A Lamb Before the Slaughter by MerryMandolin, Cricket

Harry shook his arm out of Ron's grip. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"You'll see."

They circled around the fireplace, abuzz with Gryffindors meeting up to head to breakfast and late-night studiers who had the haggard look of having slept on the rug. Harry felt rather conspicuous, walking out through the common room during the morning rush; there were loads of people he'd rather not run into. Like…

"Hermione! " he hissed at Ron, pointing her out with a jerk of his head. She was speaking intently with Ginny, but any moment she could--

"Don't worry about it," his friend returned, casual, as he slid out the portrait hole.

Harry didn’t share Ron’s attitude. Things were awkward between them, sure, but neither did it sit right with him, leaving her behind.

They were in the Entrance Hall, veering toward the greenhouses, when Ron spoke next. "The perfect time to slip away is when everyone can see you, but they're too busy to take real notice," he commented, pausing as a group of Hufflepuffs passed. "Makes it seem like you're following the crowd, when you aren't."

Harry snorted as they emerged onto the grounds. "Let me guess, the twins taught you that?"

"Bill, actually," Ron said. "Fred and George aren't that subtle."

After the spectacle they'd put on last year? Harry couldn't disagree with that. "Isn't Bill a lot older than you, though?"

"Yeah. He was starting Hogwarts while I was in my nappies," he mentioned. "But he's still my brother. You learn all sorts of things in a family big as ours."

"I wouldn't know."

His friend’s glance was conspicuous. "You're in our family too, you know. Mum fretted for a solid month about adding you to our house clock, but Dad told her it wouldn't be appropriate."

"What?" Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Well I mean--" Ron grimaced. "Be a bit weird for her to spy on you like that."

"Isn't that what she does with you?"

"Yeah, but it's bloody inconvenient, her knowing exactly what you're up to. I've gotten loads of 'concerned letters' straight out of the blue because of it!"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I take it you've got a few of those since you started skipping class?"

"No, thank Merlin," Ron groaned. "If we stay on school grounds, it'll just point to 'school'."

"Well, that's something."

The redhead grunted, strolling further down the hillside steps. Their destination was plain once they'd passed by the greenhouses and the Whomping Willow. Harry turned a confused look toward his friend.

"Doesn't Hagrid have a class?"

Ron smiled. "Yep. But that's the beauty of it, see? Told him I've got a free period, so he says he doesn't mind me coming 'round to study. Says Fang likes the company."

Harry's lips twisted. "What, so you lied?"

"I mean, on Monday and Wednesday mornings, it's not a lie," the boy breezily replied.

"Yeah, since you dropped Herbology," Harry pointed out, dry.

"So?" Ron groused. "You're the one who wanted to come here."

Couldn't argue with that. "Is this where you go off to every time you disappear?"

"Not every time," Ron clarified. "But it's a good spot. Nobody comes looking for you out here."

Harry wasn't sure if that was anything to celebrate, but said nothing as the redhead produced a large brass key and turned it in the lock of Hagrid's door.

The inside of the little hut was hot and humid, a direct contrast to the onset of winter outside. And too, it was filled to the brim with tropical plants of all shapes and sizes, including a palm tree that was alarmingly curved into an L-shape; Harry assumed it was to prevent the thing from poking a hole in the roof, but it looked strained enough to snap at any moment.

"What's all this?" he questioned as Ron dumped the contents of his bag on the table.

He gestured vaguely toward Hagrid's bedside; Harry immediately regretted looking. Inside a cage that looked barely able to hold itself up was an enormous beetle, it's height reaching up to roughly hip-level. Its pincered mouth clicked, menacing.

"Bloody hell."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, that's what I said when I first saw it."

"What is it with magic that it likes to make things gigantic? "

"Who knows," was his friend's deadpan reply. "But apparently the thing doesn't eat, so somehow that makes it alright to keep that abomination about."

Harry sank gingerly into a seat beside Ron, as if the slightest disturbance might enrage the creature. He wasn't terribly afraid of insects -- even enormous ones -- but neither was he keen on sharing living space with one.

He glanced at Ron, surprised to see him with an open-faced textbook. Eyebrows raised, he blurted, "What? Are you actually studying?"

"No," his friend denied, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "Well-- sort of. But not exactly for… class."

Harry couldn't fathom what other occasion could provoke Ron to study. He glanced at the page, trying to read it upside down; it didn’t seem to be in a language he could decipher, though. "What’s it for, then?"

Ron's lips twisted. "Nevermind what it's for. Aren't you here to do something? Or did you just want to cut class for kicks?"

"I wanted to talk to you," said Harry, voice a touch sour.

His friend made a show of shutting the book, clasping his hands on top. "Alright. Talk."

Ron's sudden attention caused Harry to scramble to collect his thoughts. "Well…"

"If you came here to lecture me, you might as well save your breath."

"What?" Harry squinted at the boy. "Er-- What are you even talking about?"

Ron frowned. "School, Hermione, the future. Take your pick. But, mind, I've not said a word about your new Slytherin mates, so unless you'd like to chat about that--"

"I don't have any Slytherin mates!" Harry protested, though Cleo came to his mind almost immediately after he said it. "And I wasn't going to mention any of that. But if you're going to bring it up--"

"Fine, fine," Ron sighed, dismissing that line of thought with a wave of his hand. "What is it, then?"

"I just… I don't know." Harry slouched in his chair. "Just wanted to ask how you were. I feel like I barely see you anymore."

His friend's gaze dropped to the table before returning to Harry's face. "Yeah. Me too."

"I didn't think sixth year would be this busy," he admitted.

Ron smirked. "Says the bloke who asked Dumbledore to give him more to do."

"Well, that's over with now anyway," Harry murmured, staring at the healed-over scabs on his knuckles. "So that, ah… frees up my schedule for endless detentions."

"Yeah, I heard about Quidditch, too. Sorry, mate."

Harry glanced up through his fringe at Ron. "You're not angry?"

"That you gave Malfoy a good wallop? No."

"I meant the points… And, y'know, basically sabotaging the Quidditch team since they don't have time to train up another Seeker--" He frowned.

Ron waved a hand. "They'll manage."

"How's that?" Harry inquired, a little gloomy. "You going back on the team?"

His friend made a face. "No."

Harry cast him a worried look. "It’s just a question. I thought you liked Quidditch."

"Sorry." Ron stretched his arms, grimacing. "Mum's been harping on it. I think it's her way of 'compromising' since her real disappointment is that I quit being a Prefect."

Harry folded his arms on the tabletop. "Why did you, then?"

His friend threw his head back. "It was bloody miserable, Harry. Helping out the younger years was great, but after that it was notices and rules and budgets and reports and the disciplinary calendar-- ugh."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Disciplinary calendar?"

"Yeah! Get this-- Prefects have to schedule detentions! And we've got to hold meetings with McGonagall about misconduct, dispute punishments when students place a formal objection, 'distribute enforcement responsibilities’ during staff meetings--"

"You can object to detentions?" Harry questioned, aghast. "Wish I'd known that sooner--!"

Ron's smile was thin. "Not really. It's just a clause in the charter that prevents students from being strung up by allowing them to appeal to higher authorities. It's all ridiculous, honestly-- instead of making a rule that you can’t torture children, they made a rule that lets the Head of House overrule the punishment."

Harry couldn't help but remember his awful experience with Umbridge, but he swallowed the memory, quipping instead, "Aren't all detentions torture?"

His friend flashed a proper grin. "No argument here, mate."

"One thing I'm wondering though-- I thought teachers scheduled their own detentions?"

"I mean, micromanaging gits like Snape do," Ron mentioned with a disdainful huff. "But if they don't have time, it's our job. Well-- was. Not anymore for me, thank Merlin."

Harry frowned. "It can't have been all bad."

The redhead shrugged. "Maybe. But-- seemed like a waste of time all the same."

His eyes drifted to the book beneath Ron's arms. "What isn't a waste of time for you, these days?"

"Survival," his friend promptly replied, expression bland. "Trouncing little vermin like Malfoy. So, you know-- you seem well on your way."

Harry let out an uncomfortable chuckle. "Right, but-- You know, it wasn't just a fight," he clarified. "Everything went a bit mental, and I could have killed him--"

"Serve him right if you did," Ron spat, unflinching.

"Ron, that's not really--"

"I'm not saying you should have," he stressed, leaning back in his seat. "But it's not like anyone would miss him. Nobody that matters, anyway. Just another Death Eater gone; who cares?"

"I care!" Harry insisted. "I'm not going to murder someone just because they're an arsehole, Ron. And besides, we don't even know that Malfoy really is--"

"Merlin, you sound like Hermione," Ron grumbled. "His father nearly killed us all not half a year ago! And you're really going to say he's not cut from the same cloth as dear old Daddy?"

He couldn't help but think of what Cleo had said about Malfoy. "I don't know. Probably he is. But even so, I can't kill someone who hasn't done anything."

"What, so you'll just wait around until he does? What if he ends up really hurting someone? He's done plenty of harm already, so where's the bloody line?" His friend looked well and truly angry. "If he's got the Mark on his arm, I wouldn't bother waiting."

“He doesn’t,” Harry said hastily. It wasn’t quite true -- Malfoy didn’t need a Mark to be a Death Eater -- but Ron didn’t need to know that. “Cleo said all the Slytherins were checked at the beginning of the year.”

Ron blew a heated breath out his nose. "Point is, there's no use hesitating with people who support Death Eaters, Harry. So I'm sure whatever you gave Malfoy, he deserved it."

Harry was surprised to realize that he couldn't share Ron's sentiment; hadn't he just told Cleo he suspected dark magic was involved in the fight? But… Even if that was true, if Malfoy really had "taken the next step", as she’d put it, the prospect of killing his own classmate made him feel physically ill.

"You know," Ron addressed him after a time. "I won't pry, but I will ask-- You've not been yourself, even before this business with Malfoy. Did something happen? Y'know-- while you were gone? You never did tell us how it went."

Harry frowned, casting his gaze toward the caged beetle. "How can I, when you and Hermione are still at each other's throats?" he deflected.

It worked; Ron's face turned very red. "I thought you weren't going to talk about that."

"I just want you both to make up," Harry sighed, already regretting bringing it up. "That's all."

"That's all, is it?" The redhead folded his arms. "She's the one who called me a useless lout who doesn't care about anything!"

"And you've been mocking her club."

"I'm only stating facts," Ron insisted. "She shouldn't be wasting time on a stupid club when there's a war going on."

"It's a club for Muggleborns!" Harry pointed out, heated. "So it's a bit daft that you're being so-- so mocking about it, Ron."

His friend frowned, eyes fixed to the tabletop. "Yeah-- I know," he conceded, though his tone was uncertain. "But, Parvati said…"

"What does Parvati know?" Harry said, nose wrinkling. "You're her best friend! You ought to be helping her instead of sneering at her."

"I am helping," Ron dug his feet in, his jaw taut. "The sooner she gives up this childish--"

"What's childish about fighting back against bullies?" Harry interrupted. "You just finished telling me how shite Malfoy is, and here you are acting like him!"

"Don't compare me to that weasel-- !"

"Then don't encourage the resemblance!"

"I'm tired of you acting like you're so bloody pure! " Ron spat, incensed.

Harry sighed, unclenching his fingers in an effort to calm himself. "I didn't come here to fight with you."

"Yeah? Well good show, Harry. I'm feeling really at peace," was his friend's bitter retort. "Way to start a row and then pretend it's not what you wanted, like the little angel you are!"

"That's not what I--!"

"Oh, shut it," Ron ordered him. "I've reached my limit. Talk about something else or find another place to skive off."

A tense silence followed after that, and Harry sighed, staring at Fang, who was half asleep atop Hagrid's bed. One of the dog’s eyes was open just a crack, watching them both.

Harry sighed a second time, that one much more wistful, and turned back toward his friend. "I don't think I'm better than you, you know."

The redhead scowled. "Could have fooled me."

"Hermione is angry with me too," he countered. "Won't even talk to me after… what happened."

"What did you expect?" Ron replied, caustic. "She's always had a stick up her arse."

"Ron, seriously! Insulting her isn't going to help!"

In a second, his entire demeanor changed. Rather than angry, he just looked exhausted. "I know," the boy groused, brows drawn low over his eyes as he propped his head up with a tired hand. "I only-- I thought, of all people, she would understand…"

Harry blinked. "Understand what?"

Ron's mouth compressed into a thin line. "Nothing."

A disbelieving chuckle forced its way out of him. "What? You can't just get away with not telling me--"

"Don't ask." Harry let the fledgling humor fall from his face when he heard how deadly serious Ron was.

"What's wrong?" he ventured, frowning.

"Nothing's wrong, Harry," his friend sighed. "Well. There is, but there's nothing you can do about it."

"I can judge that for myself," he argued, cautious. "Come on, we're best friends, Ron-- won't you at least let me try?"

He could tell the other boy had already made up his mind long before Harry had finished his sentence. "You can't fix this, mate. And knowing you? You'd really, really want to," he mentioned, looking apologetic. "So best friend or no, I think I'll keep it to myself."

Harry deflated in his chair, upset but trying not to let it show on his face. Ron may have said that he wasn't angry -- and maybe he wasn't -- but this just went to show that he didn't really trust Harry, either. The thought curdled in his mind, his mood plummeting by the second. He'd thought getting away from classes would be a respite, but now? He just felt worse.

He let loose an explosive sigh at the exact moment that Fang lifted his massive head to bark at the entrance to the hut. A second later, the door creaked open to reveal Hagrid, a burlap sack tucked under one arm and an array of saddles and harnesses weighing down the other.

"Alrigh' Ron?" the man called out as he marched through the door, depositing his haul atop his kitchen counter. Several of the harnesses slid off and onto the floor, but Hagrid did not pay them any mind.

The next moment, his eyes settled more fully onto the scene and his eyebrows raised. "Oh! Harry! Good ter see yeh!"

"Good to see you too, Hagrid," he said as the man gave him a hearty pat on the back. "How are your classes going?"

"Well enough, well enough," was his answer, "Say, haven’ yeh got a class now, Harry?"

He had a ready excuse that he'd prepared with Ron a day ago, but now that he was in the moment, it felt wrong to use it on someone like Hagrid. After a second's hesitation, Harry admitted, "I, um… yes."

The man's bushy brows drew low over his eyes. "You alrigh’, Harry?" he asked. "No’ like yeh to sit out yer lessons."

The quiet observation cut him to the quick-- Hagrid, whom he'd barely seen since school had begun, had pierced through to the heart of the matter in seconds. It really wasn't like him at all, was it? For years, he'd even attended classes he despised simply because… He loved magic. Always had. And now…

He probably shouldn't have skipped Herbology again, even if it made it easier to evade Hermione's Potions-related demands.

Still, he wasn't sure what to say. "I'm, er…"

"He's helping me, actually," Ron inserted himself, alarmingly practiced. "With a project."

"Oh, yeah? The one yeh've been workin’ on?"

"... Yes." The word left Harry slowly, curtailed by a frown.

"Really?" Hagrid turned a surprised smile at Harry. "I didn’ know yeh were interested in wardin’ too."

Harry's gaze flicked to Ron, who looked very uncomfortable as he commented, "Well, you know. We're full of surprises, aren't we?"

“Yes,” Harry corroborated, casting a significant glance at his friend. “In fact, Ron was preparing to tell me all about this project of his.”

The redhead grimaced, turning away from their expectant gazes.

Harry's tone shifted away from amusement and more towards confusion. "What? Are you seriously that shy about it?"

"No," was his hurried reply, so sullen that it instantly rang false.

Harry sat up in his chair. "I'm not going to tease you," he vowed.

Hagrid clapped Ron on the shoulder, nearly toppling him over. "Aye, yeh've got nothing ter be ashamed of."

Ron didn't seem to agree, if his expression was anything to go by, but he spoke anyway. "It's still in the planning stage, but I'm-- alright, just don't laugh--"

He bent down to pull something from his bag, placing the object carefully on Hagrid's dining table. It was… a flower. Clipped at one end and a shade of brilliant blue, it seemed both entirely ordinary and entirely unexpected. Harry, more perplexed than ever, stared at his friend.

"Did you start… gardening?"

"No," Ron snapped, though it lacked much bite. "It's… a ward."

He raised both eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah." The redhead fidgeted, scratching behind his ear.

"Since when are you interested in wards?"

"We've been learning about them in class," Ron pointed out, frowning.

"Yeah, but-- You never said anything!"

The other boy shrugged. "Was I supposed to?"

Harry wasn't sure why he was so ruffled by that answer, but he was. "Why are you being so secretive?"

"It's not a secret; I just wanted to work on it myself, that's all," Ron countered.

"That's rubbish when you obviously didn't want to talk about--!"

"Boys, boys!" Hagrid interjected, light. "Harry, Ron's asked for yer help, hasn' he? Let's keep a mite more civil-- seein' as we're all friends."

The large man's kindly gaze took all the wind from Harry's sails. "Okay, okay…"

"Right," Ron concurred.

"Now, who's fer tea?" Hagrid prompted, rubbing his hands together as he moved to his small kitchen.

"Hagrid?" Harry inquired. "Haven't you got a class?"

"’Fraid it's been cancelled," the man lamented, rummaging through a cupboard. "On accoun’ of the weather."

Ron snorted. "The weather? It's not even that cold!"

"Be needing more cold, not less," Hagrid told them, returning to their table with two mismatched mugs filled with steaming tea. "Otherwise, the Barbegazi won' come outta their pens."

Harry watched his friend's jaw drop. "You've got snow gnomes?! "

"Aye. Thought the third years might like 'em," Hagrid mentioned. "But-- after tha’ bit o' snowfall there's not been a drop since."

"Sorry to hear that, Hagrid," Harry said.

"Tha's just how life goes," the man remarked, "Can't predict it, eh?"

He lowered himself into his armchair with a satisfied sigh, his own mug cradled beneath his chin. Fang leapt from the bed to curl up at Hagrid’s feet with a baritone huff, and Harry anchored his stare to the hound’s steady breaths. The both of them were the picture of relaxation, but, inexplicably, Harry felt quite anxious watching them.

Looking away, his gaze meandered to the giant beetle, the tidy kitchen, the overhanging palm fronds, the gnarled throw rug covered in dog fur, and finally back to Ron, who was picking at his nails. The other boy looked up instantly. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What? "

Harry's brows twitched in confusion and annoyance. "I'm just looking at you. Am I not allowed now?"

Ron snorted. "Out with it. I know you want to say something; so come on, then."

He was about to argue on principle, but… Harry scowled. He did actually have something to say.

His gaze dropped to the flower. "I don't understand what this 'project' of yours is."

Ron looked suspicious of that answer, so his own reply was cautious. "This here is an experiment… not the full project."

"Okay, then what's this 'experiment'?"

The redhead frowned. "It's a secret."

Was he really going to revive their argument like this? Harry clenched his jaw. "Right, then I guess I can't ask, even though you said-- "

"Not for you, for everyone else," Ron clarified with a glare. "The more people know about it, the less it will work."

That stopped him in his tracks. He was more curious than ever. "Okay…?"

"Tenenbaum put me up to it," his friend mentioned, turning the stem of the flower in his hands. Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Ron picked up on it. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry dismissed, frowning. “She’s been giving me hell, is all.”

The redhead snorted. “Who, Tenenbaum? Isn’t she like that with everyone?”

“Ever since I said I wouldn’t start up the DA again, she’s become an absolute monster to me,” Harry complained.

Ron barked a laugh. "Serves you right."

"Oh, shut it."

"Well, you should do it again."

"And you should bugger off."

Ron clutched his heart, feigning a wound.

Harry grimaced. "You were saying? About the ward?"

The other boy raised his eyebrows, dropping the charade. "Yeah. It's, uh… Just don't let the professor know I told you, okay?"

There was a pause where they just stared at each other, Ron's gaze as searching as Harry's was bland.

At length, Ron sighed. "Right. 'Course you won't."

"So…?"

"Well," his friend began, "it's like this: I'm actually kind of good at warding? That one day when Tenenbaum asked me to stay after class, she gave me this special assignment. Said I've an 'eye for strategy', and she'll count it as part of my half-term grade."

"She asked you to do extra work, and you agreed? " Harry questioned, sardonic.

"It sounded interesting!" Ron defended himself, throwing up his hands in a dramatic shrug. "She asked me to work on a portable ward, since wearable magic has different complications than a standard, sitting-in-one-place-for-centuries ward."

"And that's it?" He gestured to the flower.

"That's it," the redhead confirmed. "Weeks of effort, and I've only just started to 'engage spellwork', as the book says."

"Book?"

He uncovered the text he'd been leaning on top of, turning it so Harry could see. “This here,” Ron said. “Tenenbaum said this thing’s ‘saved her arse in the field many times over’ -- her words -- but still. Inconvenient, is what I’d call it.”

Harry contemplated the cover. “Are those… ancient runes?”

“Yeah, the whole thing’s written in ‘Elder Futhark’, whatever that is,” his friend complained with a sigh. "Dry as Merlin's bloody bones, but it's got a useful list of proper foundation objects and warding trees."

Harry lifted his eyes to peer at his friend. "I've no idea what you're talking about; you know that, right?"

Ron's smile was sheepish. "Warding trees are like… plans on how to make certain wards. What rune phrasing to use, which conditions to connect-- that sort of thing."

"What, like a recipe?" he asked, scratching behind his ear.

"Yeah, just usually less edible at the end."

Harry smiled. "Right."

"Spent most of these few weeks just figuring out how to read the trees and expand the limnal boundary to whoever touches the foundation."

"Can I see it?"

Ron looked uncertain, but, after a pause, he handed Harry the flower. When he took hold of it, nothing in particular seemed to change; it looked and felt like a normal plant. Holding it gingerly in both hands, he tried to survey any possible effects, but couldn't find any. "What is it supposed to do?"

"Nothing, right now. But--" He gestured for the flower and Harry passed it over. Taking out his wand, he cast a murmured spell, "Ostendo Weasley," which caused a glowing thread to attach to Ron's chest only. Unrolling it like a scroll, he peered at it, the glow lighting up his face, before he raised his wand to do something Harry couldn't see.

In a moment, a Ligo concluded the spell, and he placed the flower on the table by Harry. "There. Now it should work."

Careful, Harry picked it up once more. "What is it going to--?"

He stopped talking immediately; his voice sounded loud, but also very strange, as if a chunk of it was missing somehow. Alarmed, he frowned at Ron. "What's happening?"

His friend didn't respond right away, instead leaning an elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. "Well, seems to be working," he remarked in Hagrid’s direction. Despite his casual posture, there was a hint of pride in his voice.

"What is? I feel like my ears have cotton in them but--"

"Whatever it is you're saying," Ron cut through the middle of Harry's sentence. "I can't hear it, mate. You're in the boundary of the silencing ward."

"I can hear myself though…?"

When Ron didn't answer for an awkward length of time, offering only an amused stare, Harry quickly dropped the flower back on the table. "I could hear myself, I said."

"Yeah, you're mainly just in a giant bubble that keeps the sound in," was Ron’s prompt response. He shrugged. "It's a work in progress, anyway."

Harry shook his head. "No, I-- I think it's brilliant."

"Really?"

There was a hopeful glint to his friend's eye, and Harry’s timid smile murmured, "Well-- yeah."

This seemed to please Ron a great deal; he actually preened. "Still a ways before it's ready, though," he commented.

"Ready for what?"

At that, his friend's countenance became conspiratorial. "The professor said the project would only be complete when I used it to shut Ren up for one full day."

Despite himself, Harry laughed, utterly bemused. "Why? "

Ron shrugged, smiling himself. "Knowing them? Probably no reason at all."

"How do you know Ren will just… hold the flower the entire time…?"

"Well, nobody would, obviously," the redhead pointed out. "That's why I've got to get in Ren's mind-- suss out any weaknesses. Anticipate the next move. Keep a step ahead."

Harry sighed, amused. "Well, at least you're having fun."

"You know what? I am," Ron declared, leaning back in his seat with folded arms.

"On second thought,” Harry observed, “I don't think I'll be much help with your project.”

"You can be my test rat, if you want."

He wrinkled his nose. “Only if you don’t call me Scabbers.”

Ron laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.”

A noise like a foghorn startled them both, heads whipping around to find the source. Hagrid, armchair kicked back and mug of tea still resting on his abdomen, was snoring. Fang, too, emitted a wheezy sort of sound in tandem, both of them fast asleep.

Harry turned back to Ron, lowering his voice. “I think we ought to go.”

“It’s not like anything we do is going to wake them,” his friend pointed out.

“Yeah, but… still.” Harry stood, grabbing his bag. Surveying their surroundings, he approached Hagrid with caution, pulling the half-full mug from his unclenched hand and placing it on the table beside him.

Ron appeared at his side, the flower and book tucked away. “Quidditch pitch, then? Hooch hasn’t got first year lessons until noon.”

He pushed open the door of the hut, the cold air refreshing after the unnatural heat of Hagrid’s abode. Taking a contemplative breath as he looked out toward the greenhouses, he remarked, “No… I um. Think I ought to go to class, after all.”

The redhead made a face. “Suit yourself. See you at lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Right-- I’m off then,” Ron said his goodbye, trudging in the direction of the Pitch. “Give Sprout my regards.”

Harry snorted. “What is she going to do with your ‘regards’?”

His friend paused only to shrug. “I dunno. Plant them?”

He rolled his eyes. “Sure. Then… See you at lunch.”

And, with a small, acknowledging salute from Ron, they parted ways.

That night, it was with a heavy gait that Harry ascended the steps to the Headmaster's office; detentions were hard enough without having to stomach Dumbledore's presence. Harry wasn't sure he had the capacity to endure any more pointed lectures or disappointed stares, but neither could he ignore the summons. It was his penance, after all.

When he turned the doorknob to enter the room, Harry braced himself, anticipating some dire scene or other, but, instead, he caught a conversation.

"... exceptionally glad of it," Dumbledore was saying from where he stood beside the desk.

The answering voice was deeply familiar. "Of course -- I am grateful for your patience with me, Albus--"

The second Harry caught sight of the back of the man's head, a swooping sort of feeling encompassed him, all thought of apprehension fled from his mind, and the tentative sound of his voice filled the space: "... Remus?"

The man had only half-turned when he found himself with an armful of Harry, who had crossed the room so suddenly that Remus grunted with the sudden impact. "Harry? What are you…?"

His heart was pounding in his ears. The embrace wasn't particularly comfortable; he'd caught Remus's arm at an odd angle, and he smelled strongly of smoke and chocolate. But he was here, and alive, and… and not dead!

Remus's free hand patted him on the back, but in a way that was more urgent than comforting. Harry's arms slackened a little as he looked up, and Remus let out a nervous laugh. "It's good to see you too, but ah… I'm not quite fully recovered from…"

Oh. Harry instantly released the man, taking a sheepish step back. He'd done it without thinking, but, now that he fully comprehended what he'd done -- in front of the Headmaster, at that -- he felt horribly embarrassed.

Face red, he mumbled, "Sorry…"

"There's no need for you to be," Remus responded immediately. "Normally I wouldn't be so bad mid-month, but-- extenuating circumstances and all that."

Harry wasn't sure what he meant by that, and it must have shown on his face, since the man offered him a sad smile before addressing the Headmaster. "Albus? Might I have a moment with Harry?"

"Of course!" Dumbledore said at once. "I had planned to step out with Minerva in any case. Take as long as you like."

The Headmaster, along with his flashy orange-yellow sunburst robes, left the room to the two of them. Harry marveled at the sharp turn his day had taken; unable to hold it, he laughed, "To think you'd be hosting my detentions again."

A smile crept onto Remus's face -- a proper one, that time -- and he raised both eyebrows. "Been causing trouble in my absence, then?"

He'd made the joke thoughtlessly, but now that Harry considered it... It wasn't funny at all. "I guess you could say that," he replied, evasive, before he smiled back. "You… you look well."

The man responded with a bark of disbelief. "You're too kind, but the last thing I've ever looked like in my life is 'well'," he countered, shrugging off his ever-shabby outer-robes. With a self-deprecating remark like that, Harry made a point to observe: Patchwork, faded and frayed clothing; bloodshot, sunken eyes; and a sickly pallor. All less than stellar, but not out of the ordinary. He was thinner, his hair a lot longer and accompanied by a short, messy beard, but otherwise? Harry couldn't say exactly why, but he felt as if Remus really was well, despite appearances. Or-- at least more well than he'd been before.

He didn't know how he knew, but he just… did.

Remus grunted as he sank into one of the armchairs, huffing out a relieved breath. "Ah, that's better. A touch less painful, anyway."

Harry pulled over one of the wooden chairs, setting it directly by the man's side. "Are you hurt?"

"Yes, but it's nothing to speculate about," the man remarked, anticipating Harry's next question before he could ask it. "All ah… self-inflicted, you might say."

He frowned. "I thought you didn't have to worry so much about that, with Wolfsbane?"

Remus's smile was slight. Nervous. "Yes, well, that's… That's part of… everything… "

Harry bristled. "Don't tell me Snape stopped making it for you--!"

"We will talk about it, I promise," Remus soothed him, patient. "But first, I wanted to hear how you've been doing."

A question he'd been dreading. What should he say? The truth? Not that he'd really know where to begin, but he also didn't want to dwell on everything that had been rattling in his head for weeks. This was one of the rare times he could escape it, and besides, he didn't want to burden Remus with his problems.

Nevertheless, it wasn't like he had much other news to tell. "I'm, uh, you know. Doing well in classes. We have a new Defense teacher again-- but I suppose you probably knew that."

"I did," he affirmed. "I've not met her myself, but I've heard about her from her grandmother, Wil."

So that was the medic's first name. Wil Tenenbaum.

"She's an Order member as well," Remus supplied in the pause.

"Oh. Yeah, I know. We met."

One of the man's brow's arched. "Did you?"

Right… Did he even know that Harry had been leaving the school? "Yeah she uh-- I saw her at Grimmauld Place."

"Over the summer?"

Harry cleared his throat. "No. Couple of weeks ago. I…" He looked the other man in the eye. "I went for Sirius's birthday."

Remus's gaze dropped down to his own hands, clasped in his lap. "November third," he murmured, wistful and fond all at once. "I'm… surprised you knew about it."

"Really? Why?"

"Sirius hated birthdays," he explained. "He never liked being reminded that he was getting older, so he refused to say when it was for years… He'd even owl himself fake presents from 'family members' at different times of year to throw us off the scent. James and I had to break into the school records to find out."

Harry barked out a laugh of disbelief. "What? That's-- I mean, he told me right away when I asked him."

Remus turned to peer at him through the errant stands of his hair. "Well, I suppose that makes sense; he never could deny you anything."

Harry wasn't certain how to react to that. Remus's tone was so… undefinable. Sad, kind, pained, relieved. His gaze was fixed to the stones beneath their feet, expression grim. Tense. The silence felt more suffocating the longer it went on.

It didn't sit well with Harry; he folded his arms and let out a sigh. "Do you miss him?"

Remus sucked in a breath, eyes snapping to Harry as if he'd just noticed he was there. "Yes-- of course I do," he affirmed, though the words seemed to arrive too quickly. The man rubbed a hand over his eyes, uncurling from his hunched position to lean back in his seat. "Sorry, I'm… I do. Miss him, I mean. But, this is actually… related to what I came here to talk to you about."

And Harry watched him, expectant, but found himself face-to-face with Remus’s reticence. The man’s thoughts appeared to meander as they attempted to find a way to reach him. In a few minutes, he hadn’t gotten any closer to what he wanted to say. With a gusty sigh, Remus sat back against the plush of his armchair and looked toward the ceiling.

Then, the man gave him a half-hearted smile after a chuckle that was self-effacing. "Didn't think we'd circle back to this so quickly."

Harry frowned. "I'm sorry-- we can talk about something else if you--"

"No, no-- it's fine, Harry," Remus insisted, shaking his arms out with sudden energy. "Bit ridiculous for me to try and put it off anyway. You deserve answers, don't you? About why I've been gone."

He shook his head. "You-- As long as you're safe, it doesn't matter, honestly. You don't owe me any--"

"But I wasn't safe," the man remarked. "And it's not what you might be thinking-- I wasn't in danger, in the literal sense, but I might as well have been."

Harry looked the man in the eye, next words tentative. "What do you mean?"

"To tell it plain," Remus started, pausing momentarily, "these last four months, I've been… self-destructing."

Another pause. Harry didn't interrupt; the man was clearly sorting his thoughts.

"I've not been doing well for a long time, actually. I ah, have a… history of hopelessness, you might say. But it all came to a head when Sirius--" He broke off, sighing. "And after that, I just couldn't handle it. I ran away and… hoped to die."

Harry's eyes widened, gaze traveling across the man's frame. When that was concluded, he looked up at the man's face as if he could divine a reason by observation alone. "Why would you do that?" he asked, the question both quiet and confused.

Perhaps it was more accusing than he’d intended; Remus sounded upset when he replied. “It’s… not always something I can help--”

“Oh, I-- I know,” Harry rushed to say. “I just… I mean, I know Sirius was your friend…” But I don’t understand.

“He was.” This declaration was both reserved and gentle. As if he were placing something heavy, but fragile, between them. “But my troubles in that regard are only a section of the full picture.”

Troubles? “What do you mean?”

The man gave him a considering look. "Harry, do you know what depression is?"

He didn’t see how this was related to anything, and it was an odd question besides. "Of course I do, but--"

"Not many wizards do," the man commented, his interruption gentle. "It’s not just sadness, it's… There's a true emptiness at the heart of it-- a feeling of worthlessness too dispassionate to be called self-hatred, and too all-consuming to pass through painlessly. A daily battle against yourself to function at even a basic level, to chase away an oppressive melancholy that always hangs by your side.”

Harry's insides felt tight and heavy. A lot of that sounded… familiar. Terribly so. But, he wasn’t so bad off, was he? Sure, he’d been having some trouble motivating himself, or finding a reason to care about some of his classes. Getting in that fight with Malfoy was insanely stupid. And fighting with Ron and Hermione and Cleo didn’t feel great. And Snape was… himself. But-- Harry hadn't always felt as bad as he did now. He didn’t feel worthless, per se, and he certainly didn't want to die.

So it… probably wasn’t the same.

Probably. Yeah.

“Okay,” Harry murmured around the lump in his throat.

Remus leaned over the arm of the chair, almost as if he desperately desired to get close to Harry, but was still too uncertain if he should. "Depression is something I've struggled with for as long as I can remember," he admitted. “For a great while, I didn’t have a name for it, and I lumped it in with the grief I felt for my condition. But even when things went well for me, when I had the support of all my friends-- it lingered and went unaddressed. My desire to live has always been… hard to grasp.”

"I'm sorry," Harry muttered, for a lack of anything better to say.

Remus's expression shifted to concern. "Please, don't be," he insisted. "I'm not telling you all this to make you feel bad; it is simply context-- an attempt to explain. I am faring much better now than I have in the past."

"Okay." Harry's gaze dropped to the man's hands, calloused and scarred.

"Harry. Do you believe me?"

He lifted his head, staring forward. "Yeah."

"Alright," Remus murmured, apparently satisfied. "Do you… have any questions?"

"About what?"

"Well, anything," the man replied, softly clapping his hands on his knees. "No point continuing if I've lost you somewhere."

Harry sighed his answer. "No, I… I understand about… you know."

That wrung a hoarse chuckle from the man. "'Depression', Harry. Let us resist allowing the word to transcend to nonverbal status."

He grimaced, parroting back, "Depression, then."

The beginnings of mirth colored Remus's tone. "Is it so very difficult to say?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but the gesture was undercut by the way the corners of his mouth ticked upward. "I don’t know."

Remus’s smile turned into a smirk. “The mighty Harry Potter, who can say Voldemort without flinching, is afraid of a little depression?”

Uncomfortable, but trying not to let it show, Harry said, “I’m not afraid…”

“No, you aren’t,” the man agreed, affable. “Sorry-- I have the unfortunate habit of sharing poorly-crafted jokes to lighten the mood.”

“You did,” he insisted, trying to sound encouraging. “I mean-- it wasn’t that bad.”

The man openly laughed, full and ringing. The sound of it was shocking to Harry, as if he were hearing it for the first time. “You sound like Lily. She would always endure my terrible humor with unparalleled grace.”

The unexpected mention of his mother left him feeling strange. He knew Remus had been friends with his father, but… “You knew my mum?”

“Of course,” was the prompt answer. “She married one of my best friends, didn’t she? I saw her all the time.”

Laid out like that, it seemed really stupid that he hadn’t put that together himself. “Right, uhm-- yeah.”

“Even after things became a little… tense with the war,” Remus elaborated, his tipped head signaling what an understatement that was, “Lily and I stayed good friends.”

“I just thought… You talked about my dad a lot, and…”

“Your mum too,” the man pointed out, the reminder gentle. “Most especially when the Dementors were giving you trouble; I could never have let her death be your only memory of her.”

Harry could have kicked himself. Of course. Of course. He may have had a lot on his mind lately, and it was years since he’d been able to really sit down with Remus like this, but it was absolutely baffling that he could have forgotten-- he was one of the main people to give Harry a proper frame of reference at all. Someone who had truly known his mother, instead of the vague good opinions he’d heard from everyone else.

What Luna told him came to mind. There are still people to ask.

But, before he could formulate an inquiry, Remus reached up to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You know-- I've missed you, Harry," he admitted, warm. "Of all the things I came to say, I want you to know that is the most important one."

Embarrassed, Harry shifted in his seat. "Um, thanks?"

“It can’t have been easy to live the life you have,” he continued, “but here you are. Still standing. Or-- Well. Sitting, rather.”

Harry couldn’t match Remus’s amiable smile; his stomach was twisted in knots. “I haven’t really done anything.”

“I’ve met your extended family, Harry.” The man's expression was dour. “Not a lovely bunch, to say the least.” That was putting it lightly. Though, of course, Remus hardly knew the first thing about what life was like at the Dursleys'. “But you’ve endured that alone, just the same as you have everything else.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Harry balked. “I always had help.”

A frown crept onto Remus’s face. “Yes… I suppose you did.”

The man's expression bothered Harry. “What?” he prompted.

"I… should have been here for you," he commented, sighing. "After Sirius died, I should have--"

"Don't blame yourself," was his quick rebuttal. "It was… I mean-- It was a bad time for everyone, so that doesn't mean--"

"Let's not downplay our direct involvement either," Remus insisted, earnest. "You and I were the closest people to Sirius. I may have many of my own regrets in that regard, but that's not an excuse for running away and leaving you to deal with it on your own."

"But--!"

His protest was silenced by the man's raised hand. "Please. Allow me this apology so that I may make peace with myself and you."

Harry frowned, but complied. "Okay. Then… I forgive you."

"You don't have to, but I appreciate the gesture," Remus sighed, giving Harry's shoulder a squeeze before letting go. "And I intend to make amends by being here now. I can't make up for lost time, and I can't…" The man swallowed, starting again. "I know-- I can never replace Sirius, but… I want to be someone you can rely on. Someone you can speak to when times are tough. Somewhere to turn when you need help with… anything.”

Remus met his eyes. “Whatever you need, I'm here. Alright?"

The sentiment was good. Sincerely spoken, Harry felt. But, at the same time, he couldn't help the spark of doubt which seized him. The adults around him had always promised their support, their availability. On some level, they never quite seemed to measure up -- only Sirius had ever lived by his word, but even he was hindered by forces outside his control.

He broke those constraints once, and look where it got him.

Remus wasn't lying-- that Harry knew, but still… Wasn't this him being nice, as always? It felt just as sudden as the declaration he'd received from Sirius, but the comparison wasn't doing him any favors; instead, Harry felt sick to his stomach. Had Remus really thought this through? After all, clearly the man had enough on his plate, and this was just another--

"Did Dumbledore put you up to this?"

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth; Remus's expression seemed to turn itself inside out, the subtle lines of his face becoming shadowed in the process. His hands were tightly knotted in his lap.

Horrified, Harry rushed to backtrack. "No, erm-- Forget I said anything--"

"It's alright," the man said, though there was profound sadness in his voice. "You don't have to apologize for not trusting me. I haven't exactly… inspired confidence."

"I-- I didn't mean--"

"It's okay, Harry, really, " was his insistent reply. He had drawn back in the chair. Despite his assurances, Harry could feel the distance. "It's okay."

But it wasn't. He could tell. The openness between them had shuttered, the mood gone cold. He'd really hurt the man's feelings. Why did he say that? What sort of monster was he, that he felt comfortable having a go at Remus just for caring about him? If he wasn't such a bloody mess, he wouldn't be getting into all these pointless arguments and hurting people--

He wished he could turn back the clock and react to the heartfelt moment like a normal person, but he couldn't. Because he wasn't. He just bloody wasn't--

"Harry."

His head twitched upward, but he couldn't look Remus in the eye.

"Are you alright? You're breathing a little fast."

He was right, but the last thing Harry wanted was to trouble Remus further than he already had. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it."

"I said I'm fine, " Harry snapped on impulse.

He heard a crinkling sound and, in a moment, an unraveled bar of chocolate appeared in his field of vision. He stared at it, brows pulled low over his eyes. "I'm not thirteen any longer, you know," he groused, sullen. "You can't just hand me sweets all the time--"

"All the time?" Remus commented, an amused lilt to his voice. "You make it sound like I see you regularly."

He had no idea if that was a dig at him or not, but regardless he blurted, "I'm sorry, okay? I do trust you, and-- and I don't think you're a bad person, or a liar, or--"

"Harry, please." He jiggled the bar as a reminder. "Have some chocolate and calm down."

He didn't want the bloody chocolate, he wanted to take back his bloody words! But-- he couldn't. They were already in Remus's ears, festering. Ruining everything. But-- in the face of that reality, what else could he do but what was asked of him?

Harry snatched the bar out of the man's grip, biting off a chunk. He was too upset to savor it, swallowing immediately.

He looked up at the man, expectant. Remus raised his eyebrows. "Don't hold back on my account. There's more where that came from."

"I'm not hungry."

The wrinkles on the man's forehead grew more pronounced. "I know that."

Disgruntled, Harry stared at the ground. His breathing wasn't so labored, but he wasn't calm either. The words they'd spoken were jumbled around his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, subdued.

"I understand that," Remus assured him. "But this isn't your fault, Harry."

Wasn't it? He took another large bite of the bar, then grimaced. It tasted like dirt. "What's in this?" he found himself saying.

"Oh-- ah, sorry. It's dark chocolate," came his sheepish reply. "My father's idea of looking after my health."

That certainly piqued Harry's interest. "Your father?"

Remus expelled a short breath through his nose. "Yes. Believe it or not, I do actually have one."

"Well--" Harry fumbled. "You never really talked about--"

"Oh, no, I most certainly didn't," Remus was quick to clarify. "I meant it more as a reminder to myself than you; he is also someone I haven't been keeping in touch with very well."

"Why not?" he inquired, the foil around the chocolate bar crinkling as he abandoned it in his lap.

"It's a long story, but let's just say our relationship has been more… strained since Mum passed away," the man explained, matter-of-fact.

Harry frowned. "Oh. Erm, sorry…"

Remus waved a hand. "It's been many years since, and he and I are in the process of reconnecting besides. The situation is more a result of my own stubbornness than anything."

Despite his mood, Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "You? Stubborn? "

"The rumors are true." His voice was amused. "Although I may look unassuming, I'm actually a whole heap of trouble."

"That doesn't make sense."

"What? That I can be stubborn?" The smile on his face grew a little brighter. "I may not put my foot down very much, but when I do…"

Harry was poised to say that he'd never seen him be that way, but then a memory sprang to his mind: Remus packing his suitcase to leave Hogwarts, determination in his step as he finalized his resignation, leaving school premises before the end of term celebrations had even begun… deaf to any and all objections.

“I suppose,” he conceded, subdued. Remus peered at him, brow furrowed.

“Are you alright, Harry?” he asked, careful.

“Yeah, I’m fine now.” When the man still looked doubtful, he tacked on: “Really. I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you aren’t. I won’t think less of--”

“There’s nothing wrong. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I will do that in any case,” Remus stated. “But, still-- I will take you at your word.”

Harry blew out a puff of air. “Good.”

“Well.” The man shifted in his seat, wincing before he placed his hands on the armrests in preparation to lift himself up. “I hate to leave so soon, but I’m afraid there’s little choice when I’m in this state.”

Harry sprang from his seat, arms held out awkwardly, willing but unsure how to help. “Are your wounds really so bad?”

“Recovery wouldn’t normally be this slow, but I haven’t been taking care of myself for months,” Remus explained with a grimace, taking hold of Harry’s arm. "And it's nothing to do with Severus, mind. In fact, I suspect he'd be rather cross to know I've been letting all his hard work spoil and go to waste."

Harry frowned. "He's still making your potion? Even after he got you fired?"

"Hasn't missed a single month," he sighed. "Though I doubt it's kindness that motivates him, I can do nothing except be grateful."

Nodding, Harry prompted, "Are you okay to stand?"

"Yes, shortly," Remus informed him, grip tightening on Harry's arm. “My health issues are compounded at present, and, despite whatever superhuman healing I may or may not possess, I am not so young or spry as I used to be.”

He stood slowly, carefully, groaning all the way. “Can’t you see a Healer?” Harry inquired.

“I have, actually,” Remus replied, a touch of humor to his voice. “They told me in no uncertain terms to stay in bed and rest. But, clearly, that’s an order I have disregarded.”

Harry’s answering smile was lopsided on account of his confusion. “Why?”

The man steadied himself on his feet before laying his hands on both of Harry’s upper arms. “Because I thought it was more important to see you,” he stated simply. Harry felt a rush of warm feeling so strong that it sent moisture to the back of his eyes. “And now that I have-- I think it’s time I head back.”

Releasing Harry, he moved in the direction of the fireplace. He shadowed behind, keeping an eye on the man. His gait was slow, but sure. His hand didn’t waver when he grabbed the Floo powder. His breaths were even, calm. He was obviously tired, but there was something about him altogether… collected.

He looked well. Despite his injuries, his inner demons-- Harry decided his first assessment had been correct. Remus looked well. And that knowledge was a comfort, despite the turmoil that Harry was facing himself.

“Hey, Harry?”

When he raised his head toward the man, Remus’s eyes looked amber in the firelight. “Hm?”

“I’ll be back,” he vowed, earnest. “And you can contact me any time. Owl, Floo call, anything.”

There was still something about that which made him feel odd, but all Harry said was, “Of course.”

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

Harry nodded, raising a hand in a haphazard goodbye. The flames turned bright green.

“See you later.”

As Remus disappeared from the office, Harry didn’t feel inclined to say it back.

He'd spent the last several days preparing for three important -- but inevitably unpleasant -- meetings.

The first was with Snape. After having missed two classes in a row, walking back into the Potions room felt somehow foreign, like he was seeing it for the first time. Nobody looked at him as he found his seat; aside from the shuffle of pages turning and the metallic scrapes of cauldrons being set up, there was complete silence.

The professor addressed him the moment he sat down. "Your essay is late, Potter."

The sound of the man's voice sent a chill up his spine. You will need to make your own way back. Those words, emblazoned in his memory.

Still. He'd been working hard to catch up in this class; he needed the N.E.W.T. to be an Auror. He wasn't about to let Snape take that away from him.

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione, but her back was to him as she set up her burner. No support from that quarter today. His eyes traveled next to Cleo, but, to his surprise, her seat was empty. He'd never seen her miss a Potions class before.

Regardless, Snape's glare was bearing down on him, heavier by the second. Lacking allies entirely, Harry steeled himself, spurring his voice to action. "I don't have it," he announced, facing the professor squarely.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Then you will receive a failing grade.”

He took in a breath. “Yes, sir.”

The professor’s gaze lingered on him for a moment more, but then the exchange was done; he said nothing else. Harry could hardly contain his shock.

However, he ought to have prepared himself for the brutality of the rest of the class period. Snape was merciless, passing by his work table every few minutes to sneer about his technique, belittle his progress, and fashion every critique into a personal attack. Heroically, Harry managed to not respond for the full two hours, keeping to the muscle memories of what he’d studied.

At the end of class, he slammed the stoppered potion onto Snape’s desk with a little more force than was necessary. It was much poorer quality than the ones he’d practiced with Cleo; Harry knew he could do better.

And he hated that he’d let Snape get to him after all.

His second meeting was with Malfoy. Dumbledore had arranged for a bedside chat in the Hospital Wing -- supervised, of course. Harry grimaced at the stern look Madam Pomfrey gave him when he approached. No funny business, it said. Ugh. It wasn’t like he was planning to have another go at Malfoy just then, especially not in the state the boy was in.

The Slytherin was sitting up in bed, but barely appeared to hold his own weight. The remnants of his bruises were still fading. Terribly pale and stiff, he seemed closer to being a ghost than a person. It was a far cry from the Malfoy of years prior who had wailed and bemoaned a trivial wound for attention; this Malfoy was quiet, unmoving. He glared at Harry with darkly-circled, sunken eyes.

“What do you want?” the boy addressed him after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. His voice was so quiet and subdued that Harry had nearly missed it.

He took in a determined breath, swallowing his pride. Might as well out with it quickly.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt razor-sharp as they were dragged from his throat. He absolutely despised the sound of them. He wasn’t sorry. He knew that Malfoy had done something. Whatever had happened-- he’d only done it to himself. Having to spout such a bald-faced lie was unbearable.

Malfoy didn’t react at all, except to look him in the eye. Didn’t say a single word.

Harry swallowed his humiliation, hoping not to lose his nerve. “My actions were unacceptable, and will not be repeated,” he recited.

There was another pause, this one feeling heavier. The Slytherin stared at him all the while, before saying, “Is that all?”

Blood raced beneath his skin. “Guess so, ” he sneered through gritted teeth.

“Great.” Infuriatingly, he turned on his side, facing away from Harry.

He looked to Madam Pomfrey, half a bemused inquiry and half a silent request to leave. She promptly said, “Mr. Malfoy needs his rest. You’d best be getting on, Mr. Potter.”

Gladly, he took his leave. But the brief encounter still left a sour taste in his mouth.

His third and final meeting was a less structured affair. He’d been meaning to figure a way to approach a certain seventh year, but hadn’t yet formulated a plan when he met the boy entirely by chance.

“Urquhart,” Harry addressed him from across the corridor.

The Slytherin had barely emerged from the History of Magic classroom, surrounded by a few friends who all turned to look. His reply was simple, neutral. Not an ounce of malice, despite the accusations he’d heaped on Harry previously. “Potter.”

Lunch could wait, Harry decided. “Been meaning to talk to you.”

The seventh year watched him with flat affect. “Have you?”

“Yeah,” he replied, his stare direct. “You have a minute?”

He conferred with his group of friends with shared, suspicious looks before something was apparently decided, nonverbal. He stepped up in front of Harry, towering over him massively. “After you.”

They ended up out on the grounds, in the viaduct courtyard. Scattered groups of students coming from Herbology and Astronomy passed by, heading to the Great Hall no doubt, but Harry spotted someone familiar traveling the opposite direction. A mass of wiry, wild brown hair, bobbing its way up the stairwell that led toward the Astronomy Tower. Wasn’t that… Cleo’s friend, Thea?

Focus. His gaze settled back on Urquhart. This opportunity was too important to squander. “I have some questions,” he announced, point-blank. Urquhart just raised an eyebrow and gestured for Harry to continue.

Taking a breath, he stated, “I want to know what happened. That day, with you and Malfoy.”

“Don’t you already know?” His tone was mocking. “I beat the little Flobberworm into--”

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry cut him off, frowning. “But what I don’t understand is why.”

Urquhart’s hands delved into his robe pockets and he turned, as if to leave. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.”

For a second, Harry was dumbfounded. Slow to react, he had to jog a few paces to head off the Slytherin’s departure. “Hey! Where are you going?!”

“There’s really nothing to say, Potter,” Urquhart replied, scowling. “I’m rather tired of having to answer this question.”

“Well, I’m not here to gossip,” he retorted. “I’m here to figure out what Malfoy is playing at.”

“Well then, Inspector,” the Slytherin ridiculed, lifting his chin, “you’d best form better questions.”

Harry grimaced. Why on Earth were Slytherins so incomprehensibly difficult to talk to? “Fine,” he said, clipped. “Why did you attack Malfoy?”

“That’s the same question,” Urquhart derided, visibly rankled. “But since it wasn’t clear to you the first time: I couldn’t tell you. There is no answer. I don’t know.”

A hopeful feeling flowed through him, filling his next question with energy, “You didn’t have a reason to fight? You weren’t angry?”

“Of course I was angry,” Urquhart spat. “Just not enough to lose my composure.”

“But you did,” Harry observed, pressing his lips together in thought.

“Obviously.”

He looked at the Slytherin squarely. “And you ended up nearly killing him-- for nothing but a petty insult?”

“I desperately hope that rumor about you wanting to be an Auror is a lie,” Urquhart sneered. “Because you are in such a bad way if it isn’t--”

“I am, actually,” Harry felt compelled to say. “But I’m not-- Look, I get that you don’t like me. But this thing with Malfoy? It happened to me too.”

His posture and the clipped way his shoulders jerked upward said only one thing: And?

“If I can prove that he used dark magic to force us to attack him, then that proves our innocence,” he laid out. “Which would mean no more annoying questions, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, I see,” Urquhart mused, his head canting. “You’re stupid enough to actually think the truth just magically fixes everything.”

Harry folded his arms, already beginning to regret starting this conversation. “I'm not stupid.”

“Proving how the event happened doesn’t change that it happened,” the Slytherin jeered. “And maybe for famous little Harry Potter, that’s all that’s needed to make the difference. Things are much more complicated for the rest of us.”

“If that’s true, then wouldn’t you like ‘famous little Harry Potter’ to be on your side?” he snapped back alongside his fiercest glare.

“I don’t care, because the damage is already done,” Urquhart seethed. “And the fact you can’t even grasp that tells me how utterly deluded you are.”

“Deluded? Because I'm not willing to take this lying down?!"

Harry observed as the boy’s shoulders drew back. He answered with another question. “What do you think your role in this war is, Potter?”

Caught off-guard by the swift change of subject, Harry could only say, “What?”

“I thought I was straightforward,” Urquhart observed. “Where do you think you fit into this narrative? What do you think your job is?”

Harry didn’t have a ready answer. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question, Potter,” Urquhart demanded, lips twisted into a frown. “Or do you truly not know?”

He grimaced, his reply acerbic. “Fight Death Eaters? Defeat Voldemort? Clearly?”

“What do you think will happen, then?” the Slytherin questioned, the intensity of his stare weighing down on him. “When Voldemort dies, what changes?”

He wouldn’t have to worry about which of his friends might be murdered next. He would never have to see the Dursleys ever again. He would exist without constantly fearing for his life.

He would be free. He might get a full night’s sleep, for once.

The edges were fuzzy, though. It felt like such a long way off that Harry could barely picture it. Like a figure in smoke, it dissipated whenever he tried to focus on it.

Rather than voicing those jumbled thoughts, he retorted, “The war ends.”

“The war ends,” Urquhart repeated, each word growing exponentially more virulent. His chuckle was bitter. “The war had already ended. For fourteen years. Or do you not remember? Your vaunted moment of heroism as an infant? And what happened, Potter? What changed?”

Harry set his jaw, glaring. It didn’t really matter if he had an answer or not; the Slytherin apparently didn’t care to leave him the room to respond. “Nothing. Nothing changed, Potter. A couple Death Eaters locked away in Azkaban, with a few others given clemency with a pathetic Imperius defense. We still had the same, milquetoast Minister who was either incapable or unwilling to do anything about the underlying ideology that led to the war in the first place. The same, ineffective government that allowed Lucius Malfoy to continue working, unimpeded, on the same bloody track Voldemort set him on before he died.” Urquhart crossed his arms. “Because it turns out, Potter, you don’t have to be a blatant terrorist in order to enact Blood Supremacy. It turns out, most of the populace has something against the non-magical and are very willing to open the door to policy that would limit the rights of those of non-magical heritage, so long as you aren’t loud about it. You don’t have to call them Mudbloods, just malcontents. Anarchists. Troublemakers. Criminals. Because then it isn’t about blood-- even when it is.

“And that’s your problem, Potter,” he accused, bent over him. “Your scope is too narrow. You get caught up with oversimplifications -- defeating Voldemort, uncovering the truth, like these things will be the actual catalyst for change. They aren’t. It’s one tiny part of the problem. So what if you uncover the truth about Malfoy? What does that do? Will it stop his family from potentially pressing criminal charges against me? Will it make Dumbledore take back the restrictions he put on me? No -- he wanted an excuse to shut me up and he got one. Knowing whether or not Malfoy stacked the deck in his favor won’t make him back down.”

“Dumbledore isn’t some villain! ” Harry exclaimed. “He’s a good man, and he’s only doing what he thinks is best--”

“His ‘best’ is an incredibly short-sighted and discriminatory attempt to solve a problem he’s too ill-equipped to handle,” Urquhart argued. “Or, more likely, one he doesn’t care to.”

“At least he’s doing something to weed out the Death-Eaters-in-training that are in your House!” was his irate reply. “You complain about how nobody is willing to act, but he is! ”

“He’s been at the head seat of the Wizengamot for years,” Urquhart seethed. “If he wanted to do something about Blood Supremacy -- something that wasn’t as petty as taking his anger out on school children -- he could have. But, hey, what can one expect from someone who used to pal around with Grindelwald?”

“What is your problem?” Harry studied the boy’s face, unable to comprehend. “Maybe if you weren’t so bloody hostile, you’d realize I’m trying to help you!”

“You aren’t,” the Slytherin denied, deadpan. “If you were, you would have come to me weeks ago.”

“I’m here now!”

“Because your neck is on the chopping block,” Urquhart accused.

Harry let out a frustrated breath through his teeth. “So, what? You’d rather I give up instead?” he spat, disgusted.

“I don’t care what you do.” Urquhart’s laugh was caught somewhere in between amusement and disbelief. “Just keep me out of it.”

“What is with you Slytherins?” Harry erupted, unable to contain it. “You’re so bloody concerned with yourselves, but then you turn around and accuse the rest of us of ‘separating’ you when you do that all on your own!”

“You don’t have the nuance, much less the vocabulary, to even argue this point, Potter,” he retorted. “If you want to be indignant about the fact I’m not falling over myself to ingratiate your bloated savior complex, do it elsewhere.”

“I don’t have a ‘savior complex’!” he argued, one arm lifting to gesture in a single, wild swing. “And we’re not talking about me--! ”

“Oh, aren’t we?” Urquhart scoffed.

By that point, Harry wasn’t all that certain what they were talking about. “Have you ever considered the fact that maybe people don’t like you because you make yourself unlikeable?”

“I already told you that you don’t have the depth for this conversation, Potter,” he countered, albeit tiredly. “So unless you want to ask something worth answering, my friends are waiting for me.”

What more was there to ask? Harry had thought he might find an ally from within Slytherin, but… Clearly, that was a pointless venture. Had been from the start. Urquhart, Malfoy, Snape… None of them were the helpful type. He wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered coming here, when it was all such a colossal waste of time.

“No,” he answered as he turned away, all the fire gone from his voice. “I’ll manage myself.”

Like I always have.

He had barely seen Hermione all week. She'd always been known to keep an insane schedule, but it seemed like she was making herself even more scarce than usual -- a difficult feat when she and Harry shared five classes together. Considering everything that had happened between them lately, she probably was avoiding him.

Harry missed her.

He could tell Ron did too, even if he didn’t come out and say it. At the very least, the redhead had agreed to come along to the EARWIG meeting in full support of their friend. Harry had taken great pains to extract a vow from Ron that he keep any critical remarks to himself.

Maybe it wasn’t a reconciliation, but it was something. He could only hope that would be enough.

“Surprised so many people showed up,” was Ron’s low grumble for Harry’s ears only. The observation was a touch backhanded, he noticed, but at least Ron had thus far been abiding by the rules.

With a frown, Harry replied, “It’s a lot less than before.”

Gathered in the Muggle Studies room was a paltry third of the number that had attended the first meeting two weeks ago. Most of the gathered group was unfamiliar; a lot of the Gryffindors were from the lower years, who Harry had never met, but, thankfully, there were still people from his year milling about. No Padma, which was to be expected, but he spotted Parvati and Ginny chatting together, along with Fay and Scarlet. Megan and Justin were among a small group of returning Hufflepuffs, and, surprisingly, there were a lot of Ravenclaws, many of whom seemed to be attending for the first time. Notably, the gathering had also held on to a few… undesirables.

“It’s that Slytherin girl from last time,” Harry mentioned, and Ron turned to look. The long, brunette ponytail, the carefree confidence of her gait, the wicked slant of her mouth as she smiled at the students around her as if they were blessed to exist in proximity to her… That Ann girl was definitely trouble.

Ron sat up a little straighter, glancing back at Harry briefly before his gaze drew back to the girl. “She’s fit,” he casually remarked.

Harry couldn’t hide his look of disgust. “What, you fancy her?”

The redhead shrugged. “No, what do you take me for? I’m not mental, thanks,” he retorted. “But still. Not bad to look at.”

“Really going to have to disagree, mate.”

“Oh, yeah? Not weepy enough to be your type?”

Harry’s flat, unamused look drew a chuckle from Ron.

“Thought you’d have done with Cho, after all that--" He gestured vaguely in the air. It was a fitting non-description for the awkwardness Harry had endured.

“I have,” he insisted. “Not a shred of interest anymore, promise. She’s got a boyfriend now, anyway. Didn’t you know?”

“Didn’t know, didn’t ask, didn’t care.”

Harry wanted to smile and frown at the same time; it came out as a grimace. “Fair enough.”

Ron sighed, settling back down in his seat. “How long are we going to have to wait?” he complained.

The question worked as well as a Summoning Charm: The door to the room swung wide open. Harry turned, expecting to see Hermione, but instead he saw the flash of a lavender wheelchair zooming by. Professor Tenenbaum rolled in with the subtlety of a thunderclap, cutting through the center of the group without hesitation and making shrewd eye contact with everyone present as she passed.

Well. As far as keeping the peace went, he supposed there were few better choices for faculty chaperone. Still, Harry hoped she'd keep that strict eye of hers away from him; it was hard enough to deal with her demands in class, much less outside of it.

Thankfully, Hermione made her entrance soon thereafter -- a much more modest one by comparison, but not lacking in confidence. In fact, her gait was so thoroughly determined, mouth set in such a grim line, and attitude so calmly focused that, upon further inspection, she appeared every bit as put together as Professor Tenenbaum.

The room had fallen very quiet. Waiting. Hermione, positioning herself at the front of the room, didn't keep them in suspense for long.

"This meeting is for the Equal Academic Representation in Wizarding Institutions Group," she announced, voice clear and precise. "If anyone in this room is here by mistake, sating an errant curiosity, or does not support Muggleborn equality, then you can leave now."

Silence. Harry looked around during the pause, but nobody moved.

"I want to be very clear: this is not just a petty school 'club'. It is an organization built to protect the lives of students of non-magical heritage. It is a belief and a commitment to incite change. If you're just looking to kill time for an hour a week, this isn't the place for you."

He glanced sideways at Ron, but the other boy's attention was squarely on Hermione.

She continued after another, shorter pause. "I postponed this second meeting an extra week so that I could compile all the information at my disposal. And what I've found is disturbing.

"There are just under three hundred Muggleborn-authored texts that have disappeared from the library shelves, many ancient and irreplaceable. In their place were installed books that support an alternate, 'Ministry approved' curricula, implying that non-magical ideas are at best inferior, and at worst dangerous, radical and worthy of destruction.

"But that isn't the end of it," Hermione continued. "Professor Burbage has stated that objects of Muggle origin were confiscated from her classroom and private quarters last year, without her knowledge or consent, and those items have never been returned. The Ministry appears to have no record of their ever being seized at all.

“And these aren't just 'recent developments', they are escalations of a problem that has plagued the Wizarding world for generations. My peers and predecessors alike have had slurs whispered to them in the halls, they have been barred from club activities and snubbed for accolades. They have been looked down upon and underestimated--"

She breathed in, apparently to steady herself. "For my whole time at Hogwarts… I have rarely felt appreciated, and almost never have I felt truly safe," she admitted, gripping the lectern tightly. "I'm tired of it. And any true member of this organization should be too."

Her eyes caught on Harry's, but she just as quickly looked away, expression unchanging. The moment twisted his insides to painful knots.

A hand went up in the midst of the group. Hermione gestured for them to speak.

Predictably, it was Ann. "Does that mean we're not going to do anything fun?" she questioned with an air of petulance, her arms loosely folded in front of her.

The inquiry was so laughably tone deaf that Harry wasn't at all surprised when Ginny responded within an instant, "Weren't you listening? This isn't about fun, you twit!"

"Well, um," a Hufflepuff girl -- Megan, if Harry recalled correctly -- lifted her voice, "Everyone did think of some really good ideas last time, and it would be a shame if--"

“I want to address those of you who may feel as if I’ve let them down,” Hermione quickly cut in before she had the chance to be overwhelmed again. “I don’t want you to think I don’t care about your struggles, because I do. I really do. However, I must concede that I’m only one person. The scope of these issues are beyond my ability to handle all at once. The original conceit of this organization was to address discrimination against those of non-magical heritage, and that is where I intend to place my attention. That doesn’t mean issues of bullying don’t overlap with this -- they absolutely do. And in the instances of that overlap, I will not ignore the instigators or the roots of that discrimination. I can promise you that. But in the meanwhile I ask for your patience as we push forward. I don’t want to fight with any of you.”

"I don't think any of us came here to fight," Eddie Carmichael mentioned, looking about. "We have a united cause, don't we?"

Fay shared a look with the other Gryffindor girls before remarking, with a pointed glance at the gathered Slytherins, "Do we?"

“If we don’t, I’ve made it quite clear what needs to happen,” Hermione remarked. “The mishaps of the last meeting -- I’m not letting us do that again."

Ann flicked her hair over her shoulder with a snap of her wrist, saying, "Well, I'm sure we're all glad of that, since some people were harboring an unfortunate prejudice against Slytherins."

Harry glared at her, unable to stop his retort. "Don’t pretend you had nothing to do with it--”

The look Hermione shot him was full of warning, despite how even-keeled she sounded as she addressed the rest of the room. “As I mentioned earlier, there is a concerted, administrative effort to ban material sympathetic to those who are non-magical or of non-magical heritage and label it as ‘dangerous’ or ‘radical.’ I know the matter of missing academic material isn’t exciting to the lot of you, but it must be addressed. I have a few ideas on how to begin tackling the issue myself, but I’m willing to open the floor to suggestions if anyone has them, or hear on-topic issues that we can put on the docket for future projects.”

A hand rose from the group of Gryffindor girls and Hermione’s face lit up. “Yes, Scarlet?”

Scarlet stood from her seat, hands dropping down behind her back. “It might be dumb, but uhm--” The girl’s eyes swam across the sea of faces before she addressed Hermione again. “I know letter writing campaigns are very effective when it comes to--”

"For a letter to have any weight, you'd first need presence," Justin Finch-Fletchley pointed out. "Else it will go straight to the bin."

Scarlet frowned at him. “That’s… not even remotely true. Otherwise the general public wouldn’t hold any weight whatsoever when it attempted to object to something its government was doing?” Her head canted. “Muggles do it all the time.”

Justin scowled. "I'm a Muggleborn," he mentioned. "So yes, I know that. But-- organizations stage fundraisers, hold events… We need to be visible-- "

"A small group made up of teenagers is easily ignored by the Ministry," Eddie commented with a sigh.

Terry Boot, seated next to him, challenged, “Well, with an attitude like that, why even try?”

"I'm not-- ” Eddie stumbled over his own words, flustered. “I only meant-- "

Another Ravenclaw, Mandy Brocklehurst, defended him, "Well, it's not a good argument, but it is a good point. Regardless what Granger says, this organization is only recognized by the school, not the Ministry."

“It doesn’t have to be recognized by anyone,” Terry countered, twisting in his seat to look back at her. “You don’t have to be considered valid to protest."

"How is that supposed to change anything--?"

"Do you think any government ‘recognizes’ the validity of a mass strike in order for it to work?" he shot back. "Of course not. People gather and they cause enough of a disruption to force everyone to listen to what they have to say. And that’s what I think we should do." He whirled around to face Hermione again, earnest. “We need to start a mass strike with the entirety of the student body: Boycott class, detention, curfews, everything until the Ministry is forced to do something about it--”

Ann was nodding her head, looking ready to say something, but several voices beat her to it.

"What, so you want us to act like the Slytherins?" Fay questioned, sardonic. "Because that's not exactly working out for them--"

"All that will do is ruin our grades," Eddie anxiously pointed out. "I'm not going to fail my N.E.W.T.s--"

Megan added her opinion to the fray, her hands timed with her words. "But, ehm, don't we want people to think we are nice…?"

“Activism is all about sacrifice,” Terry interjected. “You don’t change things through ineffective, pathetic actions. You can’t just ‘ask nicely.’ You have to make a real impact. You have to rankle and bother people. You see this if you look at any successful activist movement."

"You don't have to be disruptive to change people's minds," Justin disagreed, venturing toward frustration.

Terry’s scowl was pronounced. "If you aren’t willing to inconvenience yourself for the cause, then the cause clearly isn’t very important to you."

This pronouncement instantly turned most of the Hufflepuffs against him, their expressions openly disapproving. Hannah Abbott spoke up, "You won't get more people to like you by acting like you're above them."

“Activism isn’t about making people like you,” piped up a younger Slytherin girl, seated far away from the other Slytherins. “That’s what Rhys told us.”

“He’s right, too,” Terry concurred. “Civil disobedience isn’t a popularity contest. It’s a public act of defiance against the status quo.”

"It will alienate people, not bring them together!" Fay protested. "How are we supposed to teach people to respect Muggleborns when all we're doing is spitting in their faces?"

"Isn't that what they're doing to us already?"

"We can't act like barbarians--"

“Striking isn’t barbaric--”

"-- shouldn't we talk about--"

"-- more to it than that."

"You're a fool if you think--"

"-- what our parents would--"

The 'conversation' was growing very hard to follow, if it could be called that at all. Everyone was talking at once, voices weaving and tangling around until they had formed an immense knot of tension, poised to snap. From all corners were furrowed brows, restless fidgets, and impatient stares.

Harry was not immune to the combative atmosphere. He badly wanted to speak, but did not want to disappoint Hermione by acting rashly -- he'd done enough damage in that regard. Still, it was the last meeting all over again; she appeared on the verge of panic once more.

He watched as her mouth opened and closed, hapless, before a sharp sound pierced the air from behind her, loud and startling enough to silence the room.

The familiar noise drew an unsettling response from Harry; he froze up and sat back in his seat. A few, like Hermione, visibly flinched. Others jerked their heads in the direction of the source.

Tenenbaum rolled up beside Hermione, pinched fingers dropping from her lips. Every student's attention was directed her way, the room falling starkly silent in a manner that Harry could only describe as trained.

Nobody moved, and the professor's lips pursed. "Since you are all incapable of conducting yourselves civilly, I suppose we will have to set some ground rules. Miss Granger," her torso shifted to the right; she addressed the girl, but her eyes remained on the crowd. “If you could hand me my bag? Back here--” She swiped her thumb to the back of her wheelchair.

Hermione was quick to acquiesce; seconds later, she produced a small handbag from behind where the woman sat, passing it off with her lips pressed together in a firm line.

Immediately, Tenenbaum’s entire arm delved into the contents, past the point where it seemed even possible for her to do so. Wizardspace. He heard the woman grunt a few times before she was pulling something long and flesh-colored from within.

What the thing was settled on them in a delay, but the realization was visceral. Many winced as they watched the professor hold up what appeared like a dismembered leg, casual as ever. A few of the younger students watched on in horror, their fear heightening as Tenenbaum lowered the limb down and pointed it in the direction of the crowd. “We’ll do something Ren’s mother taught me. The person holding Professor Tenenbaum’s leg prosthetic is the only person who is allowed to talk. If you wish to be the next person who talks, you must raise your hand and ask for the prosthetic. No one is allowed to interrupt the person holding Professor Tenenbaum’s leg. If you do, you will be kicked out.”

A handful of students coughed out a few nervous laughs of disbelief before the professor’s unflinching, mirthless expression quieted them.

“You’re serious?” Ginny blurted, brow furrowing.

“Am I ever not serious, Miss Weasley?”

The girl didn’t appear to know what to say to that, which was a first, if Harry had ever seen it. Even more bizarre was the next person to speak.

Ron had his hand up. "I'll have a go first."

Without hesitation, the woman tossed the limb across the room, just barely missing two Ravenclaws who ducked out of its path. Ron caught it effortlessly, those Keeper reflexes of his put to good use.

The redhead rested the leg foot-down, leaning on it with an arm as if it were a cane. "The way I see it, you lot are thinking simple," he began, conversational. "If you're too aggressive, you're a villain; if you're too nice, you're a pushover. But that's all a bit narrow, isn't it? Who says you've got to be one or the other? Shouldn't it be down to timing, down to who you're talking to? No use taking a hard line with people who ought to be allies, and no use playing nice with purists. Breaking school rules is only going to turn the teachers against you, and shouldn't you want them on your side? This whole assembly becomes a lot more credible when you have the support of trusted academics."

He sat up straighter, eyeing the gathered group before making his final declaration: "Use your bloody heads, and save the fight for the people who deserve it."

It was a long while before anyone even attempted to speak after Ron’s pronouncement. No one seemed to know what to do with the leg situation and, although many appeared as if they wished to respond, no one was willing to risk the professor’s reprimand by talking out of turn. Eventually, though, a hand rose: Parvati’s, Harry quickly realized, and Ron shifted to hoist the leg over Harry’s head as Parvati grasped it by the ankle, albeit with a grimace.

She let it rest in her lap, though it was clear she wasn’t comfortable with it seated there. “I, uh. I just wanted to say that--” She sat straighter in her seat as she cleared her throat, evidently attempting to come to terms with the current circumstances. “That, ah--” Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes dropped to the limb splayed limp in her lap before a sigh erupted out of her. “Do we really have to do it like this?”

“If you act like children, I’ll treat you like children, Miss Patil,” Tenenbaum uttered, casually leaning against the armrest of her wheelchair.

“But I mean--”

"This is all rather undignified," Ann complained, expression sour. "How are we supposed to have a proper conversation with that disgusting thing lying about?"

“That would imply that you’ve been engaging in constructive conversation beforehand, Miss Rochford,” Tenenbaum put in, disinterested, as her pronounced frown directed itself to the girl in question. “So either you will debase yourself if you wish to disrupt again, or you will leave. Your choice.”

The girl's glare was something to behold. Still, she evidently wasn't willing to go toe to toe with the professor, since she said nothing further. A hand went up in Harry's periphery; it was Hannah.

A quick Accio brought the fake leg sailing toward the gathered Hufflepuffs, and she barely caught it in time. Awkwardly grasping the ankle with both hands, Hannah started, "Ehm… this is very odd, but… here we are." This was punctuated by a gusty sigh. "I came here to support all my friends who are Muggleborn. I came here because… I've seen how purebloods can treat their peers on the basis of their parentage. My best friend has feared for his life for years because of it.

"I'm not a very bookish person, and my talents really have nothing to do with politics or anything of that sort," she admitted, "but I believe that Hermione has every right to take this seriously. The Ministry was attacked just a few months ago-- that's not something to take lightly."

Eddie Carmichael took up the leg next. "I think we can all summarily agree that the situation is dire; no one is taking this lightly. The absence of hundreds of books is not lost on us. Ravenclaw has noticed for months that they were missing, but nobody’s had anything to say about it, not even Professor Sinistra. This club is the only place we’ve found any answers, and the fact that the removal of these books was so secretive and heinously targeted toward Muggleborn literature is appalling. But--" Here, he paused, frowning. "We're students. I wrote my own parents about this, and they insisted that I trust in the school, that this purge was likely the result of inappropriate material, I was wasting time overreacting when I should be studying and-- well. I’ve read some of those books before -- there's nothing wrong with them! But we can't exactly make any arguments when we're unable to reference the text, and with so few members… we will be easy to dismiss."

Grasping the leg by the ankle, Terry pulled it from Eddie’s lap into his. “You lot need to stop worrying about being dismissed. That’s inevitable. When you’re working against systemic discrimination, that’s going to happen no matter what you do. There are always bad faith players attempting to downplay the message you’re trying to send. The point is to send that message with the most impact that you can, because it will reach the people you want to hear it. You’ll recruit people who have been too scared to have a voice. Your movement will grow. Your voice will get louder. You cannot bog yourself down by worrying about whether or not people think you’re nice or if they won’t take you seriously. You can’t convince people who don’t want to be convinced, and you have to expect that when you make an enemy out of the powerful, they’re going to attempt to deride you no matter what.”

"I say if they want to be angry about it, let them," Ginny emphasized when the leg was passed her way. "Any student or teacher who doesn't think this message is more valuable than keeping curfew-- I wouldn't want an ally of them anyway."

"Just because someone is straight-laced, that doesn't make them pureblood sympathizers," Justin pointed out on his turn. "Plenty of people will respond to a more measured approach, if you'll let them."

Terry gripped the calf of the leg again, though didn’t attempt to bring it any closer to himself. “No one was accusing anyone of being a purist. The point is that you get too into the weeds about being seen as respectable, you’re never going to get anywhere, because you’re going to be too afraid to do anything lest you put someone off. You need to accept that people are going to be put off no matter what you do. When you view it that way, you’re much more free to actually be pragmatic. End of.”

The prosthetic floated limply in the direction of that young Slytherin girl again, who spoke the second her fingers gripped the toes. “He’s right, I think, but isn't there a happy middle? Protests don’t just have to be demonstrations; Rhys gave a lot of examples, but I forgot what he called it? I just know that you can do stuff like community outreach or food drives or… stuff like that." The weight of the surrounding stares appeared to settle on her, and she faltered, "But… maybe that won’t work here-- I... I don’t know.”

One of the Carrow twins -- Harry couldn't say which -- separated from Ann's group to pluck the leg from the girl's grasp. Quiet and precise, the girl carried the thing with a strange air of grace, despite having an otherwise plain appearance. Expressionless, she returned to offer the thing up to Ann, who laid a disdainful finger at the center of it. "I just want to say that everyone's had such marvellous input, truly," she began, effusive in a way Harry found distinctly off-putting. "But why don't we establish a plan of action, hm? Combine our efforts to a proper goal?"

Ginny's hand shot up, but Ann offered her a thin smile, shaking her head. "I haven't finished yet," she stated, sliding her ponytail off her shoulder. "I propose an event that satisfies everyone's concerns-- Something big, something visible and unable to be ignored. Something accessible to all, but suited to making a statement. Something that will catch attention without catching too much controversy."

At that, she paused. The room was quiet with anticipation. "I propose… We host a ball!"

Terry's objection was immediate. "That’s just stupid --"

"I will thank you not to speak out of turn," Ann chastised him, the curl of her lips a touch too smug for Harry's liking. "I think this is an ideal way to engage the rest of the school, a way to drum up support. Now, what do you think?"

Harry felt inclined to disagree on principle alone, his dislike intensifying by the moment, and Ron groaned quietly beside him, "Another one? "

Megan took hold of the prosthetic, her excitement such that it bounced in her arms the whole time she was speaking. "Wow! That's such an amazing idea! Maybe we could have Muggle food and music? Or-- or maybe we could sell Muggle sweets to raise money to replace the books? Oh! We'd need a theme, wouldn't we--?"

“No.”

Harry’s head swiveled in the direction of Hermione’s voice, surprised to even hear it. Her expression was stoic, the slight narrow of her stare cast to where Ann was sitting.

Megan fumbled. “I, uh, have the, uhm--”

“You’re derailing again, Rochford. No.”

Ann’s reaction was subdued, but self-satisfied. With a languid blink, she primly glanced between Hermoine and the professor for a protracted moment before she spoke, voice airy. “Sorry, I’m not exactly sure if I’m allowed to speak right now--”

The professor had taken up a bored demeanor, staring at her hands as she picked at something under her nails. “Superiors live by a different ruleset,” she remarked. “You should know that, Miss Rochford.”

“I’m sorry, are you saying I am or if she-- ”

Ann was immediately quieted by the professor’s stare, but nonetheless undeterred; with a genteel affectation, she raised her hand in the air. Megan was eager to give up the spotlight, handing the leg back to the Slytherins hastily. With an expression of distaste, Ann touched her friend’s arm as the girl held the leg in her lap.

"Miss Granger," she began, simpering. "Hermione -- I find your attitude toward me quite unreasonable."

“I find your constant need to disrupt incredibly troubling,” Hermione countered. “This isn’t a social club. I was very clear about this organization’s goals.”

"Yes, we all heard," Ann remarked. "And since no one has put forth any proper ideas, I decided to contribute."

“Then your motion has been heard and summarily denied,” Hermione tried.

"So, you won't even consider the possibility? An event like this could be immensely beneficial to your cause."

“Or it could be a complete and useless distraction.”

"You could say that about anything," Ann pointed out. "It almost seems like you just don't like the idea because you don't like me."

Hermione scowled. “I don’t like the idea because it’s a bad idea.”

"Is that so?” Her stare was critical. “You’ve hardly considered it at all.”

“It’s really not that difficult of a thing to assess,” Hermione challenged. “Need I remind you that most of these books are irreplaceable? So even if you were angling around a fundraiser idea, it won’t help. Not to mention that even if you could replace the books, the underlying issue is the problem here; the fact that there was an organized, administrative, effort to ban content written by, about and for Muggleborns. Issues that were not even remotely addressed in your proposal.”

“If you want anyone to care about any of that,” Ann countered, haughty, “you’ll need to package it in a way that holds their interest. Who are you even targeting? The entire Ministry? That’s simply not palatable to a wide audience, especially when half the school has family and friends who work there. And if your opposition is more narrow, then how much clearer will your rallying cry be when all the school is gathered together in one room, awaiting your word?”

Despite herself, Hermione appeared quite flustered. “It’s not that simple --”

By then, Terry had crossed the room, placing his hand on the calf of the leg as he hovered over the Carrow twin’s shoulder. “She’s… actually not wrong, after framing it like that,” he pointed out. His smile was apologetic as he glanced between the face hovering near his and Hermone’s, who was staring down at him in shock. “Sorry, I just-- I need to point out that this could actually be a good recruitment strategy. So long as the event was really focused on the issues and acting as a sort of meet and greet between the student body and the organization. You could see a spike in membership.”

"It could also out the bad blood between us and the people who quit after the first meeting," Justin supplied in a quiet voice, nervously glancing at the professor in expectation of a reprimand. She looked mildly displeased, but said nothing.

"Exactly," Ann corroborated. "I mean, if the attending members of your own organization were confused about the purpose of it, then imagine how many others are fully in the dark?"

Hermione was clearly losing footing here, but still attempted to object. “But--”

“It’s worth a shot,” Terry offered, diplomatic. “After all, it’s one event. There doesn’t appear to be a major downside.”

“Yet,” Ginny’s harsh whisper hovered nearby.

Fay raised her hand, a quick Accio bringing the prosthetic into her outstretched arms. “The idea has potential to do some good, but it would require some careful planning to pull off properly.”

Scarlet nodded, hand nestled on top of Fay’s. “It could really serve as a united front, too. So long as we’re clear on the intended message, we could see this as an opportunity for Muggleborns and Purebloods to really get together and maybe even come to an understanding.”

“I don’t know,” Hannah fretted on her turn. “Just seems off the mark. Frivolous.”

One of Ann’s friends, Tracey Davis, spoke up, grasping the leg with an irritated air. “That is not true! You are just--!”

“Let’s not let our tempers get away with us,” Ann silenced her, taking charge once more. “I’m sure all viewpoints are welcome here; aren’t they, Hermione? ”

It was truly disheartening to see how nervous Hermione was becoming by the second. At Ann’s prompting, his friend’s eyes swept through the crowd, the previous strength from her voice completely gone. “We’re completely losing track of the point--”

“Are we?” the Slytherin girl questioned, the tilt of her head purposeful. “It seems there is a good deal of support for my proposal, which clearly stands on its own merit. Will you insist on ignoring it further?”

He watched as Hermione inhaled sharply, eyes widening. “I--”

“Perhaps it would ease your mind to offer it up to a vote?” Ann suggested. “After all, to do anything else would be positively authoritarian, as my father would tell it.”

Harry watched as Ginny practically vaulted over her seat to snatch the leg away from Ann. She crossed the gap between herself and the girl in seconds. “Don’t call Hermione that.” It dawned on him quickly that -- judging by how she was holding the leg -- she hadn’t grabbed it for the sake of being allowed to speak; it was tightly gripped in both hands, ready to swing. Ready to knock Ann’s pretty little head off her prim shoulders.

The girl in question merely raised an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t call her it; I just said denying a vote would be authoritarian. Something that Hermione would never do, of course. Because you just aren’t like that, are you, Hermione? ”

He could feel the pressure closing in on her from where he was seated. Felt the awful weight of it as if it was equally rested on his own shoulders; saw its effects as it proceeded to crush his best friend right before his eyes. It was a wonder that Hermione was still standing there at all, staring apprehensively into Ann’s passive, simpering expression. Tension charged the brief pause with energy.

There was no cause for him to be so surprised; he could see plain as day the corner she'd been backed into. But still, when Hermione spoke the only words she was allowed, it hit him square in the chest, leaving him breathless: “We’ll vote.”

"Alright, let's do that," Ann breathed, as if she were agreeing to someone else's suggestion and not her own. "A show of hands, everyone? All for the school event proposal?"

Harry watched as several hands went up. Justin, Terry, Eddie, Megan, Fay and Scarlet. Of course, all of Ann's followers obediently voted for her, but others were more surprising: Most of the Ravenclaws were in support, while the majority of Hufflepuffs were not. However, the former was decidedly more numerous, causing Harry to cast a worried glance at Ron.

Ann, who had not raised her hand to vote, prompted again, "And all those opposed?"

Harry cast in his support with a hand held high. Ginny, Parvati, Katie, and a few younger Gryffindors all followed suit, as well as Ernie, Hannah, Mandy, and a large swath of the gathered Hufflepuffs.

He didn't notice the problem brewing beside him at first, but a sharp thump to his right turned his attention to an exchange between Ginny and Ron. "What are you doing? " she hissed at him, irate. "Raise your hand, you daft arsehole!"

"Why should I? I don't have an opinion about this; I'm just here for Hermione--"

"Then support her! " she ordered through clenched teeth. "Now! "

Anxious, Harry urgently nudged his friend. Ron shot him a half-hearted glare, but finally lifted his hand, despite looking displeased about it. Ginny just stared at them both, still visibly upset.

Despite their efforts, it was clear that Ann had mustered the support of the majority. Still, the girl made a show of counting the dissenters. "... Eleven and… twelve! That will be seventeen to twelve, then," she remarked, satisfaction evident in her tone. “I suppose the motion passes, after all."

The barb didn’t have the intended effect; Hermione was so deflated that she didn’t seem to have the energy to muster an argument. As Ann continued on, head held high while her companions flanked her on either side, a pit formed in Harry’s stomach. The excited murmur of the girl’s supporters discussing amongst themselves grew louder, a clear end to the meeting having been delineated not by Hermione, but by Ann. In the midst of it all, Harry held on to one singular hope: that Tenenbaum would put a stop to this. That she would cut in one last time to set things right, to give Hermione another chance.

But in the ruckus and deluge of voices, Harry noticed an isolated exchange.

“Miss Granger?” He saw Professor Tenenbaum staring at her, eyebrow raised.

Hermione seemed to understand what hadn’t been asked; her eyes widened as her head shook, frantic.

The woman’s expression relaxed, though remained skeptical. “Are you sure?”

Harry’s chest was heavy as he watched his best friend glance toward the gathered crowd, before she shifted back to the professor. Her eyes fell to the floor and, underpinned by the sharp, tinny laughter of Ann nearby, sank her head in a dispirited nod.