as of course, are you crazy? before the boy was shoveling another forkful of mash into his mouth, a pleased sigh escaping his nose. Dobby cut in, "Would sirs like more?"

Alarmed, Harry shook his head, making a quelling gesture for good measure. "No no, that won't be necessary."

The elf's ears flopped as he steadied the teetering tower of hats atop his head. "Harry Potter has been eating good?"

It was such an odd question that Harry paused with confusion. "Er... yes. It's-- I'm just not hungry right now."

"Dobby is wondering what Harry Potter's summer was like!"

Oh. Was Dobby actually... worrying about him? He sounded a bit like Mrs. Weasley just then. Harry supposed the elf had a right to, since they hadn't really talked since last year. He mustered a thin smile and an answer: "It was good... No elves came to knock around in my wardrobe or drop puddings on my relatives, so that worked out."

Dobby at least had the good grace to look abashed. "Dobby was only doing those things to protect Harry Potter!"

"I know," he replied, patting Dobby on his shoulder. "You're a good friend."

Ron saw fit to interject with, "Even if you've got a funny way of showing it."

Dobby blinked his gleaming eyes, moisture threatening to tip over the lids. "Harry Potter is... is Dobby's friend?"

Surprised, Harry sat up, his hand falling away from the elf's shoulder. "Well... yeah. Of course."

Dobby took hold of the pink jumper he was wearing to weep loudly and openly into it. Harry cast his eyes about with worry, but none of the other elves paid him any mind. Amidst the elf's cries, he hiccuped, "H-Harry Potter is being so v-very kind to s-say so!"

"Er..."

"Dobby w-will be doing his b-best to be being a good f-friend to Harry P-Potter!"

He looked to Ron for help. The redhead shrugged, taking a bite of squash. Suddenly, the elf before him snapped to attention, though tears continued to stream down his pointed face.

"If there is anything that Harry Potter is needing, Dobby will help!"

"Just, er..." He looked over at the still-struggling Zimsy. "Maybe... let her out of there, and enjoy the rest of your break. Okay?"

The elf's expression was positively glowing with pride. "As Harry Potter says, Dobby is doing it! Dobby is always wanting to make Harry Potter happy!"

He watched as the elf dutifully returned to Zimsy before he turned his attention back to his friend. "Ah... any chance you could take that as carryout?"

"Thought you didn't want to go to the dorms," Ron stated after a long swallow.

"I don't know," Harry frowned, eyes downcast. "It's... This just doesn't seem like the place to talk about..."

Ron's brow drooped in a showing of concern. "Did something happen?"

He rose from his chair with a grim mien. "Yeah. Suppose the halls are less crowded by now? It's loud in here."

Ron appeared wary. "Probably," he muttered.

Acknowledging this with only a short nod, the two made their way out of the busy kitchens, through the portrait-door, and out into the hall. Despite the time it took to accomplish this, Harry was no closer to figuring out how to break his news to Ron.

"So, uhm, first thing's first-- I'm supposed to tell you that nobody is allowed in the Hospital Wing for a day or two. Okay?"

Ron was immediately on edge. "What... does that have to do with anything?"

"It's, er-- I'll get to that," Harry replied heavily.

His friend reared up slightly, arms crossed over his chest. "What's going on, Harry?"

Better to just spit it out... "My potion, um-- at the end of class, Snape said I had to test it on someone."

"What? Why you?"

"Who else would it be? I'm his favorite person to humiliate," Harry complained. "I made the potion. It was-- I thought it was right! The color was right, the consistency was right, the finished potion was stable! But when I went to turn it in, he said that my potion was hardly worth looking at! He told me if I wanted a grade, I had to prove my potion worked."

"Ridiculous," was Ron's scathing reply, his brow dipping lower.

"I thought he was just finding an excuse to throw out my potion."

"Likely," his friend mused. "But I suppose the potion didn't actually work, yeah? So, who was the victim this time?"

Now was the hard bit-- It was difficult to gauge how Ron would react to this news. Harry wasn't sure how he felt about it either, but he grimaced, stomach turning as he uttered the name.

"Hermione."

Abject silence. In an instant, Ron's face turned as red as his hair. "He didn't!" the boy shouted, so loud that his voice careened down the corridor and around the corner. Harry winced.

"He did," Harry affirmed, morose. Ron's fists were clenched at his sides, and the sight of it flared Harry's own outrage. "And what's more-- When he called on her, he said that... that for all her brains she could certainly use more wit."

"Oh bugger him!" Ron shouted even louder somehow, body lurching to head past Harry.

Alarmed, he reacted quickly. Following after, he called ahead, "Ron! Where are you going?!"

"Where do you think?!" he barked. "I've had enough of that black-hearted tosser! And if Dumbledore doesn't sack him, I'll--"

"What are you going to do, attack him?" Harry countered with a teetering sense of responsibility, uncomfortable in the role Hermione would normally occupy. "You'll be expelled, Ron!"

Ron stopped suddenly, wheeling around to face Harry. "Thanks for the vote of confidence! Do you think I'm stupid or something!?" Ron accused. "I meant, I'm reporting that slimeball to Dumbledore!"

Oh. Harry jolted to a stop, frowning. "It still won't do any good," he insisted. "He'll just talk his way out of it, like he always does!"

"I won't let him!"

"I'm going to talk to Dumbledore today anyway," Harry sighed, deflating. "You didn't even have class with us or see what happened, so any complaint from you wouldn't make sense."

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, I'm still going with you."

"We can't even be certain where Dumbledore is right now. And I'll be there just before curfew."

"So, what? You're saying I can't help?"

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "I don't know. Just... doesn't seem like there's anything we really can do."

"Anything I can do, you mean," Ron corrected, bitter.

"Come on, don't be like that," Harry said. "You know what I mean."

He didn't appear mollified. "Piss off, Harry," Ron sneered. "If you think I'm going to sit around and do nothing while my friend is suffering, you're mental."

"I'm sorry, okay? I wish there was more to do, but there just isn't!"

"I still think talking to Dumbledore is a good idea!" Ron shot back, petulant.

"And I said I would," Harry remarked, weary.

"Whatever," Ron grumbled, shoving his fists into his pockets. "I'm going to go see 'Mione, then."

"Er..." Harry cast a guilty look across the floor before focusing on Ron again. "I did mention we're not... allowed."

"I don't care," Ron scoffed, beginning his walk again. "What did you think was going to happen? I was going to let her go it alone, without anyone to visit? Yeah, right."

"Ron--!" Harry jogged to catch up. "You'll do more harm than good!"

"Bollocks!"

"The Wit-Sharpening Potion fouled up something with her brain, Pomfrey said!" he insisted. "She hears sounds too loud or some such! But she told me we absolutely cannot go to the Hospital Wing; she's sectioned off Hermione from the rest of the ward, even!"

"Well that's brilliant, isn't it?" Ron complained, wheeling around, clearly in a foul mood.

Harry faltered, slowing to a stop. "I know. I'm... I'm sorry."

"What in the world do you have to be sorry about?" Ron balked, pacing back and forth, brow furrowed in anger. "If anything, it's that grease-wad who should be apologizing-- Merlin, Harry." He halted, his expression overcast as he looked Harry dead in the eye. "Hermione. How bad was she?"

"She-- er..." Harry paused, the memory haunting. "The second she drank the potion, she... collapsed. Started shaking really bad, and crying..."

"That's mad," Ron blurted out. "Completely vicious! Harry, can't you see it? This is evil. He's come after you before, but never like-- he's never hurt someone over it. Merlin!" Ron pulled a hand through his hair, a loud burst of breath snaking through his lips. "You don't think he's still mad about you being in his class, do you?"

Seeing the results of his first mission with Snape, that was still very much a consideration, wasn't it? All the man's vile taunts, the threats... Harry could still hear the dull clack of his wand hitting the floor of the drawing room.

"He's always had it out for me, Ron," was his comment, "but I don't know..."

"What?" Ron asked, frowning.

"You remember the night I went to talk to Dumbledore?"

"Yeah...?"

"I, er... did more than just talk," Harry confessed, scratching his head. "He actually sent me on a mission."

"What, for real?" Ron questioned, gobsmacked. "An actual mission for the old crowd?"

"Sort of?" Harry said. "I mean, not really. But... yes."

"So, what? What's this got to do with Snape?"

He frowned. "Dumbledore sent me with him. For the mission."

Ron practically reared back from the shock. "What?!"

"It's a long story," Harry prefaced, weary. "But let's just say he wasn't exactly... happy about it."

"What, so because he had to do that, he's attacking people now?!"

He frowned at his friend. "It's not so straightforward as all that," he commented, airy, "but after we got back... I happened to witness his late night meeting with Malfoy."

Ron leaned in, eyes squinting and his voice lowering to a breathy baritone: "What... sort of meeting?"

"The 'shady corner at midnight' kind."

"Well?" Ron prompted. "What did they say?"

"A lot of it was talking in circles, but Malfoy was going on about some promise Snape made to his father."

"A promise? To Lucius Malfoy?" the words heaved out of him, aghast. "A Death Eater? The same bloke who tried to snuff you a few months back, and is now in Azkaban?"

Harry blew out a puff of air. "Puts it all in perspective, doesn't it?"

"But honestly, you know what this means, right?"

"That nothing has changed, and Snape continues to be seconds away from outright murdering someone?"

"I mean, this time there's evidence, yeah?" Ron suggested. "You can tell Dumbledore, show him the truth about that scumbag."

With a skeptical glance, Harry mentioned, "He's been pretty clear before that Snape has his 'absolute trust', for whatever reason."

"I'm just saying," Ron groused. "We've always worked on hunches before. Now there's real evidence. He can't ignore that."

"True enough," he conceded, though his hope in that quarter was lacking. "I, uh, had another note from Dumbledore today. You suppose he wants to send me on another mission with Snape?"

"Best hope not," Ron replied, grim.

Harry glanced down the hallway as a group of Hufflepuffs came round the corner. "Yeah," he sighed, turning away. "I'll, uh... let you know how it goes."

"Right," Ron grunted. "Yeah. Sure."

Harry arrived at the Headmaster's office a half hour early, hoping to speak with the man in private. Unfortunately, when he knocked on the door, there was no answer.

With a grimace, he stood there, in much the same position as he had the last time he'd been forced to wait outside. Of course Dumbledore was a busy man, but he still felt jittery; the man's utter avoidance of any contact last year was still fresh in Harry's mind. Much as he would like to forget, these moments, this curious silence... He hated it.

A minute passed. Then two. Finally, the door opened outward, and out came-- that Slytherin girl. Croft.

Harry couldn't mask the look of incredulity on his face. "What are you doing here?" he blurted, voice quiet and skeptical.

Before she could answer, the Headmaster's voice drifted toward them. "Is that you Harry, my boy? Come in, come in."

The girl didn't even look at him, marching down the stairs without the slightest hesitation in her step. He let her go, ducking inside the Headmaster's office and pulling the door shut.

Resuming his usual seat -- the armchair closest to the fire -- Harry inquired, with a thumb jabbed in the direction of the door, "What's that about?"

The older man's eyebrows rose, and his tone was admonishing. "Harry, you know I cannot talk about private meetings with other students."

"Yeah, sure," was Harry's sullen reply as he slouched in his chair. Dumbledore cocked his head.

"I am surprised to see you this early, but it is rather opportune," the man commented. "I have been meaning to speak with you."

Harry looked up. "You have?"

"It has been several weeks since last we spoke," Dumbledore prefaced, "and I must say that the debrief you and Professor Snape gave was... irregular."

He tensed, suppressing a frown. How could he forget? He'd been on pins and needles, waiting for Snape to lay out all the reasons why he was worthless as an Order member. Why he hadn't was entirely beyond Harry's understanding, especially since the professor hadn't hesitated in the slightest to humiliate Harry that very morning and many times since. The thought of it caused his rage and guilt to vie for dominance in his stomach, churning up every bad feeling he harbored for the vile man.

But, before he could begin to unravel his jumble of heated thoughts in order to comment, Dumbledore had more to say. "Even more irregular was the conversation I had with our new Minister for Magic the following day."

Harry's inner thoughts struggled to a halt. "The... Minister for Magic?" he inquired slowly.

"Yes," the Headmaster amiably replied. "In fact, Minister Scrimgeour posed to me a question which I found very puzzling." Dumbledore's eyes glimmered in the candlelight as he shifted in his seat, half-moon spectacles lowering over his nose, bemused and pensive. "He asked, 'Has Harry Potter been away from Hogwarts recently?' To which I, of course, replied, 'The boy remains at school as we speak, though he surely enjoys the occasional trip to Hogsmeade with his classmates.'"

Harry shrank in his seat, his previous anger feeling quite distant, like a layer of static in the ears and nothing more. What could he say? The truth would surely lose him this precious opportunity to go on missions, and to lie would be foolish, knowing what he did about Legilimency... not that he expected the Headmaster to literally read his mind, but still--

"Was... was there a reason for his curiosity?" Harry asked, placing the question between himself and Dumbledore as if it would protect him from the chastisement he knew was coming.

"An astute question, and one I posed myself," the Headmaster remarked, brushing a hand down his beard in thought. "It would seem the Minister was primarily concerned with a report of underage magic performed by Harry Potter in Surrey. And not only magic, but Apparition! I informed him that, knowing you and your academics personally, I could confidently say that you had never performed such magic, and that it was quite outside your current capabilities."

It made him feel horrible that Dumbledore had been forced to lie on his behalf, no matter how plausible it might have been. So plausible, in fact, that it would have been entirely true up until that one night! Still, Harry's jaw was clenched tight, and his gaze cast off to the side, blearily surveying the edge of the carpet.

"He and I ultimately concluded that the occurrence was a rare anomaly, possibly some sort of mischief perpetrated by those who are still opposed to you and all you represent," Dumbledore explained, gazing directly at Harry in a way that made him feel skewered. "But I have to wonder if that is not quite the full story. Have you any insights, Harry?"

The sound of his own name felt painful, but-- well. This was it, wasn't it? He should have known this was coming; of course Dumbledore was going to find out. If not by Snape, then by some other means. And really, what leg did he have to stand on? This was all a mess he'd created himself. It was childish to deflect and postpone this moment, which had been weighing on him for the last two weeks.

He sat up straighter, taking in a large breath for strength. "That's not really how it happened at all," Harry said, his voice coming out low in energy but deeply resonant within the quiet room.

The Headmaster's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

Harry's expression crumpled, caught halfway between anguish and frustration. "You don't have to pretend you're surprised!"

The other man seemed nonplussed by this outburst. "Oh, but I am, Harry," he commented, voice calm as he threaded his fingers before him on the desk. "The ways by which underage magic is detected are very complex, and rarely inaccurate or unfair, except in cases where context is required. I do not, however, have any context at all, outside of knowing that you actually were in Surrey at that time. Although, being with Professor Snape, your movements ought to have been masked."

"They were," Harry insisted. "I mean-- they would have been, except... I Apparated to Surrey by myself."

"I was not aware you knew how to Apparate," the Headmaster remarked.

"Well, I hadn't actually done it before," he admitted, his lips twisting. "Just sort of heard some people talk about what it was like."

"You are unhurt, I assume?"

"I, er... didn't splinch myself or anything, no."

"Learning Apparition by hearsay, hm?" Dumbledore chuckled. "I seem to have underestimated you once more, haven't I?"

Harry frowned. "I mean, I wouldn't call in-depth commentaries by Hermione 'hearsay'."

"But you understand this curiosity must obviously follow-- since I feel certain that Professor Snape would never have allowed this to occur."

"No, he didn't," Harry concurred, sour. "He actually left me in Norwich by myself."

"He did, did he?" the Headmaster mumbled, pursing his lips.

"Yeah," he stated, his anger resurging, "and he didn't even tell me what he was doing! Just went about his business as if I wasn't even there!" Dumbledore didn't immediately react, or really react much at all, which only stoked Harry's ire. "If the whole point of this was for me to contribute, you'll be glad to know Snape made sure I could do exactly nothing!"

"Harry," the Headmaster began, his voice deliberate and calm as a counterpoint to Harry's. "Warding is quite a broad topic. It would be unfair of me to require Professor Snape to teach it to you with such a time limit."

Exasperated, Harry dropped his hands atop his knees. "Well then, what was I supposed to do?! You even said I should participate!"

"The goal of your previous trip was for you to learn the locations of safehouses, and the safest ways to enter them."

"Well that didn't happen!"

"You used Floo travel to enter Grimmauld Place, did you not? And, I presume, you were shown how to enter the estate at Norwich?"

"Well-- sort of," Harry admitted.

"And I feel certain that, given the chance, Professor Snape would have shown you the process by which we approach Privet Drive, since your summer home requires a great deal more caution to reach."

"About that," he mentioned with a glare. "Are you lot seriously spying on me at all times, or what? First there's Mrs. Figg, and now I hear about extra wards and... do all the Order members know how to Apparate there? Do people just show up without my knowing all the time, is that it?"

Dumbledore's frown was sad. "It is true your security is very important, but you are not being watched in secret."

Though he would like to take that at face value, Harry took little comfort from that pronouncement. There were still so many things he didn't know, so many things being hidden from him all the time... His mind couldn't help but jump to last year, his friends' apologetic faces when they admitted to being sworn to silence. Dumbledore's own downtrodden expression as Harry destroyed anything in the office he could get his hands on...

The memory was stark while sitting in the same room where it occurred, though it almost felt like a dream, as if it was someone else who had executed the destruction. Still, he was struck sharply in that moment by how off-putting the room looked in its current state. Clean, organized. Unaltered. As if his outburst had never happened. As if it didn't matter. Like it was being swept under the rug like so much troublesome dirt.

Harry lifted his head, expression stony and hands clasped painfully in his lap. "Has Snape always been lurking about Privet Drive?"

Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, brows drawn together. "Harry, I have been patient up to now, but this disrespect for Professor Snape is--"

"He doesn't deserve my respect," Harry interrupted, each syllable clipped. "Just tell me. Has he been around Privet Drive before?"

The older man looked displeased, his frown thinning before he answered, "Professor Snape has only been there a handful of times, and has only ever verified the wards. He has never gone anywhere near the house itself."

"Pity. Maybe my mum's wards would have incinerated him on the spot," he returned, vitriolic.

"Harry." His name burst from the Headmaster with such sudden severity that Harry flinched. "What has got into you?"

"Me?! What about him?!" Harry erupted, hands clasped so tightly that the bones in his hands were protesting. "Don't you know what happened to Hermione?"

Dumbledore's hands came together in his lap, fingers folding in on one another, as he leaned back in his chair. In an instant, the man was back to his usual infuriating calm, though there remained an edge of solemnity to it. "I imagine you have something pressing you wish to tell me about the matter."

"Yeah, it's pressing, alright," he shot back. "He purposely ordered her to try a potion when he knew it would hurt her!"

"That is quite an accusation," Dumbledore replied, grave. "A serious one, too."

"I'd say an extended trip to the Hospital Wing is pretty serious, don't you think?"

"Very much so," was Dumbledore's soft rejoinder, weathered fingers combing pensively through his beard.

Harry aimed a shrewd glare in the Headmaster's direction. "If you're going to just agree with what I'm saying, then can I assume that Snape is already sacked, then?" he remarked, sarcastic.

There was a casual flourish of his hand on the downswing of another comb through his beard, and in an instant a scroll drew upward from a drawer below him, pulling across his desk as a quill nearby inked and then poised itself delicately at the edge of the parchment. Dumbledore relinked his hands and leaned forward, watching Harry closely. "I am afraid it won't be as easy as that," he said in a tone Harry assumed was meant to be jovial, but just missed the mark. "Official testimonies will be required-- from you, other possible witnesses... you understand."

He sat up straight, chest thrown out. "Good! The whole class saw. Maybe this time we'll finally be able to be rid of him!"

Dumbledore didn't take this bait; a fuzzy eyebrow rose before he lifted a hand, as if to urge Harry to proceed.

He obliged gladly, continuing, "Snape pushed up an assignment for a memorized potion to today. Something we weren't supposed to do for at least a month more. So, naturally, some--"

At that exact moment, the fireplace flared, drenching the room in pale green light. Harry's stomach dropped and his gaze slid hesitantly toward the dark figure kicking soot from his boots.

Snape.

He wore a distinct expression of disgust and reproach as he looked over at the Headmaster, but before he could voice the words which seemed to be burning behind his cold, black eyes, Dumbledore spoke. "Ah, Severus. How fortuitous that you join us at this time. I think a statement from the accused would actually be a more appropriate place to start--"

Without missing a single beat, Snape remarked, "Whatever nonsense Potter has seen fit to regurgitate likely has scant resemblance to reality."

Harry heaved in a breath, rebuttal leaning, ready and eager, against his gritted teeth. Dumbledore, however, beat him to the punch. "All the more reason for you to clear up the matter, yes?" the man pointed out, ignoring the cutting edge to Snape's tone. "I hear there was an incident involving Miss Granger?"

"An incident, yes." Snape walked further into the room, robes trailing behind him as he approached a dark, leather-backed bergère near the opposite side of the Headmaster's desk.

Dumbledore raised a few gnarled fingers to pull his half-moon spectacles lower over his nose, staring up at Snape, unnervingly casual. "I assume I can depend upon you to reprise all the salient details?"

His primary acknowledgement was a mere wave of the hand, sitting in the chair before he said, "Mr. Potter flagrantly crafted a flawed potion of such unacceptable quality that such an allowance could not even be made for a first year. When I refused to accept his subpar offering at the close of class time, he became irate and belligerent."

"The potion was stable!" Harry burst out. "I worked on it for two full hours; it was bottled up! Fail me if you're going to, but at least just take the stupid potion!"

Dumbledore raised a hand to silence Harry, his attention solely on Snape. "Mr. Potter mentioned that the memorization test was given a month ahead of time?"

"No exact measurements were given to the timeframe; the occurrences of memorization practicals are irregular by design. Mr. Potter is, perhaps, referring to the one month at the start of term in which N.E.W.T. Potions students were allowed to study and prepare before the practical exercises would begin."

Dumbledore glanced at Harry, head canted slightly, expectant. It was hard to think through his haze of anger, but... he had a sinking feeling that Snape was right. As a matter of fact, Hermione had been really excited about the practicals-- had repeatedly reminded Harry to study. Now that he thought about it, her admonishment that he 'only had a month' had perhaps stuck in his head incorrectly.

Still, that didn't change the rest of what Snape had done. And he wouldn't give that bastard the satisfaction of conceding the point.

"Bit difficult to recall useless details like that when my friend is in the Hospital Wing because of you."

"Harry, I understand your anger. But I would ask you to refrain from speaking to Professor Snape in that manner," Dumbledore smoothed over, though his tone didn't sound so gentle. It was a warning. A stern one.

"Yes sir," he ground out, a headache beginning to form.

The Headmaster gestured toward Snape, his open palm prompting the man to continue. "You mentioned difficulty with regard to Mr. Potter turning in his assignment?"

"I hold my N.E.W.T. classes to a high standard. I take special care and time to expand their education to a professional level. I reserve the right to refuse submissions which make a mockery of the hard work demonstrated amongst the rest of the class."

"Mr. Potter holds the position that his potion was worthy of acceptance," Dumbledore pressed, his eyes traveling to watch the tail end of the quill flutter as it continued to write, verbatim, every word that passed between them.

Snape's dark gaze landed squarely on Harry, who glared back. "Yes, he made it a point to say his potion was the 'correct color', and 'stable', which further demonstrated his utter failing to grasp the subject matter.

"To start," the professor sneered, "'color' is not a correct indicator of a potion's efficacy, but merely a helpful guideline to indicate metamorphosis during the brewing process. Mr. Potter performed none of the recommended testing procedures prior to his attempt to turn in his potion. Secondly: he is unequivocally wrong on both fronts. His potion was neither the correct color, nor stable. There were several delays in his brewing process which meant that he did not finish the mixture until the very last minutes of class. His potion was not allowed to cool, and was therefore still in flux."

Harry felt as if there was some horrible creature coiled in his stomach, eating away at his insides. Of course Snape would turn all this around. Harry had even predicted as much to Ron -- he'll only talk his way out of it -- but he had expected to at least have the courtesy of a private meeting with Dumbledore first! The nature of the situation was such that it felt more like a public execution than a discussion.

Still, he couldn't waste this lead-in. "Well then," Harry countered, "if you knew all that, it seems a little -- oh, I don't know -- disgusting to have allowed another student to drink it."

It irritated him a little to see the slight tick in Dumbledore's lips that seemed to signal some amount of amusement as he looked at Snape as if to say: Your volley. This wasn't a game. But leave it to Dumbledore to wear a mask of gravity instead of actually being serious once in his bloody life!

"Miss Granger was in full control of her faculties when she chose to consume an unstable potion. I saw to it that she be relocated safely to the Hospital Wing following the consequences of her actions."

"Are you having a laugh?!" Harry shouted, legs propelling him out of his seat. "You told her to drink it!"

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Then I would ask, Severus, that you explain what you did say, in order to clear the air," Dumbledore suggested in a tone all-too-genial for Harry's taste.

Snape turned to face the Headmaster, then. "When Mr. Potter continued to insist that I accept his potion, I suggested that I would agree to grade it if he could prove that it worked properly. Then, in an effort to dissuade him, I suggested that he test it on one of his friends: Miss Granger. By no means did I require her to obey, nor was it a direct order. If anything, I expected Mr. Potter's persistent affection for heroics to end the matter entirely."

"That's a load of shite, and you bloody well know it!" Harry exploded, swinging his arm out for emphasis. "You--!"

He stopped, breathing heavy, his rage so consuming that he felt paralyzed by it. How dare he make it out like there was nothing wrong with what he did! It was always like this, Snape slithering out of any blame, making Harry seem the most irrational, the most dangerous. Hermione was injured in his class, and yet there was no responsibility for him to take? Did he really plan to pin it all on them? As if Harry and Hermione had plotted to put her in the Hospital Wing, entirely against Snape's wishes? The man had openly mocked her! His whole story was a bloody farce!

Yet, he could say none of it. His throat was impossibly tight; he felt light-headed, unable to breathe. Harry clenched his eyes closed, preventing himself from catching even the slightest glimpse of the Death Eater who sat mere feet away. He couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear to witness the man get away with this, and make out Harry to be the fool!

Several seconds passed, Harry willing himself to take in air. All the while, the room was very quiet. He opened his eyes, throwing them in Dumbledore's direction, beseeching. "Professor..." he croaked, but his voice petered off as he took in the man's expression. Calm, intent, his stare was fixed at a point separate from Harry, as if he weren't even there.

The sight of it was all too familiar, causing Harry to rear back. This was the Dumbledore of last year. The one who refused to look in his direction, the one who pretended not to hear Harry calling after him... The one who thought that shutting him out was for the best. Harry followed his line of sight to Snape, who sat similarly stoic. Their locked gazes were closed off to Harry, who stood alone at the center. There was a conversation within the abject silence, one which Harry did not have the capability to grasp. It was disconnected from him, another world away.

All his words crumbled, falling away from his mouth and back down his throat. Dumbledore's quill was poised over the parchment, very still. It could not record Legilimency. Unfortunately, neither could Harry.

He sank back into his seat slowly, staring down at his fingers in his lap. They felt numb, after all the clenching he'd been doing. This all really had been pointless, hadn't it? Where Snape was concerned, Dumbledore was never going to see reason. He was, after all, Dumbledore's only spy. He couldn't really afford to sack him, even if he wanted to.

There was a horrible ache in his chest, a harbinger of suppressed words. Suppressed emotion. He was used to the feeling, but... He'd thought he was safe from it here, in this office. Just another false assumption he'd made in his childish hope for security. For consideration. Those were, of course, luxuries that the Boy Who Lived could never afford, he thought harshly.

It was another minute before the two roused from their communications. The Headmaster spoke first. "Ah, Harry, pardon the interruption. There were a few words I wished to exchange with your teacher in private."

Harry almost wished, would've almost preferred, if the Headmaster had just dismissed him outright, to leave him sitting outside the office again as he'd done a myriad of times before. At least that retained some modicum of dignity to it.

"It's fine," he parrotted automatically.

"I've taken the matter to heart and although the circumstances are unfortunate, I can assure you that they were not malicious, and will not be recurring."

"Great."

The atmosphere was heavy as Dumbledore turned to face him more fully. Harry could see out of the corner of his eye the way those garish robes twinkled in the light as the Headmaster moved. "Is anything the matter, my boy?"

Harry looked up, face blank. "No sir."

Dumbledore sat back again. "Was there anything further you wanted to add to your statement, Harry?"

As if this entire situation wasn't just a ploy. The corner of Harry's lip twitched downward. "No sir."

"Well," with an elegant flourish of his wrist, the quill stopped writing and packed itself away. The parchment, littered with inconsequential dictation, combusted in a manner reminiscent of Fawkes's periodic burnings. With a twitch of a finger, the ash dissipated into the air and Dumbledore wiped his hands together, although not a speck of dust had touched them. It was symbolic. Dumbledore was washing his hands of Harry's drama. "If everything is settled, I'd like to get to the reason I summoned the two of you here this evening."

Harry's eyes darted toward Snape before fixing themselves in the Headmaster's direction. "Another mission?" he predicted, unable to infuse his words with enthusiasm.

"One of a more delicate matter," Dumbledore impressed. "But important, nonetheless. I am entrusting the both of you to comport yourselves with subtlety and sensibility."

Snape spoke up, then. "If I may draw attention to the fact that Mr. Potter has demonstrated neither of those qualities..."

"Then that is all the more reason that he should learn from someone who has them, hm?" Dumbledore overruled him, lifting his eyebrows. "He is, after all, within a period of probation, in which you are tasked with enforcing his progress, are you not?"

The professor was quiet for a moment, expression sour. "Of course."

"I would suggest you not lose sight of your goal, then, Severus."

That was as direct and as blatant a warning that Harry had ever heard leveled at Snape. The sight of the man's muted displeasure was on some level vindicating, but did not make up for recent events.

Nevertheless, the Headmaster did not dwell long on this point. "I will need you both to make for Cardiff. There is a family whose child has gone missing, who have graciously allowed their home to be connected to the Floo network. You will question them, amass any clues about the missing child's whereabouts, and report them to me immediately."

Harry frowned. "Er, that's well enough, I guess, but what's that got to do with the war?"

"The child is born of non-magical parents. Disappearances of this sort have always been common, but I would like to be certain that there is no connection to our enemy."

Our enemy. The phrase seemed more chilling somehow, when spoken so calmly. He glanced at Snape again, skeptical.

"Why us?" Harry questioned. Can't see how a grade-A arsehole and a Hogwarts student could be much help.

"It is a low-risk mission," was the explanation. "And too, Professor Snape is our most skilled expert at amassing intelligence and interacting with people."

Seriously? "Right, sure," Harry said, lacking the energy to argue that ludicrous point.

"You would do well to watch closely, and learn, Harry. That is, after all, the purpose of these excursions."

"Watch. Learn. Stay out of the way," he replied, resentful. "Got it."

"And, perhaps," Dumbledore urged him with a worried look, "curb some of your opinions regarding Professor Snape, in the spirit of cooperation? It is only for a few hours, you understand."

Only a few hours in the company of a Death Eater. Only a few hours of pretending Hermione wasn't in the Hospital Wing. Only a few hours of playing nice with the enemy. Our enemy. What a cruel joke.

Needless to say, Harry refused to respond to that.

Upon arrival via Floo, Harry's foot caught on a hard edge, landing him face-first on the carpeted floor. The green fire subsided as he groaned, lifting himself up by his arms, face red.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! Is he alright--?"

"Do not trouble yourself with my companion's clumsiness," Snape's voice sounded above, calm. "He will recover shortly."

Something -- someone -- approached, hovering just above him. Bit embarrassing for this to be his first impression, he thought with a frown. He had barely registered the presence nearby when it receded back where it came from. The puzzling interaction, or lack thereof, was quickly explained.

"Sorry," a feminine voice whispered nearby. "I'm just-- You really travel by fireplace...?"

Using the shag carpet as an anchor, Harry wrenched himself up, dusting the ash off his robes. Lifting his eyes, he took in the quick impression of a clean, warmly-lit room, and two figures, one man and one woman, standing behind a large sectioned sofa as it acted as a moat between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Snape beat him to it.

"My apologies. If we had realized it would cause you distress, we would have arrived via more conventional means."

His attention snapped to the professor. What on Earth was that weird tone? He sounded... friendly, and the pitch of it was downright disturbing-- especially to ears which had only ever heard the man grumble and sneer!

"Would've saved me having to vacuum later," the woman joked in a tone that contained no humor at all. Her smile was lopsided: polite but forced. "It's fine, though. We appreciate how prompt you are."

Snape stood straight with shoulders relaxed, none of his usual looming presence in evidence. Harry noticed that he was holding a notebook of some kind (did he have it in Dumbledore's office before?), and his hair was tied back with a simple band. Despite such small changes, he was the very picture of someone that Harry didn't recognize. He seemed more a stranger than the two others who stood in the room. When the man opened his mouth, further shocks were in store. "Not to worry; your home will be left as clean as before we found it. We are, after all, here to lessen your burdens, not add to them."

Her husband shook his head. "Please don't bother yourself. Your time is better spent on other tasks, yeah?"

"Charlie."

"I just mean I want to get on with it!" he said, defensive. "Wasted enough time already."

"Let's proceed, then," Snape replied, looking about. "Is there a comfortable space to talk?"

"We are in the living room, aren't we?"

"Charlie," the woman warned again.

"Sasha," he shot back, affect flat.

Harry's eyes darted between everyone, feeling as if he were in a dream when Snape merely replied with a pleasant: "As you wish."

The professor walked past, moving toward the far edge of the sofa. "If you would both have a seat, we can begin."

The two of them did, though they sat a good distance apart from one another. The woman, Sasha, took a moment to situate herself, rearranging the various pillows to suit her taste, whereas Charlie dropped onto the cushions like a stone, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. When Snape did not immediately speak, Harry assumed he was included in this order. Shuffling over to a nearby armchair, he placed himself into it gingerly, watching the proceedings with apprehension.

Now that he was more recovered from his rocky entrance, he could more properly assess his surroundings. They were, indeed, in a living room, cozily furnished and brightly lit, despite the late hour. He could see that the entrance from which they'd arrived was very small, and looked more like an oven than a fireplace. What was more, it was raised about a foot from the ground. Harry grimaced at the sight of it, his knees and shoulder still smarting from his fall. It was a wonder he'd made it there at all, from the size of that tiny grate!

Though the fireplace was small, the mantelpiece was large, spanning the height of the wall and made of a rich, cherry wood. Beside that was a television inset between two lightly-decorated shelves, a haphazard stack of VHS exercise tapes, and a wicker basket filled with blankets. There were many pictures and vases lined up around the room, including the little table to Harry's right, where a metal analog clock and a still photo of two smiling teenage girls sat.

Snape brandished his notebook, pulling a pen from his cloak and drawing Harry's attention once more. Nonplussed, Harry remarked, "You know what a pen is?"

The two sitting adjacent both sent him identical bewildered looks. Snape raised both eyebrows. "My companion is referring to my usual habit of using a pencil," he replied, blithe as could be.

Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh... Just a bit of a... joke." That's what this whole thing felt like, anyway: more and more absurd by the second. He'd met loads of wizards who were baffled by innocuous concepts like pens or rubber ducks! It wasn't so far fetched!

But, then again, these people were Muggles. It's not like they had much experience with magical people, or like they really wanted to. Just look at how they'd reacted to something simple like the Floo-- it was like watching a polite version of the Dursley's horrific repulsion.

The room was uncomfortably silent for a moment before Snape turned his gaze to the other two in the room directly. "Let us begin with introductions. I am Inspector Prince, and this is my subordinate, Mr. Barrett."

He froze, frowning. Was that supposed to be him? Would have been nice to know ahead of time that they were supposed to have fake names; though, Harry mused, that probably went without saying, considering who he was.

The man's eyes raked over him, perched over his conjoined fingers. There was a moment of deliberation before he accused: "Bit young, isn't he?"

"Charlie, honestly."

His stare shifted toward his wife as Snape rattled off his answer. "Our office sees merit in granting apprentices on-the-job training."

"Oh, lovely, happy to know we can be a bloody case study for you--"

"Jesus Christ." When Harry looked at her, Sasha's head was shoved into her palms with great exasperation.

Charlie's body twisted toward her. "What? It's true! And I told you this would happen. First that debacle with the Constable, and now this? What would these people care about our Violet? Sending us some rubbish, dog-eared 'inspector' and his intern--"

"I'm sorry for my husband," she cut in, leaning forward. "He's stressed. We both are. But we appreciate the help." Charlie slumped, attitude decidedly sullen.

"Let me assure you both, our office is taking your case very seriously," Snape emphasized, taking up a position standing beside the fireplace. "Now, we are aware of your initial statement, but, in the interest of thoroughness, please outline the day of your daughter's disappearance for the official record."

Surprisingly, it was Charlie who spoke up. "The day? Was Saturday. We were all up for an early breakfast, but then I had work to do in the study -- I'm a database programmer for Automsoft. That was a big chunk of my day, so I'm not sure where Vi was--"

"We all kept to ourselves really," Sasha cut in. "He was working, I was cleaning. Violet helped me sort out the laundry, but when her sister woke up, she spent a good bit of time upstairs with her." She stopped a moment, staring down at her hands. "Her-- Her sister is Callie. She's staying with us right now while her husband is on tour, since she couldn't go traveling while pregnant and-- it's been rough, lots of accommodations, you understand, but Violet has been incredibly gracious."

Snape nodded, scribbling down a note of some kind. "Did she go anywhere else that day?"

"I don't think she did," the woman murmured. "I may have heard her make a few phone calls, but she likes to stay in on weekends."

"Yeah," Charlie uttered, leaning back on the sofa. "We've been doing these activities with her since she's been home, with a group we joined about four months back. They had an art exhibition on and Violet was counting on it. Thing was, when we were near ready to go, Callie had a sudden health scare. She's at the end stages of her pregnancy, y'know, and we don't want to take risks. So we were off to hospital, just to make sure things were okay, but Violet was mighty upset about it."

"She wanted us to reconsider, but that's our grandbaby on the line! Can't just ignore something like that."

"Exactly," her husband agreed. "And that was around-- what time was it? Six?"

She nodded. "Nearly, yes."

"I just know it was seven by the time we got to hospital," he concluded, looking back to Snape. "We didn't make it home until about half eight. House was dark, Vi wasn't in her room. We weren't too worried, because--"

"Because sometimes she takes walks, see?" his wife interjected. "To clear her head? And it was the first big argument we've had for a while--"

"So, Sasha rang her mobile but she didn't pick up. But, y'know, fair's fair. We knew she was angry, but she's not irresponsible. Gave her about ten minutes before calling again--"

"-- I think I called her about three times --"

"-- that's when we knew something was wrong and we called for the police."

During this recitation, Snape had been writing vigorously. Without missing a beat, he said, "I see. And I assume the police did not react favorably?"

"'She's sixteen,' they said," Sasha recounted, derisive. "'Probably run off with a boyfriend."

"Most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

The professor nodded. "Hence your contacting the Wizarding authorities."

"Only way for us to expand the search."

"So, this art exhibition," Snape changed direction. "Where was it going to be held?"

Charlie's frown was puzzled. "I don't-- Sasha, do you?"

"Uhm... Oh! I think I still have the brochure somewhere. Hold on."

The woman disappeared into the next room, the sound of shuffling papers the only indicator of her progress. Harry expected Snape to wait for her to return, but he didn't. "Does your daughter have any friends nearby?" he inquired, glancing up from the page.

"Some," he answered. "But we've already called them. None of them have had any contact with her since the night she disappeared."

"I will need their names."

"Sure... I'll have to call their parents first to see if they're alright with that but, sure."

Harry's lip curled. "Why?" he blurted, annoyed.

"Pardon?" Charlie asked, sounding affronted.

"You want to find your daughter, so why wouldn't you just say who her friends are?" Harry accused. "I mean it's an obvious question. Even if they haven't seen her, they might know better than you where she might be."

"Do you have children?" Charlie asked, squinting hard.

"No...?" What kind of question was that?

"Then maybe you should curb your observations to what you know best."

What he knew best? He knew plenty about this! When Ginny went missing in second year, it would have done her loads of good if anyone had bothered paying better attention! None of the adults had noticed a thing as she was slowly being possessed by a madman!

Point in fact: Harry went missing all the time at the Dursleys, and they hardly cared one whit. A day without him was a boon. And if these people weren't doing everything in their power to find their daughter, then they may as well be sitting on their thumbs!

"I may not look it," Harry countered, tone a touch sour. "But I know a thing or two about finding people who are lost."

Charlie turned to look at Snape. "Is this a bloody joke?"

Before Snape could answer, however, Sasha entered the room again, holding a bright purple pamphlet in her hand. "Buried under some chinese takeaway, stupid thing-- here, though. The information about the exhibition is on the second fold."

She passed it into Snape's outstretched fingers before resuming her place on the couch, the disruption tempering the unease of the room. Snape's eyes passed over the brochure for only a brief moment before he looked up once more.

"London? That is two hours by train, is it not?"

"Just about, yes," Sasha answered.

Snape squinted at his notes, tapping his chin with the pen. "Does your daughter own any magical forms of transport?"

"Nothing like brooms or such," Charlie answered. "But ah-- she knew how to do that thing. What was it called? Abration--?"

"Aparison?" Sasha chimed in, biting her lip.

"Apparition," Snape smoothly corrected. "Though, seeing as your daughter is sixteen, she would not be licensed to perform such magic."

"Right, well, that's all she knew how to do."

"Were you aware if she had any friends from school who may have met with her?"

An embittered laugh boomed from Charlie. "What, you too?"

The professor's eyebrows rose, uttering only an obtuse, "Hm?" Harry ducked his head, not wanting a repeat of the man's earlier critiques to surface.

However, Charlie leaned forward, scowling. "My daughter didn't run away. She wouldn't run away from home."

"I merely wish to ascertain whether or not she could have been in contact with those able to provide a means for magical travel. This information will determine the search area."

Yeah, and the options were "nearby" or "literally anywhere", Harry thought. That hardly narrowed anything down.

"Charlie, would it matter?" Sasha piped up.

"What?"

"Would it matter? Kidnapped? Run away? Either way, she's gone. It's better to know all our options. If she ran away, so what? It's still worth looking into."

He didn't answer, his sneer enduring as Sasha turned to look at Snape, earnest. "Inspector, I don't know anything about her magical friends. It's possible she kept in contact. I can give you her number so you can cross reference it with the phone company, see who she's been calling. If that would help?"

Harry very much doubted that her magical friends even knew what mobile phones were, considering the Wizarding World's affection for owl post. These people had a daughter who was magical, and they didn't even know that much?

He was beginning to dislike them more and more.

And then there was Snape, patient as can be. Not a snide word or cutting barb to be found, despite how obviously clueless those two were. The sound of his "pleasant" voice was beginning to sicken Harry. "That would be helpful, yes," was his agreeable reply. "And the landline as well, to cover all bases."

"Okay," Sasha exhaled into her hands as they wrung themselves, though her words seemed more directed to herself than an answer to Snape. "Okay."

Harry looked on as Charlie's gaze darted between his wife's crestfallen expression and Snape's businesslike facade. "We did a cursory search on Saturday," he offered, evidently deciding to make himself useful. "Some of the neighbors pitched in, bless 'em. We did a good sweep of the neighborhood and a few places in town. Areas she normally frequents, you know, the usual. Did as much as we could with the amount of hands we had."

Harry's reaction was doubtful. Caustic. "And where is it you think she 'normally' goes?"

Charlie's glower was withering when his face made the slow pendulum swing in Harry's direction. "What'd you say your name was again? Barrett?"

"N--" He let out a breath. "Yeah. What of it?"

"Well Mr. Barrett. I'm already well aware of what you think of me. Your angle. Where do I think she normally goes? Because I don't know my daughter, right? That's what you're getting at? That I'm such a shite father that my daughter has squirreled away this secret life from me, just waiting for the moment she could burst away to her freedom? That's what you think, right?"

"Charlie, for the love of god--"

"Shut it, Sasha!" The bellow radiated from him with such potency that it pummeled the entire room into an uneasy quiet. His hands were white knuckling his knees and when Sasha relented, sitting back against her fortress of couch pillows, he turned his gaze to Harry again.

"That's what you think, isn't it?" he prompted, his voice lowering to a quiet drone.

Harry's chest swelled, and his hands were balled into fists. "Why shouldn't I?" he countered.

Snape attempted to cut in, a sharp glare aimed directly at him. "That is quite enough from you--"

"Let me tell you a thing or two about my family," Charlie stated in a dangerous tone. "Let me tell you a thing or two about what it's like to have it thrust on you, out of nowhere, that your daughter is not only magical, but that there exists an entire fucking world that has been there the entire bloody time, and she has to be a part of it, regardless of what you want. Doesn't matter if it means sending your youngest off to god knows where in the bell end of Scotland with no means to keep in contact, for far longer than you want her to be gone. It'd be too convenient to actually provide resources -- better to let you just take this information and drown in it!"

The man's expression was brimming with disgust. He instinctively shrank back as the man collected his energies in order to spew them in Harry's face. "And let's not forget when your little girl comes home after an entire bloody year alone, spending nights crying over things you don't understand, because there's an entire culture with politics and nuance that she's not even equipped to begin explaining to you! So you're bloody helpless-- nothing at all to do but hold her. And that's not enough. Years go by, and she's getting used to being separate from you and your family. Not a damn thing you can do about that, either. Then, she's graduated, aimless-- no opportunity, no prospects... rejected from one world on the basis of pedigree, and no credentials to get by in this one! You begin to think that bloody school she was forced to attend was a colossal waste of time! But you do your damndest to be there for her, to make sure she knows that no one thinks badly of her because she's having a harder time figuring things out -- she's sixteen, for chrissake, how is she supposed to know what she wants to do?

"But then, there's help," the words poured out of him, breathless. "Finally, after all these years, there's help, with people who know what you've gone through, who understand what it's like to be in your position. And you're finally seeing progress -- real, actual, progress. You're seeing her smile for the first time in years. You're actually able to understand the things she's talking about, you're able to actually give her solace, advice, a way to move forward. Then there's just one night -- one night when that goes tits up because of circumstance. And you come home and your little girl is... gone.

"I know very well what you and your kind think of me, my family, my daughter." Tears misted in his eyes and he swiped his thumb under his nose. "But my Violet didn't run away," he said, adamant, his voice a quivering warning. "She didn't."

There was a heavy, stunned silence following his statements. His wife was quite affected, her hand over her mouth, hair falling across her wrist as her posture drooped. Harry himself couldn't meet the man's eyes, instead casting his gaze off to the side. He wasn't sure how to feel, but what could he say to that, really?

He made the mistake of looking at Snape. The professor was staring straight at him, his glare in full force. The message was undeniable. Keep your mouth shut.

Then, he watched as Snape schooled his expression, turning it toward the couple. "Mr. Ayers--"

"Do you have any other questions?" the man asked, tear stricken, but somehow utterly composed. "Or do you have what you need to commence your investigation?"

A moment passed in quiet as Snape formulated his answer. "We will be in touch," he murmured, closing his notebook and stowing away his pen. "We will not trouble you further tonight."

Charlie's head turned in a slow, agonizing creak toward his wife. "Sasha. The numbers."

The butt of her palm maneuvered in front of her eyes as she let out a covert sniffle, leaning forward to search the coffee table for something to write with. There was an excruciating silence when she found none, skirting the same empty patches of glass, until Snape leaned forward to offer his. When she took it, it was with a shaky hand, as she pulled the purple pamphlet toward her and wrote a sequence of numbers across the figures at the bottom.

"Thank you," the professor said, taking both objects from the woman's hands. Then, his shrewd eye landed on Harry. "Now, come."

"But--"

"Come."

Harry's legs obeyed and he trailed after Snape, resolving to stare down at the back of the man's boots. They did not return through the fireplace, as he had supposed they would; the professor led them straight out the front door, across the short driveway, and down the lane.

The night sky was littered with stars, but they were hard to make out with all the city lights. Still, the street was quiet enough, lined with houses that were huddled together, conspiring, solemn watchmen keeping an eye on the figures as they passed. When they had walked about a block, Harry burst out, "Where are you going?!"

Snape stopped short, swinging himself around to face Harry. The sudden movement was alarming, but not as much as the man's expression. "I must now locate a proper place to Disapparate because of your indiscretion!"

"What are you talking about? We could have used the Floo again!"

"Are you simple?" Snape spat. "Your plan, in all your infinite wisdom, is to further disturb and antagonize the members of that family?"

Well, when he put it like that... "No!" Harry's brow furrowed and he rubbed his hands together. "It's just... We would be gone in two seconds. It's not a big deal--"

"For those unaccustomed to watching people disappear, it would indeed be a 'big deal'," the man sneered back at him. "It is fascinating to see that, despite your apparent unequivocal devotion to the Muggleborn cause, you seem to have very little understanding of what that means."

"I do understand!" Harry barked, raising his voice. "I grew up around Muggles my whole life!"

Snape performed a derisive snort, turning heel and walking off once more. "That so? You could have fooled me."

Catching up with the man, Harry snarled: "Don't act all high and mighty! You were the one lying right to their faces! Acting like you're so nice and considerate!"

"Yes-- that was clearly an unacceptable violation; I ought to have taken your example of insulting them, hm? Surely that would have accomplished our goal."

"Well, what kind of parent just assumes they know everything about their kid like that? Like they're the only bloody authority? He can't know for sure that she didn't run away-- He's defending his pride, not his daughter!"

Snape rounded on him once more, encroaching on Harry's space uncomfortably, his gaze sharp as he looked down his nose. "And what is it you think you are doing?"

Harry's breath fell out of him and he looked up at the other man with trepidation. Though the professor did not advance, he took a small step backward to regain a safe distance, the side of his mouth twitching downward.

The man gave a disdainful sniff, straightening his back. Harry glared at him before saying: "Don't pretend like you care about these people anyway. You're only doing this because Dumbledore told you to."

"At least I can do that much," Snape countered, tone frosty.

"At least I have morals."

"What use are morals in wartime?" was Snape's waspish reply. "Morals do not solve problems, nor do they protect you from your enemies."

"Yeah, but they make me different from my enemies," Harry argued, fists clenched at his sides. "I'd rather die a good man than live a shite one."

"Intriguing philosophy coming from someone who just told a distraught father that he did not care about his daughter."

His headache was rapidly returning. "Well, how can they? Their daughter is graduated from Hogwarts, but they're still freaked out by the Floo? It doesn't make sense!"

Snape shoved something against his chest, and he flinched back, only to find that it was the pamphlet from earlier. He hesitated, "What--?"

"Look at it, you imbecile."

He would rather have refused in his rebellious state, but found himself looking down at the paper in his hands instead. The front was a deep purple, with a glowing logo of interlocking black and white rings emblazoned upon it. Below the logo was a name: "Concordia...?"

"An organization for Muggleborns and their families, to help them connect to the magical world," Snape elucidated as he folded his arms. "That 'group' Mr. Ayers was attending? They were meetings from this organization."

Harry flipped open the brochure, eyes skimming over the contents. "The art exhibition..." he muttered with recognition.

"You grew up with Muggles, did you not? How familiar are you with their world? Do you know how to drive a car? Use a mobile? Manage money? Apply for a job?"

"Er... well..."

"Have you any credentials which allow you access to healthcare? Travel? Education? Do you understand their government, their laws, their customs?"

Harry was silent, meeting Snape's gaze.

"... No? Then it stands to reason why they would not understand our world either."

With a sigh, Harry asked, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because you are a fool," was Snape's scathing judgment. "You would rather alienate our only source of information due to some perceived barbarism than skew the truth in an effort to conduct a proper investigation."

"What do you care about a proper investigation?" he replied.

The man ignored his question, instead saying, "What do you propose we tell them? That we are members of a secret organization, and we were merely wondering if their daughter might have been murdered by dark wizards? How well do you suppose that would have gone over?"

"You don't have to take it that far..." Harry grumbled.

"The troublesome thing about morals is that people like you only seem to have them for your own benefit," the professor snarled. "I perform my job efficiently, doing whatever is necessary to succeed. What exactly did your pedantic groanings accomplish?"

Loathe as he was to admit it, the man had a point. He hated that he had a point, but the fact remained. All Harry had really done was aggravate the people they were supposed to be questioning. It was just... they had reminded him so starkly of the Dursleys... But that was foolishness too, wasn't it? The pamphlet he was holding told him so; even if they were pretty out of touch with the magical world, this at least proved they were trying, didn't it? That was more than the Dursleys had ever done.

Fingering the brochure in his hands, Harry sighed, feeling as if his frown might etch onto his face permanently at this rate. "I get it, okay?" he grumbled. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"I said okay! You're right! It was bloody stupid to pick a fight with a bloke who's worried about his daughter! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

The professor stared at him, unmoving, before his next words leisurely emerged from his mouth. "You do realize your actions have severely shortened the allotted time we have to investigate? That you've completely squandered a hard won lead?"

"Great. Rub it in."

The man's lip curled. "Any discomfort you feel is a consequence of your own failings."

Harry erupted in a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, yeah? Going to tell me again how Hermione got what was coming to her? Don't think I forgot."

Snape's expression blanked entirely and he walked off, leaving Harry in the cold once more. With an exasperated sigh, he moved forward, struggling to keep up with the man's brutal pace.

"You pushed her to take that potion! You provoked her! And what's more, she knew that if she didn't, I would fail outright!" he pelted the accusation at Snape's back.

"Granger knew your potion was abysmal and she took it anyway."

"I'm sure she thought she could grin and bear it! Then at least I'd have a fair shake at having any grade at all!"

"As I said--"

"And I'm sure that, laughable as it is, she trusted you, as our teacher, not to goad her into injuring herself!"

For a long moment, the only sounds between them were their footsteps and Harry's heavy breaths. He wasn't quite sure why he felt the need to defend Hermione in this moment, especially considering the circumstance. What did Snape care about her, or any of them? Aside from Slytherins, he'd never seen Snape offer the barest of considerations to anyone. At least not honestly.

The professor made a sharp turn into an alcove, causing Harry to rush to catch up. Rounding the corner, he found the man simply standing in partial shadow, eyes locked on his. When Snape spoke, his words were measured and stark. "Listen carefully, Boy Who Lived. While you continue to divert the matter at hand so you can bemoan the past, casting about for someone to blame, a girl could be dying as we speak. We were sent to investigate the possibility of Death Eater involvement in her disappearance, which means there is a very real chance that every second wasted adds to this girl's suffering, and increases the likelihood that she will never return to her parents."

Harry shivered, the air around him suddenly feeling several degrees colder. The sinister figure before him exhibited such expertise at terror that he could easily be mistaken for a boggart. And how could he deny this plain truth: That a girl could be dead because of him, simply because they didn't know enough to be able to find her?

He felt frozen, and Snape resumed his diatribe with heated energy while Harry's stomach twisted in knots. "You want to be respected? You want to be an Order member? Thus far, all you have managed to exhibit is an impetuous attitude and a reckless contempt for anyone but yourself. You disregard the sacrifices made, the lives put on the line to provide us this single thread of opportunity."

His heart was an unrelenting drumbeat in his ears. The lives put on the line...? Well, of course. That family didn't know about the Order-- that went without saying. They must have contacted the Ministry, except then the questioning would have been done by their personnel... Which meant that there were people who had covered this up. Order members who had risked their jobs, possibly risked imprisonment, to allow for an investigation without Ministry interference.

And he'd gone and mucked it up, hadn't he?

Snape took an encroaching step forward. The menacing drone of his voice seeped under Harry's skin, painful. "You contribute nothing to this cause but a symbol. And a child who merely plays at adulthood, failing to assume the full weight of it, will never survive this war."

Harry had no reply, no counterarguments to offer. Just oppressive static in his mind. He felt scrubbed raw as the man drew nearer, his arm raising up with such speed that Harry anticipated a blow. There wasn't one-- Snape was merely beckoning for them to Apparate away, but the dread and anguish which went along with his instinct did not dissipate.

He didn't say a single word after that. Not when they disappeared from Cardiff, nor throughout their entire report to Dumbledore.

Funny enough, the Headmaster didn't seem to care.

Charms was a strange affair without Hermione. Ron wasn't in class either, and hadn't even shown up to Transfiguration that morning; he'd developed a nasty habit of skipping lessons of late, but Harry was certain that their charged discussion the day before hadn't helped matters. Perhaps it was for the best, since Harry wasn't sure how he was going to explain to Ron that he'd been able to accomplish nothing.

Truth be told, he wasn't feeling his best either. After a sleepless night, he felt more a ghost than a person, floating from place to place with sluggish initiative. Maybe he should have gone Ron's route and not come at all, but his body seemed determined to keep his schedule, even if his brain was far removed.

In such a state, he found himself unexpectedly paired with Croft for the entirety of class time, Professor Flitwick's primary explanation being that both their regular partners were not in attendance. Harry's displeasure was dull, and he did not complain, merely transferring himself across the room to sit beside her with a detached obedience.

Following the lecture, Emergency Healing Procedures was written on the blackboard behind the professor, and Harry grimaced at the instructions listed below. Incision spell to partner's forearm, inspect with visualization charm, clean the wound, bandage it, and send up a homing flare with a message attached.

Harry cast his gaze toward his partner. Croft's profile was stoic, focused. She didn't acknowledge his attention at all. Considering their previous encounters, he supposed she couldn't be faulted for that. "Guess you get to cut me open today," he commented, breezy. "So. There's that to look forward to."

The look she shot him was scornful and familiar; he couldn't help but think of Charlie. "I'm not, actually."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "What?"

"I'm not cutting you."

His eyes darted between the board and her frigid expression. "Er... It's in the instructions, you know?"

"I can read, yeah," she returned, acerbic. "But I can't do the spell."

"How d'you mean?"

"I just can't do it?" she asked, incredulous.

Harry was just as confused as she was. "Do you not know the incantation?"

She frowned. "It has nothing to do with the incantation, no."

"Then...?"

"It doesn't work when I--" she stopped short, exhaling. "Watch."

With that, she lifted her wand and took hold of his forearm with her other hand. Without preamble, she pressed the tip against his skin.

"Abscindo," she commanded, and...

Nothing. He braced himself for the sting, but nothing came. "Uh... That's... odd. Isn't it?" The spell was about as rudimentary as one could expect. Say the words, draw with the wand, and a simple cut would form. Easy. Painless, even, provided that nothing vital was disturbed.

So why...?

"Yeah, well, I'm used to it."

Harry frowned. "This happen a lot?"

"Every time I do a spell of this nature."

His stare fell down to his arm. "Suppose it's up to me," he concluded. "Who shall I injure first?"

She proffered her forearm, fingers already balled into a fist. "Just get on with it."

"Right." Gripping his wand, he laid the tip at the center of her forearm. "Abscindo."

Dragging the wood a few inches, a cut unfurled her skin. It was honestly a bit unnerving, to purposely injure his classmate like this... especially when she didn't even flinch. There was a solemn energy between the two of them.

"Did that hurt?" he found himself asking, searching for any kind of reaction.

"I guess," she murmured, unconvincing, her eyes focused on the redness that began to swell and rise from the wound. "You better hurry. I don't want there to be a mess."

"Yeah..." He didn't think he could handle a gruesome cleanup just then. "Intus Videre."

From the surface of the girl's arm, a glowing form shimmered into view. Hovering directly above was a copy of her arm, made up of colored lines to represent different parts of her anatomy. The bones and skin were most obviously recognizable, the former a light cyan hue and the latter a thin outline of yellow. Then, the blood vessels branched across the whole of the arm, each tributary gleaming with bright silver light. At the spot where he'd cut her, he could see the incision parting the yellow line, and a pool of silver was gently welling up atop it.

She appeared transfixed by the display. "Just a few millimeters above my brachial artery," she murmured, distant. "Didn't go that deep, did you? Just barely hit the dermis."

He shot her a look. "Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

"Probably not," she mused, the fingers on her wounded arm uncurling as she relaxed. The glance she offered him was cursory before she leaned forward, pointing at the image. "See this large silver line, starts from the humerus, snakes beside the elbow, heading for the ulna here? That's the brachial artery."

If she hadn't visually pointed it out, he would still have no clue what she meant. With a quirked eyebrow, he observed, "Sounds like you're off speaking in a separate language."

"Whatever," she brushed off, leaning back in her seat. "I think it's neat."

Rather than reply, Harry continued on to the next spell, using a simple Tergeo to siphon the blood away from her arm and onto a bit of spare parchment on the table. Then, hesitating for a short moment as he tried to remember the incantation, he bandaged her arm.

After that, he glanced back at the chalkboard. "I know how to set up a flare, but when did we learn about homing flares?" he remarked with a frown.

"It was in the chapter we were assigned last weekend," she reminded him. "Did you do the reading?"

Harry grimaced. If he remembered correctly, he'd done a lot of skimming. "Sort of. It's a two-part incantation, I remember."

"Sort of," she repeated, appearing a great deal like she wanted to say something more, but refrained from doing so. While flexing the fingers on her bandaged arm, she grasped her wand and swirled it up toward the ceiling. "Remigro!"

A burst of blue light shot from her wand like a shooting star, its tail wavering as it slowed its ascent and turned toward its intended target, which was evidently Harry himself. Dropping back the way it came, it landed on the desk beside him with a sizzling thump, dissipating entirely within a second.

"And to attach the message, you've got to write it ahead of time, to send it with the flare," Harry recited, the passage coming back to him. Ripping off a section of their spare parchment, he poised his quill over it, just then remembering: "Oh, er... I'm supposed to write your full name."

She sighed, eyes closing. "C-L-Y," she recited, jaded. "T-E-M," she paused opening her eyes once more so she could watch his hand. "N-E-S-T-R-A."

What a mouthful. "Clytem...nestra Croft?" he read out as he finished writing.

"That's me," she replied, casual, as she shrugged.

He finished writing out the information that Flitwick required, namely her house and his own name, before casting the spell at the scrap of parchment in his hand. As the blue light hit it, Harry swirled the flare upward into the air, releasing control of the spell just before it hit the ceiling, and allowing it to find its own way to the target: the professor.

Holding up the parchment that Harry had sent to him, Flitwick squeaked, "Very good, Mr. Potter! Switch off now!"

Nodding, more to himself than anyone else, he pulled up the sleeve of his robe and made a cut on himself. Except-- ouch, that was a bit deeper than he'd have liked. He hissed in a breath, brows drawn low as he offered his bleeding arm to his partner.

She hesitated a lot less than he had, the glowing image of his anatomy floating up in an instant, as her fingers stabilized his arm so that the rivulets forming wouldn't begin to drip over onto the desk. "Wait-- Jesus, kid. A bandage isn't-- hold on."

He watched as she cleaned the blood away, but added in a soft Episkey, his sinew stitching itself together again and closing into an inflamed line.

"Ferula," she concluded and a bandage coiled, snake-like, around his forearm.

"That was... efficient," Harry commented.

"Happy to impress," she responded, bored.

Was this awkward? This was pretty awkward. Harry cleared his throat, scratching the side of his head and looking out across the classroom as Croft wrote out her own note for the flare. The last time they had spoken, he'd said some... reckless things, to borrow a phrase from Snape. So, of course this encounter was never going to be pleasant.

It was strange, even. Because she was a Slytherin, everything she did was normally colored differently in his mind, but-- after last night, and after sitting beside her for the whole of class time, she just seemed... normal. A touch short with him, maybe, but he'd been pretty short with her before, too. She had yet to make any snide remarks or sabotage him in classes, though they shared four of them. Not to mention, having watched her bandage his arm in under a minute, yet also witnessing her complete inability to cast the first spell, his assumption that she'd been lying about needing tutoring seemed unfounded.

"That's that, then."

At the center of the classroom, Flitwick waved in their direction to signal that he'd received the message. Harry hadn't even noticed her send the flare.

"Must be more tired than I thought," he mumbled with a sigh.

Her response was a noncommittal hum as she leaned over to gather her things into her bag, idly scratching the bandage on her arm. Supposing he should do the same, Harry haphazardly stuffed his quill and Charms text into his own bag, fighting with the strap as it became entangled underneath the large book.

The class was coming to a close, and there was a sort of nagging feeling itching inside his brain, the feeling that he ought to say something important. Trouble was, it was hard to parse what it was that he needed to say, or how to say it properly.

The girl sitting beside him was out of her seat the exact moment Flitwick dismissed them. Harry experienced a moment's startled hesitation before he too made his hasty way out the door. Spotting her blonde head traveling down the hall, he caught up with her in moments.

Of course, now that words had to actually come, he felt quite at a loss. "Er... Hey."

She seemed thrown off kilter, her stride slowing as she addressed him, off handed: "Hello."

He clutched the strap of his school bag like a life preserver. "Mind if I walk with you?"

She looked at him, bewildered. "You seem to already be doing so."

Harry's shrug was diffident and he let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Right, uh... Guilty."

"Yep," the word left her in a stiff exhale.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you, actually," he stated, looking at the floor.

"Would it even matter to you if I said no?"

"Yes."

Harry was himself surprised at the quickness of his answer, but it held true. He glanced at the side of her face, but she didn't outwardly react.

"I was going to head out to the greenhouses," she said abruptly, staring straight ahead.

Harry did not reply, but continued to keep pace with her she traversed the snow-covered grounds. It was in taxed silence that he contemplated what it was he might say, what he was looking for from this conversation. Was it only to apologize? Such a thing might seem disingenuous if he did nothing to reinforce it. Not to mention, he still disliked her attitude toward Professor Tenenbaum, though she had refrained from further open hostility since that first outburst.

In the erratic drift of his thoughts, where he seemed to get no closer to reaching a conclusion the longer he sorted through them, they arrived in one of the greenhouses, his only signal to this being the hard thud of Croft's bag landing against the side of one of the tables, rousing him to the present.

By the time he looked up at her, she was halfway across the space, her words sneaking in his direction before her body had the chance to face him.

"So, why the sudden urgency to talk?" she asked with a wry twist of the lips. "Not thorough enough of an interrogation last time?"

Harry dropped his bag on the dirt floor, allowing a gust of air to whoosh out of his lungs. "Yeah... about that," he broached. "You were serious, yeah? About needing tutoring?"

Her head canted and she observed him, eyes keen on him as if trying to pick him apart. "I wasn't the one who asked for it."

Not really the answer he was looking for, but the question did sort of answer itself, didn't it? "Right, but-- you could use it."

"You're probably right about that," was her bland, almost surly response.

"Well, then," he said, his roving gaze focusing back on her, "I shouldn't have acted like I did. Y'know. Before."

She leaned back against the glass pane. "Like all but accusing me of selling out Muggleborns to Malfoy?" she saw fit to shove in his face.

"I mean, the point is I don't really know you," Harry remarked with a grimace. "And coming out of the gate with all that stuff with Malfoy... I was kind of a prat."

For the first time, her stare left him, plummeting to the floor as she scraped her foot against the ground, deep in thought. It wasn't long before she admitted, "I'm not really understanding where this is coming from."

He shrugged. Obviously, the events of yesterday were off-limits. "I did agree to tutor you, didn't I?"

"Not for real," she countered. "And forgive me if I'm wary to accept that over the course of a couple weeks, you had a rapid enough shift in paradigm to explain... this." She gesticulated vaguely.

"I don't know." Harry shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. "Things happened; I don't want to talk about it."

She appeared to consider him for a few moments longer before she tossed her head skyward, sighing. "While I appreciate the gesture," she began, "this... isn't going to be necessary."

Harry lifted his eyebrows, mouth twitching into a frown. "Not necessary? Er-- it was made pretty clear that you are failing Defense."

"I'm not exactly certain I'm finishing out the term, so..."

"Wait-- really?" he blurted on impulse. That wasn't at all what he'd been expecting to hear.

"What?" she volleyed back, somehow appearing just as bewildered as he was.

"I mean..." Harry backtracked, his arms falling to his sides. "Why wouldn't you? Don't you need N.E.W.T.s or something? For... whatever it is you're doing?"

"I'm honestly not all that worried about my N.E.W.T.s at the current moment."

He wasn't certain why he felt like arguing the point, but the prospect of leaving the school for no discernable reason was... "It's only a few months into term, and you already want to leave?"

Her expression soured. "And if I do?"

He bristled, sensitive to every slight change in her tone. "Well--" Harry grimaced at the flurry of memories which assaulted him, most containing Hermione and McGonagall, regarding the importance of magical education. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to grasp onto any of them, fleeting and frantic as they were. And that was without making mention of how much he generally hated those lectures when they were directed at him.

"Is this why you left the first time?" Harry questioned, unable to stop himself from voicing the thought. "Because you just... gave up?"

The laugh that spilled from her was virulent. "You sure do love assuming things, don't you?"

Her words stilled him. "It's just a question," he pointed out.

For a moment, the two of them stood like statues in a garden. Harry felt creaky, like his joints weren't seated properly in his limbs, and he fidgeted, glancing about as if he were searching for an escape route hidden amongst the plants.

Then, the girl crossed the distance between them and Harry felt himself tense, only to let out a breath when he noticed her bend down and pick up the bag she'd left beside the table. He watched as she dug through it, pulling an unfamiliar, well-worn text book from within. In seconds, she flipped the front cover open, pulling out a folded square of paper.

Observing her closely, he could see her face was scrunched in concentration, holding the textbook under her armpit as she used her fingers to unfold the paper. He noticed writing -- a letter maybe? -- but she set it aside. The object of import was evidently what had been hidden inside; she shoved it his way.

"This is why I left."

It was a photograph. An old polaroid. He'd seen Aunt Petunia fooling around with disposable cameras before on the few vacations he'd been allowed to attend. There were albums filled with hundreds of pictures of Dudley that had a similar look to the photo in his hand.

However, the nature of this picture was quite different. It was an image characterized by imperfection: there she was, all smiles, hair in disarray across her shoulders as she sat in the back of a vehicle. The lighting was a touch dim, the colors tinged with an early morning hue, and the seat was strewn with miscellaneous clutter, including a crumpled bag of takeaway, a pale green blanket, and a stack of papers. Croft's arms were bundled at her chest, where there lay... a newborn, with sleepy eyes and puffy cheeks.

Harry blinked. His eyes darted between the two faces in the photo, unable to process. Then, he glanced up at the girl next to him, surveying her determined expression. It was odd, he thought, that in all the months he'd shared classes with her, this photo was the first he'd seen her smile.

Harry looked back at the image in his hand. "Who...?"

With her arms crossed, she glanced down to the floor. Something in her tone shifted, almost imperceptible. Hard to pin down, but undeniably there.

"That," she uttered, a few strands of hair falling over her eyes, "is my son."