The Essential Ingredient

Chapter 2: A Shoe Fits Two

"There's a spell that must be put on you, Harry, to ensure that you're alright," said Madam Pomfrey.

Draco Malfoy walked past the doorway to the infirmary and seeing Harry, sneered at him.

"But I'm fine," Harry protested to the nurse, pretending he hadn't seen Malfoy.

"Well, we can't be sure of that yet." She bustled around the infirmary, mixing strange liquids together.

"Why not?" he asked apprehensively. "I feel fine."

"We don't know whether you've got any of the magic inside you," she explained impatiently, "and so we must monitor you for a period of time."

"Got any of the what?" He was becoming irritated.

Madam Pomfrey stopped moving, and turned around. "Potter, don't you realize that when You-Know-Who tried to kill you again--"

"His name is Voldemort," Harry snapped, feeling extremely annoyed. "He's already dead, so get used to saying it. And what d'you mean he tried to kill me again? He didn't get a chance--"

She'd jumped when Harry said "Voldemort," but now she had recovered and was staring at him. "You didn't know?" she said before he finished his sentence. Then, after Harry raised his eyebrows at her, she said, "Well, I suppose you wouldn't, since you were unconscious." She turned back to her potions and resumed mixing various things together. "Right before Professor Snape defeated him, You-Know-Who tried to use the Killing Curse again, because you were so weak he was certain it would kill you. Well, he'd forgotten that you were sitting in a chair that connected you to himself, and so the chair absorbed most of the curse and, needless to say, it didn't work."

"Most of the curse?" Harry tapped his foot, waiting for Madam Pomfrey to elaborate.

She took her time. "Yes, well, you were sitting in the chair, you know, so some of his magic did flow into you... And, well, there might be...repercussions of his power in you."

"Like in Dumbledore," Harry said, choking on the headmaster's name.

Pomfrey nodded silently. He couldn't see her expression.

Harry sighed. "Great. Well then, what's this spell?"

"It's going to make you hypersensitive. Any thought, emotion, or sense that you have will be exaggerated by about fifty times."

Harry groaned loudly. Well, he was certainly going to be having a lot of fun with that.

The nurse ignored him and continued. "The point of this is, if any of You-Know-Who's power has indeed remained inside you, this hypersensitivity will allow you to be aware of it, to sense it. Without this spell, you would feel quite normal, and would be unable to detect any foreign magic in you. Now drink this potion." She held out a suspicious-looking purple liquid that fizzed at the top. "It will clear you of all your thoughts for the moment, and you must drink all of it before I do the spell."

Harry grimaced as the potion touched his lips. It was very bland. Not that it tasted horrible, in fact, it tasted a little like cranberry juice. Extremely diluted cranberry juice. But Harry was reluctant to drink it. At last, he pinched his nose and dumped it down his throat, ignoring the slight burning sensation at the back of his mouth.

Madam Pomfrey tapped her wand on his head, muttering a spell, and suddenly Harry found himself very aware that Madam Pomfrey smelled like a Muggle cough drop.

"All done. The potion will wear off in about a month or so, and if you haven't felt anything by then, you should be perfectly fine. You may go now. You have been excused from all the assignments you've missed at the start of term, but you're to be back in class tomorrow." And with that, she turned back to mixing more potions.

He stood there stupidly, for a moment, staring around everything in the infirmary. He had never before noticed that strange, bittersweet taste that the air had. And for the first time, he felt itchy as dust particles floating through the air brushed against his skin. Harry could feel where his scar was on his forehead...before, it had always just felt like any other patch of skin on his body. But now, it was different...he could feel it standing out, as if it were embossed on his forehead. His blood, it seemed, had never pounded so heavily in his veins before. His hair tickled his face, where before, he had only been aware of the strands that brushed across his face.

Harry realized that everyone might think he was acting very odd, and quickly left the infirmary, hurrying to the Gryffindor common room. All along the way, he couldn't help blinking his eyes several times just to feel the muscles around his eyelids contract. Every new hall he walked down, every staircase he climbed, everywhere, there was a different smell. By the time he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, he had already become used to his new senses. No, he told himself. They weren't new senses, they were merely exaggerated. Harry wasn't sure that he liked this change, but there was nothing he could do about it; he would have to deal with it for a month.

* * * * * * *

Harry woke up the next day feeling much better, although Pomfrey had claimed he was "fully recovered" the day before. He yawned, and recalling the night before, felt slightly guilty. After Madam Pomfrey had excused him, he'd gone straight to the Gryffindor common room and sat by the window, reading about Quidditch for the rest of the afternoon. He hadn't felt a bit hungry, and had chosen to skip dinner. When Ron and Hermione finally found him in the common room later that evening, he'd claimed that he was too tired and had marched up the stairs to go to bed without saying much more to his friends.

He pulled open the curtains around his bed, and saw that everyone had already gone down to the Great Hall for breakfast, except Ron, who was sitting on his bed with his legs crossed, reading.

"Took you long enough to wake up," said Ron, yawning.

"Good morning," Harry said, feeling much more amiable than he had the previous night. He rolled out of his bed and began to get dressed. He paused as he pulled on his black robes.

"Hurry up, mate," said Ron, standing up. "Hermione'll be wondering where we are."

"Right." But Harry paused again as a he ran a comb through his hair. He could feel every single tooth of the comb, and he was very aware of the knots in his dark hair that pulled apart as the comb was raked across them. "Mmm, I'd forgotten," he muttered to himself.

"Sorry?" said Ron.

Harry realized that Ron didn't know about the spell, and began explaining to his friend exactly what Madam Pomfrey had told him as they made their way to the Great Hall.

"You-Know-Who's powers might be inside you?" Ron looked horrified.

"Call him Voldemort, Ron," Harry said firmly. "And it's not that hard to believe. I mean, look at--look at Dumbledore."

Ron froze. "What's happening to Dumbledore, exactly?"

Harry stopped walking as well, and turned to look at his friend. "You mean you don't know?" He hadn't told his friends what had transpired that fateful night, but he had assumed that McGonagall had told everyone.

Ron shook his head. "We only know that he's really ill; we couldn't make out any more than that on the Extendable Ears. McGonagall and the rest of the teachers have kept everything hushed up."

Thoughts rushed through Harry's head so fast that he could barely follow all of them. In a faint and distracted voice he said, "I'll tell you as soon as we find Hermione." As they walked, Ron continued to shoot an endless stream of questions at a frowning Harry, who was so pensive he did not hear anything his friend said, and could only shake his head and mutter "not yet."

He wasn't quite sure what to think. Why weren't the teachers telling the students that Dumbledore was dying? Surely it was important for everyone to know... But maybe they were afraid that many parents would pull their students out of Hogwarts once they discovered that Dumbledore may no longer be headmaster. Yes, that must be it...

They walked into the Great Hall, and it took Harry a moment to register that the loud buzz he had heard only a moment ago had suddenly died down and now it seemed that every head was turned his way, and all eyes were glued to him. He avoided meeting any eyes, and surveyed the floor as he and Ron made their way to the Gryffindor table.

As they reached the table and spotted Hermione, conversation among the students returned in hushed tones. Harry had no doubt that they were talking about him. Hermione was talking animatedly to Ginny when he and Ron slipped into the empty seats at her left and right.

"...There's got to be something wrong," Hermione was saying. "I heard McGonagall talking to Sprout just the other day about a special plant for a strange kind of healing potion, and--"

"'Morning," interrupted Ron.

"Hullo," Hermione said, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice.

"We were just talking about Dumbledore," Ginny told him as an owl swooped down in front of Hermione to deliver her copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Well, Harry said he's going to tell us about what's happening," announced Ron.

Hermione and Ginny turned to look at Harry expectantly.

"Er," began Harry uncomfortably. He wasn't very sure that he wanted to talk about Dumbledore right now.

"Go on," Ginny urged him.

Harry glanced at the rest of the table, which now seemed completely unaware of their conversation. He drew a deep breath, and reluctantly began telling them the story, keeping his eyes shut half the time, and barely aware of the words that spouted from his mouth. Everything he said now was just an instinctive account of the events; he did not allow his mind to comprehend what he was saying. He didn't want to relive it all over again for the twentieth time. He was surprised when he finished detailing the traumatic moments that had occurred at Malfoy Manor.

He opened his eyes and relaxed his stiff shoulders, gazing at his friends and feeling a strange indifference. No one spoke for several long-lasting minutes.

"Is...Dumbledore...suffering from aftereffects of the torture?" asked Hermione in a small voice.

Harry stared at her. Shouldn't it be obvious? His throat felt particularly dry as his lips shaped words that did not feel like his own and he said in a faraway voice, "He's dying."

"...Dying?" echoed Ginny, her face pallid.

He nodded, and forced himself to elaborate. "No one is sure what exactly happened that caused it. Madam Pomfrey's theory, based on what Snape told her about the Cage, is that the torture that Voldemort put D-Dumbledore through was beginning to consume his mind and body. But he resisted it, so it caused the power to somehow get trapped inside him."

Ron took a sip from his mug. "And now Pomfrey's put some spell on him--"

"We've heard," said Ginny and Hermione in unison.

"What?" Harry stared at them. But he had only told Ron...

"I found out from Parvati last night," said Hermione quietly. "She was incredulous that I didn't already know about it."

Harry gaped at her. "Parvati--?"

"And I heard it from Luna just before breakfast." Ginny stared at her napkin, being careful not to meet Harry's eyes.

"What?" exclaimed Ron. "But how would Luna and Parvati--how would they know? Harry only just told me this morning!"

"I imagine they found out quite the same way we did," Hermione replied. "They probably heard it from someone else."

"I haven't told anyone else," said Harry angrily.

"Well, don't be angry at us about it," said Ginny huffily. "It's hardly our fault that we found out."

Harry glared at her. "I'm not--"

"If you're talking about the spell on Harry," Neville interrupted, sliding into a seat next to Ginny, "I have a good idea that Malfoy was the one spreading it around."

"Malfoy?" Ron spat. "How--"

"That makes sense," Harry said before he could finish. "He walked past the infirmary yesterday when I was talking to Pomfrey."

"So he was eavesdropping," Ron concluded darkly. "Shouldn't he have been arrested for being a Death Eater? What's he doing at Hogwarts?"

Harry shrugged.

* * * * * * *

As Harry entered the dungeons for double Potions with the Slytherins that afternoon, many jeering faces turned to smirk at him. He ignored them and took his seat between Ron and a scowling Hermione.

"You're late, Potter," said Snape, sneering at him. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

"But I--"

"No excuses. Class began nine minutes ago." Snape turned around and picked up a vial of gray powder that resembled ash.

"I know how to tell time!" Harry snarled, the anger pounding within his head, threatening to spill out. He felt an uncontrollable wave of rage overwhelm him and had to restrain himself from pulling out his wand.

Snape turned back to face the class, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Ten more points, for your cheek. And as you have missed the beginning of the lesson, you shall have extra homework."

Harry opened his mouth to argue but Hermione gave him a rather painful stamp on the foot and he shut it, shooting an angry glance at her.

"Now," said the professor. "Who can tell me, very specifically, what this is?" He raised the vial for the class to see.

Hermione raised her hand eagerly, and for once, he nodded for her to speak. "It's Pixie Dust. It--"

"Incorrect," Snape said lazily.

The effect of this word on the students was enormous. No one could remember, in all their years at Hogwarts, any occasion where Hermione Granger had answered a question incorrectly. Hermione herself looked shocked, and the students whispered to each other in hushed tones. Draco Malfoy looked positively delighted, and all the Slytherins snickered.

The professor waited for the whispers to subside before continuing. "Five points from Gryffindor." He looked at Hermione. "This is Bat Pixie Dust. I said to be specific."

"That's unfair!" said Harry furiously just as Hermione gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs.

Snape's eyes glittered. "And another five points for calling out, Potter."

They spent the rest of the lesson experimenting with the Bat Pixie Dust by adding it to different solutions and recording the effects.

"Your assignment," said Snape at the end of class, "is to write a two-part essay concerning the observations you recorded today, and the thirteen uses of Bat Pixie Dust. It must be at least two feet long, due next Tuesday. And Potter, you are to also give me a foot-long essay about the differences between healing powders and healing potions. Class dismissed."

Harry shoved out of the door angrily, with Hermione and Ron hurrying to follow him.

"You shouldn't have let him get to you, Harry," Hermione chided him anxiously.

"He just took thirty points from Gryffindor!" exclaimed Harry. "And it wasn't fair to take points just because you weren't specific enough!"

"Harry, you shouldn't--"

But Hermione didn't get to finish speaking, because just as they rounded the corner, they collided with a group of four or five Slytherins.

Harry fell backwards into Ron, and saw Hermione trip out of the corner of his eye.

"Watch where you're going!" Harry shot at them.

"Terribly sorry," drawled a familiar voice. "We all know how sensitive you are, Potter. Wouldn't want to do damage to your head. It's not as if you can spare many more brain cells." They cackled with laughter at the stupid jeer.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Ron said, getting up and brushing his robes.

"Come on, you two," said Hermione, pulling them both away from the group.

"That half-witted git," Harry growled.

"Ignore him, Harry," Hermione said very firmly.

Harry turned to glare at the group of Slytherins.

"Let's go." Ron pulled on Harry's arm.

"Wait. Look."

Ron and Hermione turned to follow Harry's eyes, which were watching Malfoy and his friends. Another group of Slytherins had rounded the corner, led by Mavros Blakrith, who was a year below Harry.

"Draco," leered Blakrith.

"Hello, Mavros," replied Malfoy coldly, his eyes flashing.

Harry saw the stiffness in his posture and was very curious. What caused this hostility to exist between the members of the same house?

"Isn't Blakrith..." Ron whispered uncertainly.

"Yeah, he's a Slytherin," said Harry.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Do any acts of nobleness lately?" spat Blakrith. The Slytherins standing beside him glared menacingly at Draco and the people who accompanied him.

"Bugger off, Blakrith," said Malfoy. He turned around. "Let's go."

* * * * * * *

"What was that all about?" said Ron once they returned to the common room.

"Dunno," said Harry, frowning.

"I wonder if Malfoy..." Hermione murmured pensively.

"What?" Ron and Harry said in unison.

"Hang on, I've got to go check." She hurried up to the girl's dormitories.

"There she goes again." Ron rolled his eyes.

When Hermione returned a moment later, Harry and Ron were playing a game of chess.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "Blakrith's parents are both Death Eaters."

Ron yawned. "So? We always knew there was something funny about him."

"What do you mean, 'so'? Don't you think it's strange for Malfoy and Blakrith to be enemies if both their parents are Death Eaters?"

"Maybe Blakrith's mad because his parents have been caught by the Ministry, but Malfoy's dad hasn't been caught yet."

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron. "Check your facts, Ron. Malfoy's dad's been caught, and the Blakriths are still on the run."

"Well then, maybe it's the other way around--"

"I think that maybe Malfoy's not as evil as you think," Hermione interrupted.

"But Hermione," Harry argued, "he's already a Death Eater."

"He could have done what Snape did," she said.

Ron snorted. "I doubt it."

"Well, just because you doubt it, it doesn't mean you're right!" she snapped at him, and stormed out of the common room. Harry had a good idea that she was heading for the library.

"What's with her?" Ron said, frowning after her.

"She's angry," Harry said needlessly, and moved his pawn forward.

"Huh. Must be the wrong time of the month."

* * * * * * *

As the days progressed, the taunts that were directed at Harry grew worse and worse. It seemed as if the entire school was aware of the hypersensitivity spell that had been placed on him. He found himself anticipating with dread, as he walked into each of his classes, the jeers that would be thrown at him.

"Ignore them," Hermione had to constantly remind him. "They're just trying to wind you up."

It was hard for him to concentrate on his homework, because even some of the Gryffindors had joined in sneering at him, and he could no longer use the common room as a sanctuary from the taunts of his classmates. Even out on the Quidditch pitch he was distracted. He knew his peers felt that it was his fault that something was wrong with Dumbledore, and many had lowered their opinions of him just because he had not been the one to defeat Voldemort. No one bothered to keep their voices down as they spoke about him behind his back.

"I feel sorry for him," he heard one third year say one day.

"Don't," her friend had replied sharply. "It's all his fault that Dumbledore's ill. He deserves it."

"Well, I suppose so..."

Harry had pushed past them roughly, and hadn't stopped to apologize when he caused one of the girls to drop her armload of books.

At night he had horrible dreams of Ron and Hermione saying similar things to him and telling him they were very disappointed to him. In one nightmare, he dreamed that Ron was sneering at him and saying he couldn't be his friend anymore.

"You killed me, Harry," the ghost of Dumbledore said to him in another dream. "You killed me," his ghost kept repeating as it followed Harry wherever he went. "How are you going to pay for what you have done?"

Harry had woken up from that dream shouting and thrashing with his sheets twisted about him.

"Ask Pomfrey for a dreamless sleep potion," Hermione said when Ron told her that Harry was having nightmares.

"No," Harry replied in an irritated voice. "She'll ask Snape to make it for her and then he'll want to know what she needs it for."

"But Harry, you're not sleeping well," Hermione protested. "Don't think I didn't catch you napping in History of Magic yesterday!"

"I'll be fine," he said shortly, and his friends didn't pursue the subject.

He soon solved the problem by sleeping as little as he possibly could. Every night, after everyone else had gone to bed, he crept down to the common room and sat by the fire, reading or doing homework. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, but Harry still managed to stay awake.

"They need to serve tea," he said one morning at breakfast, stifling a yawn.

"They serve pumpkin juice because it's a good source of energy," Hermione told him.

Harry snorted derisively.

Hermione peered at him closely. "You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

"'Course I have," he said, not meeting her eyes.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried glance.

"What?" he said defiantly. "I haven't been snoring in Binns's class lately, if you didn't notice."

"You don't look very good, Harry," Hermione said quietly.

He sighed irritably. "I am perfectly fine."

* * * * * * *

He sat in the corner of the Slytherin common room, reading the latest book he had taken out of the library. Corman's Guide to the Dark Arts. It had been in the Restricted Section, and he had used a forged note from Snape to check it out. No one spoke to him as they passed in and out of the common room. He preferred it that way. A few of his classmates glared at him as they walked past his chair, but he ignored them, and appeared to be engrossed in his reading.

The reason why the Slytherins were disgruntled (perhaps 'disgruntled' was a bit of an understatement), was because a week ago, Blakrith had told everyone in the common room that Draco had betrayed the Dark Lord. They had refused to believe him at first, but when Draco remained silent, they soon they realized it was true. Most of the Slytherins, whose parents had supported the Death Eaters or had been Death Eaters themselves, had thrown him disgusted looks. The few who were from families that had always been loyal to Dumbledore did not speak to him for fear of angering the rest of the Slytherin students.

"Traitor," he still heard muttered often. Many of the students jeered at him at every opportunity they could get. It also appeared that the news had leaked out of the Slytherin common room, and there were many other students who knew that he had reformed. He hadn't yet decided whether this was a good or bad thing, and he himself neither smiled nor sneered at anyone.

In time, he became a pariah among the Slytherins. Sometimes he would go for days without saying a single word. The only people he ever spoke to were Snape and Dumbledore; he had no friends and his father had disowned him months ago, after a year of suspecting his betrayal. Lucius had finally confirmed his son's disloyalty to the Dark Lord when he discovered a letter on Draco's writing desk that he had carelessly forgotten to burn. The letter had been addressed to him from the headmaster, and although the contents had erased themselves once Draco read it, the name of the headmaster had remained on the outside of the parchment and that had been quite enough evidence for his father.

Draco had wondered, at the time, why his father had not killed him, or why his father not called the Dark Lord to punish him. But he soon realized that his father enjoyed seeing him chased, enjoyed knowing that he had become a marked man. His father knew that when Draco left Malfoy Manor he would go straight to Dumbledore, where he would be offered a sanctuary, and where he would also go directly into the service of the headmaster. And he knew his father would not be punished for letting him go, because the Dark Lord would find a perverse pleasure in hunting him down and punishing him for his traitorous deeds. Draco was also well aware of the fact that the Dark Lord would have waited to kill him, because it would have been useful, somehow, for him to know that Draco was one of those that served Dumbledore.

But now, the Dark Lord had been defeated, and his father was in Azkaban. Draco was uncertain of what had happened to his mother, but he did not care very much. He hardly cared for anything anymore. Days passed him, one by one, each one exactly the same. Grades no longer really mattered to him, as he no longer needed to please his father, but he continued to work hard in school, because his good grades were all that remained for him to achieve.

And although grades were that all his life had become now, he failed to recieve the marks he once earned. The more his peers treated him as an outcast, the harder he found it was to study. He knew he should take advantage of the hours of silence that he now had every day to study hard, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not concentrate in class. Listening to the professors would mean hearing everything else as well, all the horrible words spoken behind his back, all the irritating taunts sent his way. He found it much simpler to shut everything out, and heard neither jeer nor information.

Lately, he had reached a new obstacle. The students of other houses who had heard of his reform now blamed him for making Dumbledore ill.

"He pretended to betray You-Know-Who to work for Dumbledore, and then he really betrayed Dumbledore," Draco heard a fourth year say about him one day. "And that's why there's something wrong with Dumbledore."

So that was why students who were not Slytherins were also treating him like dung. They thought he had betrayed Dumbledore. The idea made him feel sick. Soon, Snape noticed something was different about him.

At the end of one Potions lesson, the professor asked for him to stay behind. "Class dismissed. Mr. Malfoy, I would like a word in my office."

The other students gave him dark glares as the passed his work table. He ignored them, drew a deep breath, and followed Snape into his office.

"What has been going on?" the professor asked him, his concern peeking through the scowl on his face.

"Nothing," Draco replied.

"You haven't been receiving your usual marks." Snape gave him a hard look.

Draco shrugged and surveyed his feet.

"Is it too difficult for you to have lessons among your peers?" Snape raised an eyebrow.

"No." Draco shuffled his feet impatiently, still looking down. He wished the professor would let him go.

Snape said nothing for several moments. At last, Draco raised his eyes to meet his gaze.

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You are dismissed."

Draco could not discern from the professor's tone what he had concluded. Well, whatever it was that Snape thought, he didn't care. He left wordlessly and headed back to the Slytherin common room.

* * * * * * *

"Potter, I would like to speak with you," McGonagall said at the end of a Transfigurations lesson.

Harry looked up and nodded, shoving his books into his backpack.

"We'll meet you in the common room," Hermione said to him as she and Ron left the classroom.

He walked up to her desk after everyone had filed out the door.

"Potter, why have you not been sleeping?" She peered over the top of her spectacles at him.

At this question, Harry opened his mouth angrily.

"Miss Granger informed me," McGonagall said before he could speak. "She has also told me that she noticed you have had difficulty concentrating, lately. The reason, she believes, is the distress your classmates have been causing you."

"I have been perfectly fine!" he exclaimed with a scowl. "There's nothing wrong with my concentration!"

"Potter, your grades have dropped."

He glared at her.

"If you would like to become an Auror, Potter, you must maintain very high grades."

"I know that," he growled.

She stood. "Whether you care to admit it or not, the trouble you have been receiving from your classmates has been bothering you. To solve this problem, I have drawn up a new schedule for you. During the day, you will have a study session with Professor Lupin, whom I have invited back to Hogwarts, and in the evenings, you will receive private lessons from each of your professors, who have agreed to this schedule."

"Professor Lupin's coming back to teach?" But that was wonderful news! He could replace Tidrum, the clumsy professor who was currently teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"No, Professor Lupin is returning to assist you in your private study sessions," she replied. "You will be given bookwork to do, and he shall be there in case you have questions. However," and she lowered her voice as she said this, "he will be in and out, because he will also be doing work for the Order."

"But...Voldemort's gone. We don't need the Order anymore," Harry said, frowning.

"Some Death Eaters may try to take the Dark Lord's place now that he is gone. There is still work to be done. But we must not speak anymore of this issue here." Her voice returned to her normal speaking volume. "Your new schedule begins on Monday. Your study sessions will be held in the classroom directly opposite mine. You are to go there at the same time that your classes would normally begin."

"Professor, could you arrange for Professor Lupin to teach me Defense Against The Dark Arts?" Harry said hopefully.

She smiled at him. "Perhaps. You are dismissed, Potter."

Harry turned to leave. As he stepped into the doorway, McGonagall spoke.

"And one more thing," she said from behind her desk. "There will be one other student following the same schedule I have given you."

"Who?" Harry turned around.

"Draco Malfoy," she replied, appearing completely unconcerned.

He looked horrified. "But Professor--"

"Goodbye, Potter," she said firmly.

* * * * * * *

Author's Note: If you enjoy my writing, please check out my website at www.airiviel.vze.com and my group at groups.yahoo.com/group/AirivielFiction!