Unplottable

11 - Harry

Harry drew the hood of his cloak down almost to the tip of his nose, once again grateful that Madam Malkin had persuaded him to purchase a hooded model. The weather was just the way one would expect from the end of a Scottish October: It was rainy, drizzly, at times only foggy and damp, but then again, like on that particular morning, exceedingly showery; in short, it was very, very moist. Harry shivered as he walked along the path to Professor Varlerta's building together with the other students, supervised by the teacher herself. A sideways glance at Ron, however, told him that without his waterproof hood, he would probably feel much more miserable. Behind him, he could overhear Lavender complain to Parvati and Seamus: How in the world could Professor Varlerta schedule her defence practice outside on this particular day? Hermione, as always siding with the teacher, interrupted her classmates with the remark that when Varlerta had made plans for this lesson, she could not have known that it would be raining. Parvati just snorted, and Harry had to agree with her - these days it was always raining, so the weather could hardly have come as a surprise to the teacher.

On the 'defence practice pitch', as Varlerta termed a patch of slightly scorched lawn kept a respectable distance from her building, Harry saw a wizard he did not know - tall, dark-skinned, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore neither cloak nor robe, but rather trousers and a jumper which both looked padded; his black, quite curly but short-cropped hair stuck to his scalp with dampness, but he did not seem to care. Rather, his air was one of complete ease; he greeted the Gryffindor sixth years with a casual wave of his left hand. The right one, holding an impressively long wand, rested against his thigh, underlining the impression of relaxation and poise.

"Students, may I introduce to you Mr. Ambrose Curtis," Varlerta formally addressed her class, above her head an invisible device that kept her dry. "Like me, he is an expert in defence magic; unlike me, his specialty is one-to-one wanded combat, or duelling with a serious edge to it, if you like. He has consented to give you further training, training that Professor Dumbledore and I have decided you might need. I expect you all to show him your best behaviour, as he is a guest at this school, not a teacher whose job it is to maintain discipline among you. What Mr. Curtis has to teach you might prove highly useful, if not essential to you; please make sure you all benefit from his stay with us as well as you possibly can."

For this little speech, Curtis gave Varlerta a broad grin, displaying two rows of very even, very white teeth. "So you think without your little pep talk, I would not be able to master your students because they would make mincemeat out of me?" he asked good-naturedly.

Varlerta blushed rather deeply. "I'm sorry, Ambrose, I -" she stopped in mid-sentence, probably conscious that any apology would only make matters worse for her. Then she grinned, too. "So be it, they are all yours," she said, and with an inviting wave of her hand, as well as with taking a backwards step, indicated that Curtis would take over.

"Alright then," the dark-skinned wizard said and let his glance wander over the semi-circle of wet, shivering students. "Today, we will go through some preparation and maybe do a little proper duelling, as they politely call it at this all-too-peaceful school." Varlerta must have given him a warning look, because he quickly added: "Mind you, I certainly do not mean to glorify combat or violence; in fact, quite the opposite is the case. Just like your teacher," another glance at Varlerta, "I believe that violence can never be an acceptable means to any end. Violence reaps violence, and people get hurt, all too often because of something as meaningless and trivial as so-called glory. However, as you may all know, we are heading into difficult times, more difficult than they already are, we fear. As little as it is acceptable to teach you combat techniques as a means for your personal little power trips, it is not advisable to leave you unguarded against combat techniques an enemy might use against you. I am talking of the followers of Lord Voldemort, of course; my aim is to teach you self-defence in a wanded fight against Death Eaters."

Curtis' revelations, or maybe his frank use of names, were greeted with complete silence. Harry felt his throat go dry, and he wondered why. Yes, he had fought a basilisk and countless monsters in a labyrinth staged for such fights; he had Countered a curse against a faceless mass of Death Eaters, and most of all, he had fought Lord Voldemort in many forms. However, the idea of facing a Death Eater, a human opponent, with the intention of fighting against him, maybe even killing him, was another matter. His fellow Gryffindors, none of them as used to fighting as he was, seemed to be uncomfortable as well. He saw Ron shuffling his feet, while Hermione was clenching her wand so hard that her knuckles had turned white, and Neville, who seemed to have learned a lot about Defence Against the Dark Arts during the last year, had turned slightly green.

"If any of you now feel afraid and shun the thought of learning such things, I assure you that you are completely right," Varlerta said, looking at her students in turn quite seriously. "If you weren't afraid, it would mean you were foolishly and unrealistically self-assured; if you were enthusiastic about learning to harm others, it would make me seriously doubt your character. I am rather glad to see you are not happy about the things you hear. However, I personally prefer the thought of you harming or killing Death Eaters to the thought of Death Eaters killing you, and I believe you will agree with me so far. What I want you to learn is self-defence and nothing else - nothing to attack others who aren't attacking you, no large-scale combat magic, no curses - or hardly any at all," she added as an afterthought.

Curtis made a face at her, but when he turned back to the students, he was serious again. "She is right, of course," he told them. "Never mind the fact that she talks like a Hufflepuff," he added with another wide grin.

The dark-skinned wizard asked the students to stand in two even rows, to keep their backs straight and to plant their feet firmly on the ground about a foot apart, holding their wands outstretched before them in their wand hand. In turn, he corrected their posture and their grip on their wands in a manner that strongly reminded Harry of his first few charms lessons; he also inquired the name of each student, telling them he would try to remember them. In the back row, Harry could watch him for a while before Curtis came to him. He felt a bit silly standing up straight and trying to look like nothing could overthrow him while in truth he felt he would be down with flu in a manner of minutes, but nevertheless he listened to all the things Curtis said to his fellow students. Seamus Finnigan was advised not to keep his knees too straight, but to retain a certain flexibility; Neville Curtis criticised for gripping his wand too hard, saying an enemy could see his nervousness just by looking at his hand. To Lavender, he said: "Don't just stand there like you are hoping for a shoulder to lean on. You look like a breeze could throw you over. Show some determination!"

Straightening his back and keeping his knees relaxed, Harry watched Curtis approach Hermione. Instead of asking her name, however, he greeted her with it and said it was so nice to meet her again. Harry and Ron exchanged glances. Ron did not look overly pleased.

Curtis criticised a few minor things with Hermione's, Ron's and Harry's stances - Ron, he said, had a slight tendency to stoop a little, maybe because he was tying to escape the general wetness, while he told Harry he should try not to hold his breath when concentrating on his posture. Then he walked to the front of the group and addressed all of them again:

"Both feet firmly on the ground, your body straight, but relaxed, your breathing normal and in no way hurried or forced, your wand in front of you, gripped firmly but not too firmly in its lower third - that's how you want to stand while expecting an attack. A good stand, the support of the ground underneath, the feeling that energy can flow right from the ground into your centre, and from your centre through your arm into your wand - there's nothing like it to withstand a curse. Now, I suppose you will all have a question for me." He raised his thick, but evenly arched eyebrows in an expression of expectation. Of course, Hermione raised her hand.

"Miss Granger, please, go ahead," Curtis said pleasantly.

"You will probably expect us to ask about what kind of centre you mean, but that's not my question," she said a little breathlessly.

The ghost of a smile played around Curtis' dark lips. "What's your question, then?" he asked.

"If we are expecting an attack, why do we just stand there? Why don't we run away or go for cover somewhere?" she asked.

Harry heard Dean snort and Parvati giggle; Ron hissed "coward" out of the corner of his mouth at Hermione, then sneezed loudly. Varlerta, he could see, was hiding a grin behind her hand. Hermione blushed, but did not look down.

"Indeed, a very good question," Curtis replied nonplussed. "As a matter of fact, if you have a chance to go for cover, I would certainly advise you to do so. Many of us probably wouldn't mind being a hero, but I personally can see very little point in being a dead hero. Sometimes, of course, you can't go for cover, because you're trapped, or because there's others you have to protect, or because - there's loads of reasons, as a matter of fact, and loads of situations where you might need just the stuff you will learn here. Is that good enough for you, Miss Granger?"

"Sure," she said with a smile, obviously glad that he hadn't made fun of her.

"Now for that centre of you which I mentioned," Curtis continued, "this is a task I have for you, a kind of homework, if you will. I want you to find out, where in your body, as far as you feel it yourself, your magic strength resides. This is not a teacher's question where I will check whether you have done well or poorly on it; rather your skills at defence may be influenced by your willingness to take this task seriously. People do feel differently about this - some feel that magic resides in the head, some place it in their throat, some in their lungs and some - well, a bit deeper down, I suppose." There was humour in Curtis' eyes, but he did not elaborate. "What I want you to do is to try and find your centre, find it all for yourself, and then next week we will - what in Keranta's name is that?"

Curtis stared past them into the direction of the forest; he seemed displeased, almost shocked. Like other students, Harry turned to see what the wizard was looking at. He smiled and stretched out his hand to the newcomer. Trust that beast to look impressive even when wet - with his stringy, damp mane, glistening fur and ruffled feathers, the Thestral looked like the incarnation of a thunderstorm. He neighed gently and nuzzled Harry's fingers. Meanwhile, Lavender sighed longingly, while Parvati warned her to stay off: Harry's stray pet was still regarded as an obscure threat by most of his class mates.

"Haven't you seen him?" Varlerta asked Curtis. "He's been following Harry around since the beginning of the school year. Isn't he a handsome little horsie?"

"Harry Potter, of all people? Goodness, why does Dumbledore allow that thing to stay? It's like he was provoking fate," Curtis said in obvious dismay. It seemed he was not too eager to meet the 'handsome little horsie'. The Thestral, who seemed to be able to smell dislike at a distance, cast a sidelong glance at Curtis; for a fraction of a second, his ears flipped backwards. Then he continued rubbing his muddy nose on Harry's cheek, causing Hermione to offer Harry a self-cleaning handkerchief.

Varlerta shrugged in response to Curtis' questions, but asked Harry to send the Thestral off. Harry told the beast to go back into the forest, and for once the winged stallion obeyed, albeit with the slightly condescending air of a free creature doing Harry a favour. Shivering, the Gryffindor sixth years turned back to the dark-skinned wizard, expecting him to continue the lesson. However, Curtis seemed to have lost interest. "You better run up to your dormitory for dry clothes and some Pepperup Potion," he told them a bit abruptly and gave Varlerta a meaningful look. After a moment of hesitation, the teacher nodded assent and closed the lesson early, asking Curtis to come into her building for a little chat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mental he is, absolutely mental," Ron insisted while spell-drying his hair in the comfortably steamy atmosphere of the boys' shower room. Harry pulled last year's Weasley jumper over his dry t-shirt, feeling he needed a bit of extra warmth underneath his uniform robe. His wet clothes lay on the floor in a wrinkled heap; Harry kicked a damp stray sock into its general direction, then stooped to gather up the lot.

"Why? I mean, it was nice of him to let us change, right?"

Ron sneezed. "Bloody right you are," he said, rummaging through his pockets for a handkerchief. "Completely kind of him, to give us at least a slight chance to avoid death this time. Can't believe he let us practice out in the rain, and what's more, for no reason whatsoever. It's not like we did anything dangerous today which we couldn't have done in Varlerta's classroom."

"I do have the impression that Curtis stopped the lesson short when he saw the Thestral, so maybe he was going to have us do something dangerous afterwards," Harry said slowly. "I just wonder why the Thestral scared him so much. I mean, Curtis is supposed to be some kind of heroic He-Wizard, right?"

Ron only frowned in reply, whether because he did not get the joke, because he was still apprehensive about the Thestral himself, or because of a general dislike of Curtis, Harry did not know. Suddenly Harry thought Ron looked ill, so he offered to get him another prophylactic glass of Pepperup Potion. Ron declined monosyllabically, gathered up his stuff and indicated with a turn of his head that he was ready to leave the shower room. Harry nodded and led the way out and up into the empty dormitory, where both boys deposited their wet clothes in the laundry bin for the house-elves.

"Have you noticed how that - that guy was looking at Hermione?" Ron asked.

It took Harry a few moments to realise Ron was once more referring to Curtis. "Nope," he answered truthfully and bent down to tie the laces of his trainers. "Was he looking at her?"

"He knew her," Ron hissed, probably induced to keep his voice down by the audible approach of Dean and Seamus. "He knew her name, and said it was nice to see her again, right? So, can you tell me where they met?"

Harry was at a loss for words. It was true, Curtis had uttered something to that extent, but to Harry it hadn't sounded remarkable in any way. Admittedly, he had no logical answer to Ron's question in store - as far as he knew, Curtis had never been to Hogwarts before, nor did he keep a shop in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade; he did not seem to be a regular guest at the Burrow, and it was highly unlikely that he was a friend of Hermione's parents. However, Harry was pretty sure that it was none of his business, and as far as he was concerned, Curtis' acquaintance with his friend was not threatening in any way. Glad that Ron dropped the subject in the presence of Dean and Seamus, Harry said: "I'm really glad Herbology this afternoon is cancelled - I would hate to walk to the greenhouses in that kind of rain. And of course, given the choice between a class and a feast, I'd always choose the feast." Ron did not reply, but seemed slightly broody; idly, he picked a few threads from his robes. Eager to get Ron to talk of something else, something pleasant for a change, Harry added a bit awkwardly: "And then - then there's the Hogsmeade weekend coming up. Of course, the weather will probably be no better than today, but the butterbeer will help."

Ron looked down at his feet; Harry noticed the unbecoming holes in Ron's second pair of sneakers, the pair that wasn't soaked through. Hardly audible, Ron muttered: "It gives me the creeps to go."

Harry had to admit he had put his foot in it. Hogsmeade might just not be the best way to cheer Ron up at the moment. The last visit had been rather dreary. They had visited George at Zonko's, where he had started to work in September. Ron's elder brother had done his best to appear cheerful, had demonstrated some outrageous new inventions to a group of students, had laughed and joked as it was required of him at his place of employment, but even a blind person would have seen that his face was drawn with worry. Later he had accompanied Harry, Ron and Hermione to the house he had rented for Fred and himself, a small straw-covered half-timbered cottage. Politely, Hermione had complimented George for his choice of place, and Ron and Harry had hurried to agree: In itself, the place might have looked pleasant. As it was, a cloud of gloom seemed to hang above the cottage; the slightly messy rooms seemed lightless, and somehow the air smelled of sickness in an unidentifiable, but nevertheless persistent way.

They had found Fred on an armchair next to the fireplace, two blankets drawn around his bony shoulders and still shivering in the stuffy, warm air. When he saw them, he distorted his emaciated face into a smile and said it was cool of them to come; he apologised to George for not doing the dishes and picking up the living room, as he had said he would. "No problem," George replied, his eyes averted, and took a laundry basket off a sofa so that Harry, Ron and Hermione could sit. Then he said he would make them some tea. Ron placed a large bag of recently acquired Honeyduke's sweets on the table, perhaps an attempt to help his brother play host to them. It was obvious that it was all too much for George - starting his first job and working for two, always promising that his brother would get well soon, and all the while caring for Fred and doing the housework. Molly Weasley, Harry knew, had offered her sons to move in with them and help where she could, but the twins had declined; neither had they accepted Angelina's offer that she'd come in to help now and then. Now Harry wondered whether that had been wise: If he had ever seen a household desperately in need of a house elf, a mother, or even a dedicated friend, it had to be this one. Fred, in the meantime, seemed listless and passive, obviously trying, but for some unknown reason too weak to even do the dishes. Both twins were pretending they could handle the situation, but did not fool Harry, Ron or Hermione. The three of them had left earlier than they had planned: Somehow real conversation would not pick up, and after a while, their strained small talk had become too much of an effort. For days, Ron's misery had shown at almost every minute; Harry could have kicked himself for thoughtlessly invoking his friend's worries at an inconvenient time like this.

"Let's go down to the common room," he finally suggested a bit helplessly, hoping that Ron might stop brooding in the presence of others. Without a word, Ron trotted to the door and down the stairs; Harry followed him.

"Well, I think he's kind of cute. He's got a good body, at any rate." Harry recognised Rhonda Celp's voice; her remark was answered by a buzz of giggles and agreeing noises. A few sixth and fifth year girls, it seemed, were slouched down on the sofa next to the door, practising 'girl talk', as the Gryffindor boys derisively called it. Ron stopped dead in his tracks and took a step backwards to the staircase, obviously unwilling to enter the common room. He turned to Harry, who stood, a little bewildered, on the bottom stair, but when Ron raised a finger to his lips, Harry did not disobey. Ron, it seemed, was planning to eavesdrop.

"It's not only how he looks, it's the way he moves - he's got that certain something, don't you think, Herm?" That was Parvati's voice, accompanied by a cloud of sighs. Hermione, who, if Harry wasn't mistaken, hated to be called 'Herm', took her sweet time in answering. Harry could practically feel the tension in Ron's shoulders, could sense his friend hold his breath.

"He's alright," Hermione finally replied briefly and vaguely. The other girls chuckled.

"Isn't he kind of, er, old?" Ginny asked tentatively, only to be deluged in female laughter, waves of giggles on which words like pot, kettle and, well, black, swam like corks. Harry knew that most people would not be able to work out Hermione's hint, but was still amazed by her sudden lack of safety concerns: Somehow the other girls seemed to know there was something to know about Ginny, which in Harry's opinion was already a bad sign.

"I don't think Curtis is too old. At least he's got experience," Parvati replied nonplussed.

"Indeed - experience with wanded combat," Hermione added soberly.

"Oh Herm, you have the dirtiest mind of all of us," Parvati retorted tartly, which resulted in increased hilarity on the sofa. Ron turned on his heels and fled up the stairs, almost knocking over Harry in the process. Harry followed his friend, who could just avoid bumping into Dean, Seamus and a bewildered second year boy.

"So what was that supposed to be?" Harry asked a little breathlessly back at the door to the sixth years boys' dormitory. Ron scowled and remained silent; he did not display any desire to discuss the conversation among the girls, or his own conduct. For about a minute, neither of them said a word; they just stood there.

"Okay, that's kind of silly, let's go back down," Harry finally urged. Ron did not reply or move. Harry grew impatient; "it's almost time to go to the feast," he added. Of course, he could have left without Ron, but did not really want to, as he did not see any reason why his friend should not come down to the common room with him. For one thing, they had not been caught eavesdropping, so there was no cause for Ron to be embarrassed. For another, it was Parvati who had been practically drooling over Curtis, not... Hermione.... Hermione....

"You're not jealous, are you?" Harry asked without thinking. What he had meant to say was that he didn't think Hermione fancied the older, dark-skinned wizard, so there was no need for worry; however, he stopped short when he saw how even his first sentence had upset Ron. The red-haired, lanky boy stormed down the stairs again; once again, Harry followed, promising himself that this was the absolutely last time he would pass this particular staircase until he had properly devoured tonight's Halloween feast.

Hermione had obviously been waiting for them in the common room; Harry noticed she had rolled her hair into a tight bun and changed into a new robe in a black so bluish it almost, but not quite broke the school dress code. When she saw Ron and Harry, she started towards them, but was put off by the way in which Ron rapidly walked past without looking at her. Harry slowed down to fall into pace with her. Together, they took the staircase down towards the Great Hall.

"So what is wrong with him now?" Hermione asked without any effort to keep her voice down. Ron, Harry could see, was a couple of steps ahead of them, walking behind Parvati and Seamus, who were recently rumoured to be a couple.

A proper and truthful reply to Hermione's question would have been a breach of trust, so Harry said evasively: "I see you've managed to get yourself dry again after today's glorious combat lesson."

Hermione snorted, obviously seeing through his attempt to change the subject only too clearly. "You mean Ron is still wet behind his ears? Goodness, I was hoping he'd finally be entering puberty by now."

Harry could not help laughing; the joke might not have been up to Hermione's usual standards, but perhaps laughing was a way to release some of the tension that had been building up within him. The two friends were still grinning and chuckling at each other when they saw Ron, waiting for them at the door to the Great Hall. He was white as snow and stared at them. Then, in a few seconds that felt like eons, he pulled his wand out of his pocket, pointed it at Harry's heart and hissed in a strange and alien voice: "Avada Kedavra!"

Harry saw something green shooting towards his chest; the impact felt like being hit by a Bludger. His knees must have given way, because he found himself on the floor in a position between crouched and sprawled, vomiting violently on Lavender's suede shoes. Nearby, people were screaming, their faces rotating around him like an eerie Merry-Go-Round; Seamus was asking whether he was alright. Harry wasn't sure whether to nod or to shake his head in reply to this question, until another wave of nausea and the resulting, unpleasant waste product answered for him.

Someone, Professor McGonagall, as it turned out, ordered the students to support Harry on all fours; within seconds, Madam Pomfrey was at his side, forcing a potion down his throat. Harry retched and choked, but managed to swallow the remedy. Soon, he could sit up again, dizzy, nauseous and wretched, but certainly not seriously hurt, let alone dead. When the world stopped spinning around him, he looked for his friends and saw Hermione sit next to a heap of clothes that had to be Ron. She was holding his hand in her right, while wiping her eyes with her left sleeve; softly and imploringly, she said Ron's name. Madam Pomfrey was examining him; next to her, Professor McGonagall, Snape and Varlerta were rapidly talking in hushed voices, their faces decidedly anxious. Harry wanted to call out to Hermione, to ask her what had happened, when the memory hit him like a second impact. Ron had tried the Death Curse on Harry. His friend had tried to kill him.

Professor McGonagall conjured up two stretchers and levitated the unconscious Ron onto one of them. Harry scrambled to his feet and refused to be placed on the other one, claiming he was feeling much better. Compared to the option of being dead, he was feeling hardly worse than 'slightly sick', in the physical sense at least; his legs were shaking, and he felt as if hoofed by a centaur, but at least he could stand properly. He even managed a wobbly, awkward apology for ruining Lavender's shoes. His mind, however, was reeling. When Professor Varlerta and Madam Pomfrey started walking towards the hospital wing, Ron floating in front of them on his stretcher, Hermione put a hand on his arm. "Let's go with them," she said. Their eyes met; Hermione looked very serious, but composed. Harry cast a look back to the Great Hall, where a Flitwick was trying very hard to re-install order; he saw a couple of house elves removing his mess from the floor and from Lavender's shoes. The last thing he wanted to do now was eat a feast. He nodded to Hermione, and when she offered him her shoulder for support, he leant on her.

Madam Pomfrey must have misunderstood his intentions in coming to the hospital wing, because she ordered him onto one of the side beds and said she would be with him as soon as she could. As soon as the two witches had disappeared into the curtained alcove with Ron, Harry got up and swayed to the washbasin, where he thoroughly rinsed his mouth and face. Hermione was meanwhile muttering a strange formula; when Harry turned to her, he could see that she had bewitched the curtain so that they could see through it. Her eyes were fixed onto Madam Pomfrey taking Ron's pulse, while Varlerta stood on the side and watched. Harry sat down next to her on a strategically placed cot to watch as well.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked very quietly. It suddenly occurred to Harry that she hadn't asked this question before.

"Fine, no problem, why do you ask?" he replied with a sarcastic edge in his voice. Hermione only nodded quietly, her eyes fixed on Madam Pomfrey, her feet dangling over the side of the bed. Suddenly Harry felt bitterness overwhelm him. "At any rate, I'm glad to see that you went straight to the attacker to make sure he was alright, instead of to the attacked," he said acidly. "In case you didn't notice, Ron attempted to kill me."

Hermione sighed and turned to face him. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry. I knew you were alright! Judging from his magical strength, Ron could no more kill you with that curse than Coax Hogwarts Castle into tap-dancing. Whatever is at work within him, I knew at once that it must be much worse than all the things he could possibly do to you."

Harry frowned, trying to make sense of her words: "So what do you think is the matter with him?"

Hermione raised her eyes to the ceiling, signalling disbelief. "Oh Harry, isn't it obvious? You don't think Ron tried to kill you out of his own, free will, do you? That Ice Missile thing which hit him this summer must be to blame. These things came straight from the Death Eaters, if not from Voldemort himself. I've been waiting for something like this to happen ever since all these people were hit, and now I'm sure that must be it. At least we finally know what these Ice Missiles do, if indeed they all do the same thing, but it has to be expected that -"

"Wait a minute," Harry interrupted her, unconvinced. "All these people, as you say. There were loads of people hit by Ice Missiles. Could you please tell me why all the other people aren't shooting Death Curses around the castle, like Fred and Cho and Hagrid?"

"Or like Lupin and Flitwick and Dumbledore?" Hermione retorted quietly. "I can't tell you why Ron was affected that way and the others weren't so far, or if they will be in future; but I can tell you one thing: If Dumbledore suddenly starts shooting Death Curses, we've got a real problem here."

Just as Harry was still trying to devour this particular piece of information, the Headmaster himself entered the hospital wing, supported on both sides by Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, looking not a bit healthier than he had at the beginning of the school year. Hastily, Hermione waved her wand to close the window in the curtain; if any of the teachers noticed her spell, none of them commented. Snape guided the feeble-stepped headmaster to Ron's bed; Professor McGonagall stopped briefly to enquire about Harry's well-being. Harry nodded mutely; he wanted to listen to what Madam Pomfrey was telling the Headmaster.

"He is not hurt in any perceptible way," the matron said. "I believe he somehow drained himself of magical strength to an extent that is rather harmful, but if I am not mistaken, he will not suffer any permanent damage. I hope he will be up and about in two or three weeks again."

"Can you tell me what happened?" Dumbledore said in his deep, calm voice that always seemed to establish him as the one in control of a situation.

"I suppose I can, Albus." Harry clenched his fists. Even to hear Snape's voice in a moment like this, cold but in an odd, acid way amused, was simply too much. Hermione, Harry noticed, was clutching her robe in her hands, a sure sign that she was upset.

"Weasley waited for Potter at the door," Snape said matter-of-factly. "When he saw him, he shot an Death Curse at him. I can vouch for this, because I stood nearby; I heard the words and saw the green light hit Potter in the chest. Naturally, Weasley wasn't able to produce the adequate amount of strength to hurt Potter; he only threw him over. Why Weasley over-exerted himself so much, or in fact, how he was able to do this, is beyond my comprehension."

Professor McGonagall rushed to the curtain and pulled it aside to step through; she did not draw it back again, but left it open as if to include Harry and Hermione in the discussion. "Ronald Weasley would never hurt Harry Potter," she said in an indignant voice. "They are close friends, as you know very well, Severus."

Snape raised an eyebrow to give his face a look of incredulity. "If you say so, Minerva. Now if you will excuse...." He took the curtain to pull it shut again. With two quick steps, Hermione reached the enclosed alcove and planted herself right in his way, causing Snape to scowl at her. Harry wobbled after her.

"Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, Professor Varlerta, Madam Pomfrey - may I please interrupt for a moment?" she said very politely, but at the same time very self-assured. Harry had to admit that Hermione knew how to handle such a situation: By tediously and formally addressing all the authorities present, she might actually make them listen to her.

"Miss Granger, you will undoubtedly want to talk to us about Ice Missiles," Dumbledore stated kindly.

Hermione nodded slowly. "I was going to, but you seem to have come to the same conclusion as I did."

"Luckily, students trying to kill their best friends with the most fatal of curses, dangerously draining their own strength in the process, is something that does not happen on a regular base in this school," Dumbledore informed her. "As Ronald Weasley was hit by a vile, but unidentified missile of the enemy, I will take this as the default explanation for any strange and unpleasant occurrence until proven otherwise."

Everybody in the room, with exception of the unconscious Ron, stared at Dumbledore, probably working out further implications of this revelation. The Headmaster nodded gravely. The matron breathed heavily, while Professor McGonagall's lips thinned perceptibly. "Time bombs," Varlerta muttered. For a few long moments, nobody said a word.

"Indeed, it appears that the enemy's weapons may pose a deadly threat to all of us. The most horrible threat of all, however, seems to turn friends against friends, and to turn our children into weapons. If all those who suffered a wound this summer will become controlled by the enemy or entangled in his evil designs, we will face defeat even in victory. For what greater pain can there be than seeing your loved ones turn against you?"

Harry saw Snape move towards the Headmaster with a strange, choked noise. However, it was Hermione who said, almost shouted: "You think that Ron is controlled by Voldemort? You think he will try to do this again when he wakes up?"

Shocked at the mentioning of Voldemort's name, Madam Pomfrey shut her ears with her hands; Dumbledore looked at Hermione quite gravely. Pale but dignified, Professor McGonagall replied: "I am afraid we will not know this until he wakes up."

"What about the other people?" Oddly, Harry suddenly had to think of Cho, not to mention of Lupin, and of the headmaster himself. "Will they try the same - to kill someone?" To kill me, he thought, but was unwilling to spell it out too clearly. "Isn't there anything we can do? Heal them, I mean?"

"Heal them? But how?" Madam Pomfrey wrung her hands. Professor McGonagall turned to Snape, who mutely shook his head. Then the Transfiguration teacher turned her gaze towards Varlerta.

"I must disappoint you, Minerva - I have never heard of any spell or substance that cures an unknown and mysterious evil at work inside a person. To me, it sounds like a classical case for a panacea," Varlerta said dully.

"A panacea, indeed. A brilliant idea, Professor." Snape's upper lip curled. Then he turned to Dumbledore. "If we are down to miracle healers and alchemists, maybe you should ask your senile friend for help, Albus."

Professor McGonagall raised both eyebrows in a decidedly sceptic expression. "Him, you mean? Isn't he dead yet?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said wearily. "Or, just in case that he will be indeed of any help this time, I should say, thank goodness he probably isn't, yet. Maybe Varlerta's offhand suggestion is our only hope."

Varlerta snorted. "Alchemists? Who are you talking about? Are you being serious? As a matter of fact, I wasn't really when I mentioned a panacea."

"This is no time for jokes, Professor Varlerta," Professor McGonagall chided her. Madam Pomfrey nodded mournfully. Ignoring the putdown, Varlerta insisted:

"Do you really, really seriously know someone able to produce a panacea? A true alchemist?"

Dumbledore hesitated before he replied: "This remains to be proven. We will leave nothing untried to cure Ronald Weasley, and others if this is necessary. Right now, we know practically nothing about how the Ice Missiles were made, what they did and how their effect can be stopped or prevented."

"I wish we had a spy among the Death Eaters," Professor McGonagall remarked sadly, then with a sideway glance checked herself: "Forgive me, Severus, that was tasteless."

Snape haughtily ignored her remark. Varlerta gnawed her bottom lip. Dumbledore stretched out his palms in a gesture of helplessness. "We do not, and we will not, and that's the end of it, I believe."

"So what happens to Ron?" Harry asked, unwilling to let the adults change the subject.

"Do you really know someone who is able to produce a panacea?" Hermione asked, hope in her voice. It seemed that unlike Harry, she knew what the teachers had been talking about.

"We know someone who may still be able to make it," Dumbledore replied.

"If he isn't dead yet," Professor McGonagall added in an uncharacteristically pert voice.

"That's true, if," Professor Dumbledore conceded.