Red Tide Rising

Sitting in Potions was torture. Listening to Snape grind students under his thumb was unbearable. Every class, Harry came a little closer to snapping, and yet, every class he managed to hold his temper. Occlumency helped, as he could relax a bit by dampening the emotions that ripped their way through his body. But every day, he came closer to snapping.

This Potions, near the end of October, was no exception. Snape was in a particularly bad mood, and he didn't bother to retain his temper. No, Harry was the only one practicing a bit of restraint; frankly, he was sick of always being the good guy.

"One would assume, Potter," Snape began, leaning over his cauldron and sneering, "that since you were lucky enough to continue this class, you may actually pay attention." Snape garnered himself a smattering of laughter from Pansy and her friend Millicent. The other students stayed silent. "You will begin again, Potter. This time, do try and follow directions." With a wave of his wand, Harry's entire Potion disappeared.

He had worked damn hard on that! Yes, it may not have been the perfect consistency, and sure, maybe it gave off a foul scent- but he could have fixed it! He could have tried, at the very least. But, no! Snape couldn't allow him to try- couldn't allow him to succeed any other way but by his rules. Git. GIT!

"Excuse me, Potter?" Snape said, swirling around to face him. "What did you just say?"

"I don't think I said anything," Harry replied, hoping he hadn't actually called Snape a git aloud. He had much better things to call him.

"'I don't think I said anything, what, Potter?" Snape said, a malicious grin on his face.

Arse? Bastard? Murderer? The word was right on his lips, about to tumble out, when Harry caught himself. Was he really going to accuse Snape of murdering his grandparents in front of twenty sixteen year-olds? And then what?- Run straight to Dumbledore's office like a spoilt child running to papa? He needed a plan.

"Potter! Answer me!" Snape demanded, and Harry came crashing back to reality, back to sanity. This man- snake- had killed his grandparents! Snape was the reason he had been forced to live through ten years of hell. Why he'd never met the only relative's who had been the least bit supportive of his mother. This man had stolen so much from him... and now he has the right to demand respect?

"YOU- CAN- GO TO HELL!" Harry roared, standing so swiftly he sent over the worktable his, Hermione and Dean's cauldrons had been sitting on. He felt dizzy, all his blood rushing to his head. He was furious. "You! YOU! You think I'll ever call you 'sir'? You can go to hell, you mu-"

Three hours later, Harry woke in the Infirmary. Hermione, Ron, Dean... everyone was crowded around his bed. In fact, he wondered that Madam Pomfrey would allow them all in.

"What happened?" he moaned, reaching for his glasses.

"Well, something with Dean's Potion mixed with mine when you turned the table over," Hermione explained, "and the fumes knocked you out. Snape too, for that matter, but he didn't breathe in as much, and he's already left."

"Good news, though," Dean interrupted. "Hermione convinced Pomfrey, who talked to Dumbledore. Said she'd felt sick before you exploded, and then I said so as well, so your'n no trouble."

"Thanks," Harry muttered as he tried to lift himself from the bed. His head felt like it had doubled in size.

"Are you alright, Harry? Hermione said you were yelling at Snape when you passed out," Ron asked.

"I'm fine," Harry said. "I just lost my temper when he destroyed the Potion. It's too bad I passed out, I had a few things I wanted to say to him."

"Good thing that you passed out, then, Harry," Dean said. "You were the one who said Snape wanted us to quit."

That was true, after the first class with Snape, Harry had told Dean to hold on. But now, it was just too hard! Just thinking about it made Harry's temperature rise.

"Er- do you think you could all leave? It's just that I think I should sleep some more. My head is really rough," Harry explained. They all nodded and left- Hermione handed him their work from Herbology- and Harry was alone again.

Bugger! Harry shouted at himself. What am I going to do? He couldn't go back to Potions, not even if Snape would allow him too. He'd just lose his temper again, and this time he would shout out that Snape was a murderer, and where would that get him? Snape would be fired, which was a bonus, but at the same time, Snape was the best Potions brewer available to teach at Hogwarts. Moreover, Dumbledore trusted him enough for him to be in the Order. Thinking of Dumbledore, Harry could imagine the look of disappointment he would have after Harry blurted out that Snape had been a Death Eater, that he was a murderer.

Maybe he should go to Dumbledore and tell him what he knew. He was quite sure his Aunt Petunia had been telling the truth; she had no reason to lie, and couldn't have faked the reaction she'd had to Snape's name. She been so shocked she had called Harry 'dear'. But, if he did tell Dumbledore, what would happen?

Would he quietly fire Snape? No matter how trusting and understanding Dumbledore was, it was probably a bad policy to have a murderer teach his victim's survivors. Harry knew Snape would never actually resign over an accusation from him. And if he was fired, people would ask why. The Governors would probably demand an explanation for the firing of the most qualified Potions Master in England. Snape might be revealed as a Death Eater, although a former one, and no one would trust him. He'd lose his status among Lord Voldemort, and the flow of information would stop.

Why was this so complicated? Why couldn't he just do what he wanted? Sure, it might be a mistake, but he'd feel so much better! But, down in that recess of his mind- the part that spoke in Hermione's voice- Harry understood that it would be a mistake to act rashly. What he needed was to handle the situation with a sense of responsibility. He needed to take himself out of temptation- he needed to get out of Snape's class.

But he couldn't do that without forfeiting his dream to be an Auror. It was a Catch-22. If he remained in the class, he would eventually loss his temper and Snape would be revealed as a Death Eater. His other choice was to quit Potions- and he hated to quit anything- and ruin his chance of becoming an Auror.

It probably didn't matter. The chances of Harry living past his Hogwarts years were small; why make life harder than it had to be? Why not live for the moment, while he still lived? But then, Harry had never been good at rolling over. Even when he told himself that it was Fate that he should finally die by Voldemort's wand, something kept him going, told him to wake up and go to class.

That something was himself. And himself would just have to think of something, some way, to keep the hope of being an Auror alive, without screwing the Order by demasking their most important spy.

The next morning, Harry knocked on Professor Gryffindor's door just before breakfast would begin. After she harkened, he entered her office. It nearly looked neat, if a disorganized neat, with books and parchments stacked everywhere, without rhyme.

"Feeling better, Potter?" Harry nodded. "Excellent. What are you doing here so early? You should still be resting."

"I've rested enough, Professor. I- I need your help." Professor Gryffindor sat behind her desk, a concerned look on her face. "Professor, I can't continue to take Potions from Snape. I never liked him, that's true. But something's happened, and I hate him, now."

"Potter, don't say hate. You waste too much energy when you hate someone. Deep dislike is what you feel, and the feelings mutual, Potter," Gryffindor said. Harry didn't feel like explaining that he actually hated Snape. Gryffindor continued without elaborating whether she deeply disliked Snape as well, or if it was Snape who disliked him. "But how can I help you?" Gryffindor asked, a bit confused. And a bit guarded.

"Well, I need Potions to become an Auror-" Gryffindor's eyebrows raised. "And I can't continue from Snape, not after what's happened, and what happened yesterday."

"Wait, what happened yesterday isn't why you 'hate' him, now?"

"No. It just proved to me that I can't continue in his class." Gryffindor shrugged. She looked bored. "Professor, I want to ask you- er, would you continue my Potions lessons? Please?"

"What?" Gryffindor said. She gave a heavy sigh and scratched her ear. "Potter, I can't do that."

"Why not? You're a Potions Master, you already teach me Occlumency, something else Snape was supposed to teach me, and you haven't done anything to make me hate you. We can work together."

Professor Gryffindor had a bad look on her face. "Harry, I can't. Nor would I. You've taken lessons from Snape for five years. You can't soldier on for two more? Yes, I know- something's happened and now you can't stand him. Well, Potter welcome to real life. I'm afraid you'll just have to live with Snape."

"But, Professor, I need to be an Auror," Harry pleaded.

"Then for Merlin's Sake, finish what you've started and become an Auror, boy!" Gryffindor raised her voice, "Potter, nobody wants you to succeed in your wish to be an Auror more than I, trust me. But if you can't handle Snape now, you'll never be an Auror. No, listen to me, Potter," she banged her fist to draw his attention back to her. He hadn't been able to look her in the face. "Being an Auror, Potter- you know it isn't going to be fun. It's hard, thankless work. Those you track and capture, if they don't kill you or you them, are forever looking to even the score. The methods you use to track and capture are not ideal; the process alone is enough to twist ones stomach, until it becomes routine. And when you are completely desensitized, Potter, that's when you'll begin to wonder why you're the lawman, and they're the criminals.

"And then, as if it weren't enough Potter, the public rings in. Yes, lovely people, the public, after you've made a big save. But let them find out what you had to do to catch that one Dark wizard or witch, and they'll be calling you the monster. The adoring public, who you plan on giving your life over to, they turn into rabid dogs, just waiting to tear you apart. That's something I believe you understand already, Potter."

Harry took a moment, as well as a deep breath. "Professor, I don't think you understand. I'm absolutely serious when I say I can't continue with Snape. I will quit Potions. I'll still try to become an Auror," Gryffindor's sank into her chair at this. So, you really do need Potions. "But, Professor, you can help me."

"Potter, I won't. What would it say if I did? 'Poor Harry Potter! Good thing people will bend over backwards for him?'" Gryffindor simpered. "Unfortunately, Potter, that wouldn't help you in the least. Besides, what do I say to the other hundreds of students who want to end lessons with Snape? What happens when Snape is teaching only his own students? I can't take his position, Harry. You have to understand, Potter, that I have to work with Snape, and our 'relationship' is already strained."

"But, Prof-" Harry began.

"Potter, no!" Gryffindor shouted. She took a deep breath and stared at him. He probably looked desperate. He was desperate; she was his only chance. In a pained voiced she asked, "You're absolutely sure you can't continue?" Harry shook his head. "Why not?"

"I can't tell you."

"Potter, tell me why, or my answer is still no."

"I can't, ma'am. I can't continue in Snape's class because I can't tell anyone about this, and I lose my head in his class. I can't tell you."

"Then close the door on your way out."

Later, he went and asked McGonagall for help. She'd flatly refused. "Either tell me what Professor Snape has done, or stop pestering me!"

Over lunch he sat dejectedly at the Gryffindor table. Staring across the Hall, his gaze landed on the Slytherin's. He wondered what Malfoy would do in his situation. Like Snape would ever do anything to piss Malfoy off. The Malfoy's probably have enough dirt on Snape to blackmail him for life. Suddenly, Harry realized he had dirt on Snape. He would blackmail Snape!

Of course, it was easier said than done. The plan itself was sound; he ran it through his head like a game of Chess- and he was getting very good at Chess. It was screwing up the courage to knock on Snape's office door that was hard. Finally, after passing the door three times over, he forced his legs to stop and his hand to knock. The door opened, as it had been left unlatched.

"Potter, come in," came a snarl from Snape. "I have your withdrawal slip here. Sign it and you can leave," he said, sliding the parchment across his desk towards Harry, who stood beside a chair.

"I didn't come to withdrawal from Potions, Professor. I came to tell you I'm staying in."

Snape smiled an awful smile. "Your signature is a mere formality, Potter. You can consider yourself withdrawn," he said, as he retrieved the parchment and walked towards the fireplace. He paused. "This is more fun than I thought it would be."

"I wouldn't send that parchment, Professor. I'm not here to ask politely, or beg to remain in your class. I'm here to inform you I will be continuing your class, and to warn you to treat me with a bit of respect," Harry said steadily. His voice was strong, and this didn't seem so hard. He was a Gryffindor, for Merlin's Sake, and Snape was just Snape.

"Really, Potter?" Snape asked as he turned to face him. "What makes you think I will allow you back into my class after your display of insubordination yesterday?"

"Well, unless you want everyone to know you killed my grandparents-" Harry said quietly. Snape lunged towards Harry, his eyes wide with wild determination. Thankfully, Snape collided with his desk, instead of Harry.

"Potter, you- you-" Snape yelled. His face was full of rage and fear.

"Professor, I know the impact this information would have, and I don't want that to happen," Harry said, and Snape's took a sigh of relief. "Yet," Harry added, and Snape's face twitched. "I merely want to finish Potions and become an Auror."

"An Auror, Potter? My, my, you are your fathers son," Snape replied. "So, you are blackmailing me, Potter?"

"Yes. All I ask, in return for absolute silence on an issue that could ruin you, is that you allow me to continue Potions, and that you don't provoke my temper. Yesterday's accident just saved you."

"I do not provoke you, Potter," Snape replied. Harry merely lifted an eyebrow. Merlin, but I'm cool, Harry thought.

"Whatever you say, Professor. Just remember, I can't control what I say when I'm angry." With that, Harry took the withdrawal form from Snape's hand and tore it in two. "Good evening, Professor."

Briar was a fair enough person to know that she shouldn't take a bad mood out on a student. Which was why she was in the dungeons, looking for Snape's office. The smell of dark, damp and dank surrounded her, and she had troubles keeping her dinner down. How anyone, even the Slytherins and Snape, could stand the smell was alarming.

It had just been a bad week, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the fact that November was approaching. First Potter, after she refused to help, had come to Occlumency lessons looking as if he had sold his soul. Later, when she found out he would stay in Snape's class, Briar figured he probably had; she was mad at herself for forcing him to. But whatever. Then, eleven people had been killed in one raid, all of them the victims of Avada Kedavra. The Order had miles to go before they found the counter for the Killing Curse. Later, Witch Weekly had printed a long article on the Gryffindor family; Briar had been treated nicely, but her brother Christopher had been lambasted as a philandering scoundrel, which wasn't entirely true. He just fell in and out of love quickly. Then the damn Boggart... It was hard to find a reason for the Boggart Incident, other than the approach of November.

And so, Briar was in the dungeons, gasping at the smell of memory, looking to provoke Snape into a fight. She needed a good fight- she needed to get it out of her system, now, before it went sour. Bitterness was not an attractive quality for a twenty-five year old. So what if Snape hadn't done anything to actually provoke it this time, she had a good enough excuse in Potter.

Finding his door, she entered without knocking. "As always, Gryffindor, your manners are-" Snape said, looking up from his work.

"My manners are fine. It's you who is lacking."

Snape looked at her measuringly. "To what do I owe your company? Surely I don't deserve it?"

"Of course you don't deserve my company, Snape. I came to warn you off Potter. If I hear anything to suggest-" Unfortunately, Snape cut her off.

"You lost your chance to threaten, Briar Rose," he snarled. Damn! He read the damn article! How else would he know it was Briar Rose? "I know Potter came to you, begging to be relieved of me. You refused, and you forfeited your right to a say in his treatment."

"I don't think so, Snape."

"Well, no matter. Mr. Potter has ensured I treat him with the sickening sympathy everyone else does."

This wasn't going the way she wanted. True, she could easily tear into Snape on that last comment alone, but really, nothing was going to change Snape's view on how Potter was treated. No, she needed a different tack.

But Snape seemed in the mood for a bloodletting as well. "Not that I'm surprised with the hero-worship you bestow on Mr. Potter. After all, he did get rid of the Dark Lord for ten years. Ten years you squandered, I should mention."

Briar jumped at it. "How exactly does a nine year old squander time, Snape? By being force fed the Dark Arts by a depraved, wicked witch?"

"Oh, yes. I heard about the Boggart Incident from my second-years," Snape said. "Horrible, for an heir of Gryffindor to be afraid of a women eleven years dead."

Briar's mind screamed at her to retreat, to leave. Even in an argument, there was bad form, and Snape had dropped into that mode. She didn't want to leave, but she had to. She would not get into it with Snape, not when he was mentioning Master. There were more enjoyable forms of torture; the Cruciatus Curse, for instance, was bounds better than talking about Master.

"Snape, I came here to discuss your treatment of Potter. I will not get into it over what my Boggart may or may not take shape into." With that, she left, slamming Snape's door with a vengeance.

Bastard! No wonder Potter 'hates' him. Plan B, then. She ran up to Dumbledore's office, ready to pout. She had done this since childhood, when she had written him letters, begging him to take her away from Master. He'd understood, always, but there were certain responsibilities she had to accept, and even if she hadn't been outside to feel the sun on her skin for four and even five years, she had always done as Dumbledore asked.

It was impossible not to do as Dumbledore asked. He had, after all, announced she would be the most powerful witch of her generation when she had been only five days old, and then set about making his prophecy a reality. When Voldemort had finally disappeared Dumbledore had insisted her brothers send her to London, to the unnaturally aged Mrs. Black, a bitter, evil witch who spent five years telling Briar she was the daughter of the devil and teaching her how to administer pain and death. When Master had died, no one had suspected the sweet little orphan she had tortured as being the cause.

But Briar never blamed Dumbledore for her life; he had merely been preparing her for the future. He hadn't known how long Voldemort would lie dormant, and if he died before Voldemort returned, someone needed to organize the opposition. She simply couldn't blame him for what he had done; five years of misery were nothing compared to the damage Voldemort could wreak. She did, however, see it as his duty to listen when she needed to whine a bit.

Dumbledore wasn't in his office, though. "How long do you expect him to be away?" she asked the portraits at large.

"Not much longer, dear," one portrait replied kindly.

Sitting by the fire, Briar ignored the speech Phineas Nigellus delivered to her on the constraints the Headmaster felt. The last thing she needed were more reminders of the Black family. Finally, Dumbledore returned.

"Briar!" he said happily. "What have I done to deserve your company?"

"Bad day. Got into it with Snape. He mentioned the Boggart Incident, and I've come to pout," Briar explained. There was a snort behind her. "Phineas Nigellus, I didn't know you fancied becoming a Muggle portrait?"

"Now, Briar, really," Dumbledore said easily as he sat in the chair beside her and handed her a mug of hot chocolate. "You must accept Mrs. Black is dead, and find something new to fear."

"I can't, you know. She always said she'd come back and haunt me, and she was evil enough to mean it," she whispered. Taking a sip of the hot chocolate, she smiled, tasting the generous amount of whiskey Dumbledore had put in it.

"Yes, well, you can take her," he replied, squeezing her arm reassuringly. Briar smiled again. "However, at the moment, we are in crisis, here at Hogwarts." Briar looked quickly up. "Yes, Professor Binns has declared his retirement. However, I met with an old pupil at the Hog's Head, and he was agreed to take the position."

"Malachi?" Briar asked, referring to a friend of hers who wrote History for the Irish Wizards Free Press and had published numerous texts on the subject. At Dumbledore's nod, she laughed. "He's the other person I know rich enough to drink only the best, but honest enough to enjoy the Hog's Head."

"Yes, and he's useful with a wand as well," Dumbledore said. "What is it about your friends, Briar, that they all eschew money but crave to be useful?"

"I wish I knew. I'd exploit it and make a fortune."

The morning of Halloween, and the first Hogsmeade trip of the year, dawned bright and cold. Harry was going in with Lavender, whose boyfriend went to Frogsmere Academy in Cornwall, because everyone else had dates or were meeting people in town. Ron had a meeting with Hannah, and Hermione was going to see Krum, before the three of them met in the Hog's Head at three.

At breakfast however, Dumbledore stood with an announcement. "It is with great sorrow I say what I must today."

"Oh, no! Don't cancel the trip," Ron whispered desperately under his breath. "Don't cancel the trip."

"It seems our dear Professor Binns has decided to vacate his position as History Professor to join the Library staff," Dumbledore said. Students looked around, confused, before they broke into riotous applause Binns probably heard from the Library. Dumbledore smile slightly. "Yes, yes, we shall all miss him.

"However, because of his untimely departure, we have hired a new teacher, who will arrive this evening. The feast will start tonight at eight, not six, and all students must have returned to the castle by seven."

"Fantastic!" Ron cried, but was drowned out by the wild roar of whispers.

Leaving the grounds with the other students, Ron caught up with Harry and Lavender. "I'll just stick with you until noon or so, I suppose."

Lavender needed to buy a gift for her boyfriend, Curtus, who had a birthday in November. "Frogsmere isn't that nice of a school, is it?" Harry asked, trying to remember what he'd heard of the school.

"Well- no. In fact," Lavender said breezily, "I wouldn't call it a school at all. Only kids who aren't accepted to Hogwarts go to Frogsmere and their parents pay huge amounts of money for the honour of a bad education."

"Dad says hardly any students make it past their OWL's, not because their nearly Squibs or anything, but because the teaching's horrible."

"That's what Curtus says. He's really clever, probably could be a Ravenclaw, but he wasn't powerful enough magically to come to Hogwarts. He's really good though, once he's practiced a lot. He's seventeen," Lavender said, "and he showed me a bit of what he can do. He's not bad, actually."

"So, if kids aren't accepted to Hogwarts, they can go to Frogsmere?" asked Harry as they walked past the post office.

"Or Codswallop Academy, but that's just for Scottish Muggle-borns, and it costs a lot, too, and is really small," Ron said. "And there's Lemongrass College, in Lancaster, but they only take witches. Lemongrass is the best after Hogwarts, and costs less than any other school. Mum and Dad thought about sending Ginny there, but she wanted to come to Hogwarts."

"Oh, look! Gladrags is having a sale! Come on, you two," Lavender said, pushing the door to Gladrags open. Ron and Harry, rolling their eyes, entered after her.

At noon, Ron slipped away to meet Hannah, and at three, Lavender went to meet Parvati and Seamus. Harry waited outside the Hog's Head for fifteen minutes before Hermione and Ron showed up.

"How'd it go, then?" he asked Ron.

"Excellent," Ron grinned, "after I convinced her the Shrieking Shack isn't haunted."

"You're horrible, Ron," Hermione cried, slapping his arm.

"Oh, yes? And how did you get that bruise, then?" Ron said, pointing out a mouth shaped bruise on Hermione's throat.

"It's cold out here," Hermione said, opening the door. Ron and Harry exploded into laughs, and Hermione joined them as they entered.

"Ron!" an outraged voice met their entrance.

"Charlie?" Ron said. "Professor Gryffindor?"

There, in a corner table, sat Charlie Weasley, Professor Gryffindor and two men Harry didn't know.

"Hey, you three. C'mon over!" Gryffindor called, hailing them with a half empty whiskey bottle. She conjured three extra chairs. "May I introduce your new History teacher, Professor Malachi O'Neill?" She was pointing towards the dark haired man, who looked to be in his late twenties. He had black hair, black eyes, and seemed a nice sort, judging by the lines forming at his eyes.

"Hello, then," he greeted them. "I know Ron, of course, but I doubt he remembers me."

"Yeah- yeah I do! You and Charlie are mates, and you came during hols," Ron said, his eyes alit with memories. "Isn't it you who taught the twins how to enchant candies?"

O'Neill grinned.

"Enough of that," Charlie cried. "What are you three doing in here? This is not the sort of place you should be."

"We used to come here, Charlie," O'Neill said.

"Not the point, Chi. This is my little brother and his little friends we're talking about."

"Not so little, Charlie," Professor Gryffindor said, coming to their rescue. "In fact, any one of them can hold their own against me, so's I's expect they could take on most anyone, should they need to."

"Do you want something to drink, then, or will you let Charlie chuck you out?" the other man asked. He'd been silent so far, and he seemed to blend in to the background so well, Harry hadn't really noticed him. He was very blonde. "Adam Scratch," he said, shaking their hands in turn. "I'll get your drinks. What would you like?"

"They'll have Butterbeer, Scratch," Charlie growled. "What else would they have?"

"Whiskey?" Gryffindor suggested cheerfully, taking another long drink from her glass. Charlie just glared at her. "Hermione, is that a hickey on your neck?" Ron and Harry broke out in laughter again.

"She saw Vikky today," Ron explained. Hermione seemed to be trying to disappear and kill Ron with her glare at the same time.

"Oh?" Gryffindor said, raising an eyebrow. She turned back to Ron. "And how'd it go with Hannah?" Ron's face paled so quickly, Harry thought he may have actually died, but just in time, the colour fled back, a bright pink.

"How'd you know about that?" he demanded.

"Oh, please, Ron. I knew about it," Charlie said merrily.

"But- but-"

"Honestly, Ron, if you want to keep a secret from me, you'll need to come to Occlumency lesson."

"You will, too," Scratch said, returning with their drinks. "It's the only way to keep her from taking over." Gryffindor bussed him in a sisterly way. He seemed a few years younger than her, and she seemed a few years younger than Charlie.

"As if I'd bother with you?" Gryffindor joked back at Scratch. She finished her whiskey and refilled her glass. Each of the adults seemed to have their own bottle. "Not good enough!" she cried happily, her face straight into Scratch's.

"Better 'n you!" he screamed back and they dissolved into giggles.

"Yes, children, she can be really happy," Gryffindor smirked.

"With enough Ogden's down her throat," O'Neill said with a smile.

"Down the hatch!" Gryffindor and Charlie roared together. They refilled each other's glasses, laughing, and tinking them together, took a sip.

"Lucky children," Scratch said wistfully. "I never had any good blackmail against my teachers."

"And neither do they!" Charlie countered. "Briar has a slight taste for the wee nip, what? I think people may have noticed by now, after your two's Grand European Adventure."

"Adam and me traveled to every famous bar in all of Europe, 'bout three years ago. You'd really be surprised how many bars there are what're famous, now," Gryffindor explained.

"And how many prison cells there are that are infamous, now," O'Neill added, raising his bottle. He wasn't bothering with a glass.

"You didn't have to bail them out, mate. Not like I did," Charlie said.

"Yes I did! Saint James's Gate, in Dublin," O'Neill countered.

"Well, I still say we'd have been fine if Briar'd managed more holiday time," Adam mused. "You just can't have a proper go at nearly a hundred pubs when you've only two weeks."

"Least I had a job," Gryffindor muttered. "Not like some people, Adam, who had to beg their friends, 'please, oh please, Briar, get me a job!'"

"Day thirteen of the Grand European Adventure!" Adam cried. "We swore not ever to talk about day thirteen!"

"Oh!" Gryffindor said, throwing a hand over her mouth. "Sorry, I forgot. Forget what I said, won't you?"

"Scratch begging for anything?" Charlie said, a wicked grin on his face. "Nah, I think I'll hold on to that thought."

Scratch gave Charlie an obscene gesture and the adults laughed uproariously. The door opened, and Professor Snape walked in with a woman. O'Neill and Charlie both gave a wolf-whistle and began banging on the table.

"Gracie! Gracie Kelso," Charlie called, standing with his arms wide, "beauty of Ravenclaw Turret, run away wit' me and make me a happy man!" The woman laughed and ambled towards the group as Snape hung back, a livid sneer across his face. "And how's it go with you, my luv?" Charlie asked when the woman arrived at their table.

She walked into Charlie's affectionate hug and leaned to give O'Neill a peck on the cheek, whilst nodding to the others at the table. "Right as rain," she said, patting her belly. "Nearly four months now."

"Pregnant again?" O'Neill asked, horrified. "That's quick, isn't it? Third in only a few years?"

"Fourth, in seven, yes. Quick, yes, I suppose," she smiled, "but I love them, you know." Everyone at the table nodded, but Harry didn't understand at all. This woman wasn't- no, the idea was preposterous. "Oh, looks like we're going, then," she said glancing over her shoulder, an amused smile on her face. "Write me an owl, Charlie, Malachi. I may love the children, but I miss full-sentences!"

The moment the door closed behind the pair, Ron, Harry and Hermione pounced on the adults. "Who was that?" Ron demanded. "Don't tell me she's with Snape!"

"Saddest day of our lives," O'Neill said mournfully. "Her being so pretty, and clever, we all thought a brilliant career, maybe a child or two," he continued, and emptied his bottle in sorrow. "Not a one of us thought, not for a moment, that she'd meet up with Snape on the street and they'd fall in love."

"So, all this time, Snape's been getting some?" Ron asked, a look of revulsion on his face. O'Neill nodded, but Charlie was pulling the same face Ron had, and Gryffindor's face was still twitching from hate. "Well, then. There goes my theory."

"I don't know," Hermione said. "I always thought he was, well, you know- gay." The men laughed at that.

"That's what I always figured, too," Gryffindor said. "Not in a mean way, you know," she hurried to say, "but I didn't ever see him with any chicks, so's I figured to myself that he swaggered the other way."

"Swaggered?" Charlie asked.

"Swang? Is that a word?" replied Gryffindor. She waved her hand. "Anyways, he's a right git."

Conversation continued on a path through anything they could think of. Harry, who had never been present at a drunken talk, couldn't help laughing when Charlie began to slur and mix his words up, or when Professor's Gryffindor and O'Neill began singing Quidditch songs, arguing over the lyrics. Scratch seemed to be the sober one, and even he was wavering on pissed-out.

Harry was still chuffed at Gryffindor for not helping him, but he was starting to accept she had her reasons. Besides, he had handled the situation on his own. Anyway, it was nice to see Gryffindor happy. It was just now Harry realized he had never seen her smile much before.

"Oh, it's nearly six," Hermione said some hours later. "We should be getting back now."

"Six? And I've gone and missed dinner. Mum'll have a fit, since I promised I'd be home," Charlie slurred slowly. "Ron, did I tell you the happy happy news? Perce is to marry."

"What?" hushed Ron. "Who?"

"Isabella Flint," Charlie said, stumbling to his feet. "Dinner tonight is in their honour. Mum's got the house looking great, and Bill and I are in for it. And here's I, I mean me, Flooing home, sheets to the wind. Think I'll be getting a lecture?"

"Yes," Ron said simply.

"Pro'ly," Gryffindor said. "Your Mum, I wouldn't expect anything less. Remember that time in Romania, when they came for Christmas?"

"Hah!" Charlie barked. "What a talkin' to I got for you." He winked and stumbled towards the fire and Flooed to the Burrow.