Come Hither

Chapter 4

The First Meeting

Ron and Harry negotiated their way down to the Great Hall together the next morning under a sad grey sky through corridors lined with portraits housing occupants who, most irksomely, were yet to wake, some over-indulgently smacking their lips in their sleep.

"Sleep okay, Harry?" Ron asked, though the concerned frown wrinkling his brow suggested he already knew the answer to his own question; although Harry had cast a Silencing Charm on the drapes of his four-poster, it was not too hard for a dorm mate to peek around his bed and see an adjacent bed shaking slightly as its occupant thrashed wildly in his sleep, clearly suffering nightmares.

Harry looked up with surprise in his face. "Er, yeah, sure," he replied uneasily.

He was lying, of course. It was the same dream he suffered through when he was back with the Dursleys: the night of the third task of the Triwizard Tournament - whisked away by a secret Portkey, green light, whooshing noise, Cedric's vacant, handsome face, piercing daggers and blood, Voldemort reborn to terrorize once again, Death Eaters Apparating all around, burning heat in his hands, Priori Incantatem. It was evident that mere meditation was not enough to keep dark dreams at bay, or perhaps it was because he was just starting the regime; maybe it got better once he practiced it more often.

Ron nodded readily, which suggested he suspected Harry of lying yet again, but if he did, he didn't choose to intrude any further, apparently, as they began chatting about more open matters on their way to the Great Hall, the doors of which they stepped through minutes later and went over to their House table.

Hermione looked up from her Ancient Runes textbook and smiled a little sadly as they approached.

"Morning," she said, in a wan voice, a far cry from her usual, bright lilt.

Harry and Ron murmured groggy greetings back, and the latter had filled his plate half-full already by the time the former had seated himself, which caused Hermione's lips to purse in disapproval as Ron's hands shot out every which way at the assortment of food. She didn't desire to push the issue, though, it seemed; she looked distracted somewhat. This might have to do with the Daily Prophet lying open in front of her, having been deemed obsolete by the relevance of her Ancient Runes textbook, no doubt.

"What does the Prophet say today?" idly asked Harry, who regarded the sensationalist articles they printed about him only distantly and who had gotten used to the slander. He had far back decided to let it go and tried to convince himself that he didn't care what other people thought of him. This, though, didn't make the renewed staring and mutterings behind hands that tended to follow the article easier to deal with.

The tenuous smile that Hermione held vanished instantly at his words, and without saying a word, she slid the paper next to his plate and went back to her textbook, her eyes darting between the book and Harry's birthday present from Sirius - the ornate dagger, which Harry vaguely acknowledged amidst his severe misgivings about unfolding the paper, if Hermione's demeanour was anything to go by. He merely stared at the seemingly innocent, yellowish publication. The Daily Prophet, Harry was of the opinion, was anything but innocent, despite the fact that Rita Skeeter no longer featured on its staff roll. Harry's eyes went to Hermione, who, incidentally, was responsible for this and who was too absorbed in doing her own thing to notice anything else.

"Mei, mumu omen ne mummy maima?" urged Ron's muffled voice, which was due to his mouth being completely inundated with tart, pie and, strangely, eggs. Oh, Harry could discern all of those foods from the glimpse he had when Ron was talking, all right. When Ron borne a curiosity about anything in a medium that required reading, Harry didn't know, but he decided to oblige him and turned to the front page of the Daily Prophet, which blared, 'AZKABAN MASS BREAKOUT'.

Harry read the article along with Ron, and when he got the bottom of it he couldn't believe it. A prison - broken out of - ten fugitives... He suspected most of them, if not all, to be Death Eaters. What was more, if that were true, then Voldemort really was gathering his forces and preparing for this war. It made it all the undeniable, real, and inevitable. He needed those lessons Dumbledore was going to teach him. They, the other students, needed the lessons as well.

Harry's eyes took in all the students in the Great Hall, an understanding and horrified expression on his face. They need to get ready if they wanted to stand a chance. Tickling and Boggart-Banishing Spells just weren't going to do. This was war. Granted, Mad-Eye Moody was giving them very practical lessons of his own, but Harry had to prepare for the most evil of evils, the big, bad snake himself, and Harry would bet his wand that Voldemort knew the Dark Arts from A to Z, so he, indeed, needed more intense tuition.

It only truly dawned on him now, after the article. Upon recalling Hermione's sombre face when he entered into the hall with Ron, he thought she also understood the gravity of the reality. All of a sudden, he saw things a little differently - perhaps in a dimmer light, or perhaps in a clearer one, he didn't know. He just knew that things were going to be different now on.

He ventured a look at his old mentor and was surprised to find the familiar cerulean eyes boring fixedly into him the moment he sought them. There was no twinkle in those eyes, only aged lines around them, a tired expression on the old man's face. Seemingly, for the moment, he did look as old as he was. Harry averted his gaze to his food. He needed to get through these lessons if he dreamed of any semblance of survival; he needed Dumbledore and the Wizarding world needed him. Suddenly, Saturday seemed too far; suddenly, he didn't dread starting with the lessons. They needed to get moving, to put their defences in place.

Desperation was condensing in the back of his mind, and he didn't like how it felt. Any moment from now on would be a moment lost. Now that he realized, there were so many vulnerabilities all around him: he loved too many people - deeply, he was only fifteen and already required to lead a war, and he had absolutely no thorough or adequate knowledge in defending himself from indiscriminately malevolent Death Eaters.

Harry's newly suspicious eyes shot to a pale, blond figure. Perhaps they had a rat in the house; perhaps Malfoy was plotting to let the Death Eaters in somehow and let them take over Hogwarts from the inside; perhaps Voldemort was planning to conquer Hogwarts first.

Hogwarts - his only real home.

Over my dead body.

"Hermione," Harry said, a determined glint in his eyes and set to his jaw, "did you work out that Defence club thing?"

Hermione straightened up in chair, seeming as though she had been waiting for him to say something on this; she had an urgent air about her, and her expression was anxious though equally determined. "Yes, Harry, I was thinking about it whilst I was sleeping."

Ron snorted.

Hermione didn't even glare at him. Harry thought she, just as he did, believed Ron didn't taste the different air around them now, that he was completely oblivious to the state of urgency and dread in which he and she breathed. Hermione actually gave him a sombre look as though thinking if only they were as weightless and worry-free as was Ron.

"I think we should approach Professor Dumbledore on this, Harry, before we do anything else."

Harry was quick to argue the point: "But you know he won't go for it, Hermione, he wouldn't want his students to be in any danger."

"We'll need some place safe and unknown, and I can only think of Dumbledore that can provide it for us," she argued. "We can go under false pretences and say that we want to start a social club or a reading club to help each other with the coming O.W.L. exams."

Ron grimaced through his bulging cheeks, giving himself a constipated look; apparently, even the mere suggestion of the false pretence of starting a reading club was upsetting to him in more ways than one.

Harry did see her point, but then something occurred to him: "I can use the Marauder's Map to find a place," he suggested, feeling his spirits soaring a little.

Ron nodded vigorously.

Hermione wore a disapproving look for a moment, but it faded away, overthrown by the ingeniousness and convenience of his idea. "That could work," she murmured, heartened. "Get somewhere far and with little traffic."

Harry was not a retard; he knew what he had to do.

"I think I can find a way to inform the potential members of the club when and where we should meet. I might be able to charm an inconspicuous object like a coin to do something like that..." She trailed off in thoughtfulness, apparently, her idea still unfolding in her mind.

Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry nodded. This was great. He could only hope that he was able to master what Dumbledore would teach him so he could transfer it to this pending Defence club.

"We have to do this as soon as possible," Harry muttered half to himself and half to Hermione, who noted his forlorn face, already tainted with the gravity of war.

"We will, Harry, we will." She smiled at him, or gave a fair attempt at one.

Ron finally grew enough decency to let go of his fork at last and pat Harry on the back encouragingly.

A few minutes later, the bell echoed across the Great Hall, and scraping chairs and clinking cutlery added to the din of elevated chatter as students hoisted their bags and marched reluctantly to the doors.

"Today," Snape began ominously, his black, pitiless eyes roaming disdainfully over the faces of the class, "we will be brewing a Healing Potion." His eyes gave the barest of flickers to Harry. "This will be one of the lesser medicinal potions, since none of you can be trusted to concoct anything less simpler than your minds." He glowered disparagingly at the class, taking particular care to linger on Neville Longbottom, who slid lower in his seat, before continuing, "The instructions are in your books, the amendments on the board, you have an hour and fifteen minutes. Begin." With a sharp flick of his wand to the blackboard, Snape whirled around in a flurry of black robes and descended bat-like into his study.

It was Potions class, the first period they had for the day. Harry went over to partner with Seamus, since Ron tended to sidle towards Hermione these days with a sheepish, uncertain look, at which Harry would usually gritted his teeth in irritation. If he wanted to work with Hermione, then he should go right ahead; it was not an embarrassing crime and there were other people beside Hermione with whom Harry could work. He gave Seamus a smile in greeting, and they both plunged right into it.

It had only been seconds later that Harry heard Hermione from three stations away whispering fiercely, "It says three leaves of Moore, Neville, not thirteen!" and thirty minutes later of brewing the potion with Seamus while talking about Quidditch and the next Hogsmeade weekend that Harry noticed something strange as his eyes idly roamed over the classroom upon a particular lull of the conversation whilst stirring in a figure-eight: it seemed that the Slytherins were giving Malfoy a wide berth, not counting Crabbe, Goyle (the loyal buffoons they were, they probably didn't count) and, of course, Malfoy's partner, Pansy. He also noticed that Blaise Zabini was busy brewing his own potion with another Slytherin girl right between Malfoy's desk and the other Slytherins, as though he had positioned himself strategically there.

Harry frowned; he didn't know what this meant, a strange occurrence it was. Malfoy was something akin to a leader of sorts, the figurehead of Slytherin, the main man, the boss. So why would his own House alienate him, as they seemed to at this moment, and if this was true, why wasn't Malfoy showing any emotion on his face as though unaffected by or having not noticed it all? Perhaps he had expected this...

A soft but no less urgent nudge to his ribs pulled him back to his senses. "Harry, stop stirring!" Seamus sounded panicked. Harry halted his motions immediately, hoping it was not too late, for he didn't wish Snape to let his tongue loose on him, never mind Seamus; the Slytherins would undoubtedly relish it. Seamus started breathing again. "Good," he said, as his eyes flicked over to Snape warily. "Now stir the other way, mate, and don't think about wandering off again," he warned, in amused chastisement with a patronizing wag of his finger.

An hour later, the class was dismissed rather rudely by Snape - nothing new there, and even though he had spent most of the time in his study, Gryffindor had managed to lose forty points that period, mainly thanks to Neville, who Hermione was now abusing, if implicitly, as they traversed the cold, dim corridor, though she moved on from him before she could grow any less discreet.

"I wonder why he made us brew Healing Potions, now especially," she remarked, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow below wilder-than-usual, mousy-brown hair after exposure to steaming cauldrons.

This had Harry thinking too. Could Snape also be preparing for war, on Dumbledore's orders, maybe? Perhaps the Healing Potions were going to be mass-produced; this spurred Harry's heartbeat. Damn this war.

Not wanting to darken the mood with the Voldemort issue, Harry alternatively asked, "Did you notice anything strange about the Slytherins today?"

Hermione's eyebrows knitted together. "Yes, I did, actually. They seemed to stay away from Malfoy. I wonder why..."

"Serves him right, mate, I say," Ron said nastily, though he hardly looked to understand that strange behaviour any better than Hermione.

Harry couldn't help but agree; in his opinion the ferret deserved everything he got. "And why was that Blaise Zabini bloke not joining in with the other Slytherins? Why did he stand right in the middle?"

"It might be that Malfoy stinks, maybe, or maybe he doesn't want to get involved in any of it. I never really got that bloke," Ron said.

"Yes, maybe he's trying to stay neutral or something; I never claimed to understand Slytherin politics, but I think it's probably a very delicate affair - a scale of power and influence probably tilting every second..."

Harry and Ron raised their eyebrows at her; since when had Hermione become an expert in Slytherin politics, contrary to her disclaiming preamble?

"Probably," Harry said finally, sharing a half-glance with Ron, and he led the three of them to their next class, Transfiguration.

What was stranger and more alarming than Hermione's insight into Slytherin politics was what happened three days later.

On Friday, Harry, Ron and Hermione were to be found in the library after Hermione had practically dragged them in ranting and raving, Ron dubiously supplying that he had been a secret sufferer of dust fever, and Harry claiming extra Quidditch practice. However, these excuses never reached her ears, for it was with pouting lips and fierce scowls that Ron and Harry were studying quietly at the back section of the library, Hermione sitting between them and her textbooks taking the majority of table space.

Then, out of nowhere, they heard forceful footsteps. Together with their neighbours, the three of them looked up and heard Pince's sharp, shrill voice approaching a pitch which usually preceded the beginning of a diatribe, which, it unfolded, didn't commence, however. Simultaneously, they shimmied to the side and spied Pince with a look of utter astonishment on her long face, her bony hand clutching her chest as she gaped wordlessly at the sheer temerity of a student coming into her library so boisterously, and was now tracking his progress down the aisle, her sharp eyes popping behind horn-rimmed glasses.

A tall, brute seventh-year Slytherin boy - as if they made them any other way; half the House were trolls - came into view, flushed from either running or anger, though being armed with a diabolical glare going one Harry Potter's way, odds swayed towards the latter. Its target gulped; 'Isn't this bloke one of Slytherin's Beaters?' Harry thought in alarm.

The boy suddenly lurched forward and Harry couldn't help a flinching reflex as the boy brought a hand down to him and thrust the rolled parchment in his face. Undoing the protective cage that was his arms, Harry hesitated for a moment before he reached out for the parchment, hoping his hand wasn't shaking too noticeably. Beside him, Ron was attempting a fierce glare at the boy, but it looked stilted, hesitant; perhaps he was just as shaken as was Harry. Hermione, on the other hand, was eyeing the boy down - even though she was seated - with a perfectly calm, unimpressed expression, her lips pressed together, and a single eyebrow raised, and this conglomerate eloquently drawled, 'What exactly was that entrance about?'

As soon as Harry's hand curved around the missive, the boy spun around and stomped out, hands clenched at his sides, and the three of them followed his figure. For a moment, Pince looked as though she had mastered herself again and was about to retry dressing the boy down, but, once more, she fell quiet and recoiled when the boy almost flipped her 'the bird' - a gesture of which she clearly fathomed little, but all the same, it was clear on her face that she quite got the gist of it. Clearly Muggle-born, Harry and Hermione observed.

"What's with him?" Ron asked with a little squeak, trying not to appear distinctly relieved that the boy had gone. Harry shrugged with forced calm, and so did Hermione, both now too absorbed by their curiosity to read the letter. Ron followed suit when Harry broke the magenta ribbon to read the message therein:

Mr Potter,

Please meet me on the seventh floor opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and the Two Trolls at eight a.m. sharp.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Butterflies erupted in Harry's stomach; they weren't even going to train in the comforting and familiar environment of Dumbledore's office. He hadn't even been to the seventh floor before; and just as suddenly, Harry felt ashamed of himself for having failed to set foot there before; was he in the possession of the Marauder's Map or not? He was surely letting the Marauders down.

Back to the current matter at hand: this was serious, a new place, that just meant things were stepped up somehow, made even direr than before. Evidently, his friends were thinking along the same lines, or at least Hermione was. They were going now to have to grow up very quickly.

Their heads pulled out of the letter after reading it and completing their own thoughts on it and its ramifications. Then Hermione suddenly launched from her chair with a gasp, grey skirt aflutter.

"Harry! Maybe we can use this place for the Defence club! You know, when you're not using it with Dumbledore!" she whispered excitedly.

After a rather frightened moment, a grin broke on Harry's face. "Yeah! That's a fantastic idea, Herm!" He thought he was also entitled to this own nickname for Hermione, who, Harry was relieved to see, smiled back as she returned to her seat and had a pink tinge to her cheeks. One eye furtively shooting to Ron, he saw... green! Harry thought it also didn't look good on Ron, especially Ron; the freckles weren't helping any.

Perhaps it was Ron's turn to feel a little out of the loop - it was his fault anyway: the only reason he and Hermione discussed usually between themselves about serious issues was that, usually, while discussing said serious issues, Ron in all probability would be shoving one thing or another down this throat, so he really shouldn't be blaming anyone but himself. Ah, jealousy - it's an ugly thing, truly.

"And I think I'm getting ahead with charming the Galleon," she continued, her eyes glowing feverishly as she slowly returned to her seat. "Harry, you should also try looking into that book that I gave you for your birthday, maybe it has some, er... useful-" This word was heavily muffled and spoken rapidly. "-spells we can... er... use..."

Harry couldn't help barking aloud in laughter. "Sure, Hermione, I'll make sure to find something useful in Useless Magic!"

Apart from the title being soundly self-defeating in itself, Harry hardly thought there would be anything more defensively viable than a Sudden Starkers Spell he had once stumbled upon, and he didn't think it would be sensible let alone effective to strip his enemy naked. Nevertheless, he made a mental note of keeping it in his book bag.

"Keep your voice down," admonished Hermione, trying to save face, but the red of her cheeks remained, and an abashed smile grew on her face.

Harry's amusement at her expense was soon cut short by a rather impressively precise jab of her elbow into his diaphragm that prompted his spluttering fit, and now Hermione was the one giggling at him. Harry wouldn't be surprised if she knew the human anatomy and so planned the exact area in which to plunge her elbow. Again, when he turned to Ron through his coughing fit, he saw... green!

Ron, clearly trying not to show how unsettled he was by this new camaraderie between Harry and Hermione he didn't fully understand, asked over Hermione's once pleasant but now grating giggles, and Harry's downright irritating spluttering, no doubt, "So why doesn't the letter burn up when Hermione and I touch it?"

Hermione's giggles stopped sharply, Ron looked glad to hear, and she and Harry sobered up.

"Well, maybe Dumbledore trusts us as Harry's friends," Hermione suggested.

Ron considered this for a while. He then stood up, grabbed the parchment - the words faded instantly - and with an air of someone wishing not to be bested, he strode over towards one of the girls sitting close to them with her friend while Harry and Hermione watched him raptly from where they sat. He approached the relatively nice looking girl, gave her a wide, goofy smile that fit effortlessly on his face, and proffered her the letter.

The second-year girl initially looked wary, then shy, and finally, after a long, unduly embarrassing time, the girl took the letter: at once, she screamed shrilly at its instant incineration, flying back and landing into her friend, sending them both crashing to the floor. High, unmitigated laughter escaped Ron, Harry, and Hermione before they could stop themselves, and all eyes were upon them as they rolled on the floor together as friends in a heap of stamping limbs, air-depleted lungs, and tears of mirth.

This time around, Pince had no reservations about giving them an earful as she hauled them out of the library single-handedly by the very ears into which she shouted, and they couldn't help but note she was using the pent up diatribe from the incident of the rude messenger boy to fuel her. Kicked out from the library, they swept off with sufficiently contrite faces, but as soon as they were in the corridor, all pretences broke, and they erupted into laughter again.

However, there wasn't any amusement to be enjoyed in waking up at eight o'clock in the morning the next day, at least for Harry, who couldn't fathom why Dumbledore had decided to start a lesson so early in the bloody morning; 'It's a weekend, for bloody sake!' he thought indignantly. He groggily got out of bed, not feeling particularly rested; he had been anticipating this meeting the whole night and was now paying for it through his weariness. The meditation he dutifully went through before sleeping helped a little. Nevertheless, Dumbledore still wouldn't be impressed if he yawned after every spell he shot. Moreover, Harry was going to be on an empty stomach since he woke too late to go down for breakfast - it was already fifteen past seven. He almost reasoned that Dumbledore shouldn't expect much from him at eight o'clock on a Saturday, but he promptly berated himself: he was playing around here and people were probably dying outside whilst he complained. Harry exhaled heavily and went for the showers.

After performing his morning ablutions and getting dressed, he went down the stairs, where he met Hermione reading quietly in one of the red, comfy couches, a merry fire burning above the hearth.

She heard him coming down the stairs and looked up. "Morning, Harry," she said brightly.

"Morning, Hermione," Harry greeted back. He was half-tempted to attempt say, 'Morning, Mione' to see how she'd react but decided against it; he had already been approved to claim his half of Hermione's name.

Hermione's face turned abruptly beseeching. "Harry, you sure you can't convince him to teach us as well? It'll only be me and Ron."

She looked so hopeful; how could Harry turn her down? Surely Dumbledore wouldn't allow them to because from what he, Harry, gathered from their talk four days ago was that this was mainly between him and Voldemort, and that had nothing to do with his friends. Furthermore, he didn't fancy putting his friends in that very direct line of fire.

"Er, I don't know, Hermione. I think Dumbledore is going to concentrate a lot on me and Voldemort," he lamented telling his friend. He hoped she hadn't gotten up especially early just to accost and ask him this; it would make him feel horrible, but Hermione was probably up by this time on every Saturday, nose in her books.

Hermione looked conflicted for a moment, but then her countenance soon resolved, and she nodded. "I understand, Harry. Well, I guess, you should be on your way. Do you want me to escort you?" she asked, her expression delicately clear.

Harry felt awkward at this, and he shuffled so a bit on the stairs. "Er, no, it's fine, I can make my way there; my vision's not that bad!"

From her late and contrived smile, Harry gathered his supposed humour hadn't carried.

"All right. I'll continue to work on Sirius' dagger and the Galleon idea," she said, and to Harry she seemed to be trying to marshal together her ventures so that she appeared to have a purpose and better things to do besides plebeian things such as pleading to accompany him to Dumbledore, which only made Harry feel guilty even further for putting out his friend like this, weighing her down with researching his birthday present and forming a way of communication between the potential members of their club.

"You know, you don't have to, er, do too much on those thing, you know," he muttered contritely.

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, Harry. Anything I can do to help. I was thinking of meeting the people who are interested on the coming Hogsmeade weekend in the Hog's Head, away from unwanted ears, 'cause, you know, The Three Broomsticks is usually full and rowdy."

Harry suspected another reason for Hermione preferring the Hog's Head over The Three Broomsticks, but he nodded and smiled at Hermione. "Excellent! I hope a good number turns out."

Hermione nodded silently in agreement.

Harry cleared his throat. "Well, I--er, better get going," he said awkwardly, not wanting to rub in that he was still going to Dumbledore, despite his encouraging words, but luckily, Hermione didn't take further undue offence, as she bade him good-bye amicably, and Harry slipped out through the portrait and started swiftly trotting up to the seventh floor, not actively bothering to take in the curious views presented by his journey, which he should've been doing if he aspired to know this expansive castle from the back of his hand, right down to the last alcove.

"Ah! Harry my boy!"

Harry couldn't find a time when he was so torn between cringing from that voice and feeling elated by the blatant happiness held in it, elicited only by his appearance, something which didn't occur alarmingly often, be it Privet Drive or the Wizarding world, even - except for the Burrow, of course.

"Morning, Professor Dumbledore," he managed to greet.

"And a good morning to you too, Harry. Sleep well?" asked Dumbledore, clad in colourful, flowing robes of purple and golden stars in varying sizes.

Harry attempted to smile, but it probably didn't come out as such. "It was all right."

Dumbledore beamed. "Excellent. We should probably be onto our business." He then started whistling a classic tune (Harry knew Dumbledore enjoyed classic music and ten-pin bowling from the Chocolate Frog Cards he had collected of him) as he pace in front of a blank wall.

Harry frowned at his headmaster's actions sceptically, and he looked back to see if anyone else was witness to the first signs of senility in the old man. Dumbledore himself was absorbed in his activity, and then suddenly, after pacing three times in front of an empty stretch of wall, vertical and horizontal cracks started snaking quickly along the wall's smooth surfaces like rapidly growing and extremely behaving vines, forming a huge door that ground and crackled into being. Dumbledore beamed at him as the door solidified right in front of Harry's eyes.

"Convenient for when one finds himself woefully far from a bathroom and with an exceptionally full bladder," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling brightly.

It took Harry a moment to place those words, and upon remembering, he gasped, recalling them being said by this very same man last year at Christmas. He stared back at the door with wide, awe-struck eyes, mouth agape. His ability of speech temporarily out of commission, he mutely followed Dumbledore inside. What he saw inside took his breath away:

The room was enormous, had a very high ceiling and ample space in the centre for duelling or whatever else in which they would engage. The upper parts of the walls were pure white and the lower, dark brown, giving the impression of a ceiling-less, square amphitheatre. The room also appeared to grow a little misty as it stretched upwards and to its corners, enhancing the vast and abyssal impression.

"Yes, I think this will prove sufficient to our requirements; after all, it is called the Room of Requirement." The eyes twinkled merrily at him again, a bright smile curving his lips.

"The Room of Requirement," Harry intoned in wonderment, wheeling around on the spot as he gazed at the boundless ceiling.

"Yes, Harry, the Room of Requirement; it supplies what you require. Whilst I was pacing about out there, completely missing a look on your face that questioned my sanity, I requested a room with ample space to stage our training, and this is what it offered. Ingenious, I must confess." The headmaster chuckled.

Harry could only nod quietly in agreement and blush.

Dumbledore cleared this throat officially, drawing Harry's attention back to him, as Harry's eyes had wondered back to the vast room in his embarrassment. "Well then, we should get things started. Harry, there will be people you are going to meet in a few moments. Some of them you will recognize, and some not. I have arranged with some of my colleagues to come here so they can impart their vast knowledge to you, Harry. I'm afraid I alone can only do so much myself; I am old man above all." Dumbledore chuckled again at his words.

There were going to be... "Other people?" Wouldn't it be a closed thing, with only him and Dumbledore? Harry felt his hands getting sweaty and his heart trying to back up in a small corner of his chest, but it beat wildly in trepidation all the same.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, Harry, leaders in their field. I'm quite privileged to be able to call upon their expertise. Admittedly, I've taught most of them but they genuinely wished to lend a helping hand to an old man." Again, Dumbledore gave that strange chuckle that was beginning to worry Harry; why was Dumbledore subtly referring to old age this year all of a sudden? Was he getting close to his time? Harry fervently hoped not; Dumbledore couldn't go now, not now, and he found that this wry chuckling was starting to grow more angering than infectious.

Dumbledore regarded Harry's pale face. "It's all right, Harry; you needn't be nervous. I know you'll impress them all, having surmounted things thus far many can scarcely imagine." Then, with a mischievous face, he whispered, "Besides, most of the persons that are to shortly arrive can't even cast a Patronus Charm." Dumbledore smiled liberally, his blue eyes twinkling once more, the overall effect momentarily lending him the look of an over-excitable toddler.

This at least managed to pacify Harry considerably; he could cast a Patronus Charm, easily. Yeah, I can do this. Just when he thought he had conjured enough confidence within himself, Dumbledore swept to the door and opened it, allowing Harry a glimpse of a couple of robes shuffling about in the hallway - a sight that made his anxiety shoot up again, defeating any notions of calm. Dumbledore seemed to have put together a panel of experts to train him. What if he failed? What if he couldn't master something and flopped, badly?

He couldn't afford to - his life depended on it, countless other lives depended on it. He couldn't let Dumbledore down, not when his mentor had so much faith in him.

Dumbledore lead a small group of variously distinct people into the large room, and Harry's eyes darted from person to person whom he could see. Then Dumbledore's team spanned out in front of Harry as though in supplication to an authority he knew he didn't possess, causing Harry's eyes to shoot desperately to Dumbledore for guidance. Dumbledore swept over to him and patted his shoulders.

"Everybody, I would like to introduce you to Harry Potter."

However, the introduction was unnecessary: before he spoke, there were already a littering of a few dropped jaws on the floor, which made Harry feel the same way he had felt when he had taken his maiden step into the Wizarding world.

He recognized Professor Lupin. "Morning, Harry," he greeted, with a warm smile.

Beside him was Mad-Eye Moody, who taught him DADA everyday and who now grunted his greeting before he said, "You should see his Shield Charm - best in the class!" to Nymphadora Tonks, who shook his hand next, her hair a strange neon blue colour.

"Wotcha, Harry!"

Professor Slughorn was next, a stumpy old man with a bald head, an ample belly dressed with a rich emerald velvet jacket lined with very shiny golden buttons, and short, stubby legs. "Merlin, bless my soul..." he whispered, shaking Harry's hand not with one but both hands reverently, and staring at Harry with an awestruck expression after his small, beady eyes shot to his scar; Harry was most uncomfortable with Professor Slughorn.

Next was Kingsley Shacklebolt - a big, tall, dark-skinned man whose appearance looked formidably unshakeable. "Nice to finally meet you, Harry," he said, in a deep, slow, commanding voice, the strength about of which was something very comforting and fortifying.

After discovering that Kingsley's handshake was as strong as his voice, Harry gingerly shook the hands of Professor Strolm, who taught at Vaux University in Wiltshire, though this carefulness was defeated when the man gave him a seemingly firmer handshake than Kingsley Shacklebolt, or perhaps his hand was already tender. Puzzled that universities existed when Professor Strolm introduced himself, he turned around to Dumbledore, who raised a silver eyebrow and clarified,

"Yes, Harry, there are indeed further education institutions in the Wizarding world as well. I believe, if I am not disastrously mistaken, that your friend, young Hermione Granger, is looking into that academic venture upon leaving school."

Harry was most astonished to hear this. First, he discovers that there are actual universities - plural - in the Wizarding world, then that Hermione was apparently going to apply to one. Why hadn't she told Ron and him? Why was she keeping it secret? Wasn't she going to run for Minister of Magic or establish an anti-house-elf movement or something? And how on earth did she know there were Wizarding universities? Was she not Muggle-born, just as was Harry?

Dazedly, he went through the last two people he didn't know and greeted them politely. One was remarkably short-worded, "Good morning. You're Harry Potter. I am Professor Dalton. I see you for Charmery. You short. Very skinny. And your eyes bad. Tut, tut," while the other Harry was dismayed to find had an American accent - this meant she actually came all the way from America. Again, Harry cast an anxious look over his shoulder to Dumbledore for an explanation, but Dumbledore was beginning to speak, favouring progress over curiosity in such crucial times, it appeared.

"Well then, now that we have cast the formalities aside, we can - please assist me in this, Harry - get the ball rolling?"

A strange giggle at complete odds with his nervousness about meeting such established and accomplished people escaped Harry, surprising him. Even though they were adults and fittingly more intelligent and skilled, he still felt inadequate, a feeling with which he was intimately familiar. Well, at least that was a constant.

"Yeah, you got it right, sir," he replied, grateful for the calming humour. He knew that, unlike most thoroughbred wizards, Dumbledore wasn't entirely ignorant about the Muggle world, as he lent from them on a couple of occasions a few of their idioms and maxims.

Dumbledore smiled broadly at him as his eyes twinkled once more. "Excellent," he said, rubbing his hands together, furthering that image of a mischievous, much-younger person. "Harry, I would you to spend some time with each of the experts and to possibly demonstrate your magical repertoire thus far so that they can get to know you better and be able to gauge your progress, and thus plan your training accordingly."

Harry swallowed thickly. "Yes, sir," he said, through a constricted throat. He felt like he was on a show - to view and to judge.

"Wonderful! I'll be around if you need me." With a final smile, Dumbledore turned to converse with one of his affiliates after Transfiguring big, plush couches for everyone, who plunked into them with faces of delight and appreciation for this show of eccentricity, probably remembering their younger days with Dumbledore as their headmaster.

Harry barely registered all this when he was swooped off eagerly away from the rest of the crowd by pudgy hands; Professor Slughorn was most eager to meet him. Turning his head towards the rest of the room in a final plea to someone to get him away from this man, he caught a strange look and a firm nod from Dumbledore, purposely and intently directed at him. Harry frowned at this, but before he could contemplate it any further, a passionate question was fired his way from the plump professor in front of him.

About two hours later, Harry had gone through every guest in the room, gave them the information they needed, and cast a few spells upon their request. On average, he had faired well, except particularly for Transfiguration: the American woman, Professor Rickman, had given a most McGonagall-ish expression when he had failed to satisfactorily turn the raven crow she had Transfigured into a pure-white dove.

At defence, contrarily, Harry could be highly proud, and he had shared a grin with Professor Lupin when the man had, in a proud voice that was mild but loud enough to be overhead through the little buzz of chatting going on around, asked him to perform the Patronus charm. Harry had yelled confidently, "Expecto Patronum!" and a great silver stag had burst out of the end of his wand, charging at the air and galloping all around the large room, followed by incredulous gasps, raised eyebrows, and a few assessing and some evidently impressed looks.

Shortly after, Dumbledore had called the meeting to order and closed it off. Apparently, it was only a meet and greet - no official training had started.

Minutes later, Harry was straggling back with Professor Lupin to talk while everyone was descending the drive towards the grounds of Hogwarts so they could Disapparate away at the gates, though Dumbledore had immediately taken the route leading to his office after giving him a proud wink.

"Sirius tells me you have been ignoring him," Lupin said mildly. He was looking just as prematurely aged as he always had - worn out lines wrinkling his face and a few more streaks of greys in his brown hair. His worn, frayed robes, together with the warm, curious look now settled on his face gave him the look of a sad though good-natured bum.

Harry's brow furrowed. "Sirius thinks I'm ignoring him? I haven't received a single letter from him since I've been at Hogwarts," he said, feeling indignant, betrayed, and confused all at once.

More lines appeared on Lupin's brow. "He tells me that he has been sending you letters ever since you came back from your relatives."

"Well, I haven't received any of his mail whatsoever, except for the birthday present he sent me."

"Yes, but that was when you were with the Dursleys." Lupin paused for a thoughtful while. "Perhaps now that Voldemort is back, Dumbledore might be intercepting your mail especially, to check for any curses or traps."

That was possible, but Harry thought it sounded intrusive; he didn't feel comfortable with somebody opening his mail, even if it was Professor Dumbledore; one thing he liked to treasure was his privacy - it was one of the few things he had.

"Maybe," he said curtly, his eyes wandering distantly, and he made a mental note to confront Dumbledore if indeed he had been intercepting and going through his mail.

They talked for a while longer, catching up on things and just making pleasantries. As the hour hand neared eleven o'clock, Lupin announced that he had to get going, so Harry escorted him down the grounds towards the gate, whereupon he Disapparated clinically, and Harry was left to trudge back to Gryffindor Tower to divulge his exciting morning to his friends, but he first wanted to go to Dumbledore's office to ask him why he had been intercepting his mail if it was true, thus Harry stood in front of the large oaken doors of Dumbledore's office minutes after.

He rapped on it twice. The usual 'Come in!' wasn't forthcoming, so he knocked again, which was quite rare; actually, it was the first time he ever did. Harry frowned at that thought. Should he see it as a bad omen? Probably not; Dumbledore would come back, it was not a big deal. He knocked again, not entirely convinced. Not bothering to knock again for the third time, he descended the spiral staircase and headed for Gryffindor Tower. Harry felt conflicted: he really didn't want to feel angry at Dumbledore after the man had been so great with easing his transition into this war training programme, and just being his normal self; his stature and omnipotence was comforting.

"Harry!" Harry heard Hermione's excited and yet anxious voice over the soft buzz of the common room as he entered. Her what intended to be quick journey to him was interrupted when she had to slap Ron in the shoulders several times to rouse him up from his nap, even though it was eleven in the morning. Relinquishing her journey and desisting to slap Ron, for he proved quite unshakeable in sleep, she huffed and sat next to a now awaking Ron in one of the plush, scarlet couches, in front of the nice and warm fireplace. As Harry came over from the portrait hole to the couch, he organized his mind for the imminent interrogation, and arranged himself on a couch opposite her, looking into the glowing fire of the hearth. He absent-mindedly pondered if Sirius ever appeared there before.

"Hey, how's it going, Harry?" was Ron's somnolent slur.

"Honestly," Hermione muttered disdainfully, at the words, crossing her arms and tossing her hair regally. "So?" she said primly, pointedly ignoring Ron, "How was your first lesson?" Her frizzy hair looked to be positively vibrating, acting quite independently to the rest of her body, which had gone still as though she were made of ice - a known sign of her excitement and anticipation.

There were quite a few people in the red and gold common room, this being mainly due to the weekend. Some had gone to traipse the grounds or sit at the lake on various benches across the grounds, and a surprisingly handsome portion spent their time in the library. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were conversing in hushed tones in one corner of the orange-lit common room, and judging by the eye-rolling, pursing lips, and dismissive hand gestures, they were clearly gossiping about somebody.

Where to begin?

Oh yeah!

"Why didn't you tell us you are going to apply to Vaux University?" Harry spat.

Hermione looked taken aback, jaw dropping and eyes growing a little wider, which was close to impossible. Beside her, Ron frowned and turned to her, not looking too surprised, considering this was Hermione he was looking at. "I figured you'd be launching your Support the Elves campaign thing."

Ignoring this, Hermione's jaw worked for a few moments to commission a reply to Harry's accusation, but it was fruitless. Then she seemed to gather herself as she quickly pursed her lips together defiantly, folded her arms, and narrowed her eyes.

"Who told you that?" she hissed tersely, looking for all the world thoroughly violated as though Harry had just told her he had read her diary.

"This other bloke, Professor Strolm, I think," Harry replied calmly, his previous vehemence dying, survived by the comforting calmness afforded by being back in familiar surroundings with his friends.

Hermione's eyes went from narrow to bulging. "You saw Professor Strolm? The Professor Strolm?"

"Er, yeah," Harry answered, a little thrown off by Hermione's enthusiasm.

There was a shivering pause before, "...What did he say?" shrieked Hermione, lifting from her couch slightly.

Harry thought they were going off track here. "Don't you want to know what happened in the meeting?" he asked a little cautiously, not knowing what Hermione's reaction would be if he didn't discuss Professor Strolm's every physical feature and the exact details of his personality.

Dean and Seamus slipped in through the portrait hole, all chafed and windblown, Crookshanks bounding through a second later, bottlebrush in the air. They gave the trio wide grins in greeting, which were returned just as enthusiastically by Ron and Harry and only vaguely by Hermione, who looked embarrassed for a moment before their entrance, but when they were out of sight, she cleared her countenance of any of its prior enthusiasm, and primly clearing her throat and stroking Crookshanks, who purred in satisfaction, she said, "Of course, tell us, Harry."

How neutral, Harry snorted in his mind.

Ron seemed to pique at this. "Yeah, mate, what happened?" Ah, the previous excitement he had bore for Harry's return from Dumbledore's lesson was rousing back to life in his face, shaking off the sluggishness of a daytime nap as he sat up a little straighter in his seat. It was then that he noticed the thing in Hermione's lap, and all traces of somnolence vanished as he resolutely turned away from it towards Harry and stared at him with a look of dignified impassivity, which looked decidedly awkward, as Ron had very little about which to be dignified, and too rich for his face.

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly and quietly. "Well," he began, "I met Dumbledore on the seventh floor in front of that portrait he told me about in the letter. Guys, it's the perfect room to hold this, er, defence club thing in!"

Hermione beamed, excitement singing all over her body, a huge contrast of her earlier disposition, a disparity which Harry could only attribute to her gender, together with never-ending giggling fits he had endured last year just before the Yule Ball. "Great, Harry! So now, we have a facility. I'm almost done with that Galleon messenger idea. So far I can only make the messages very simple but give me a few days and I will be able to put in numbers as well for the time we are to meet."

Both Harry and Ron nodded at her, impressed and elated by the development of this club. "That's brilliant, that, Hermione!" Ron said, seeming to have forgotten Crookshanks and giving Hermione a big smile that Harry thought was immoderate and carried too much meaning behind it.

"Yeah, that's fantastic, Hermione," Harry inserted, a little loudly.

Hermione flushed at all the praise. Seeking respite from the fire blazing in her cheeks, no doubt, she cleared her throat daintily once more, raked her fingers a little over-enthusiastically through Crookshanks' fur - who promptly departed and would not be missed by Ron - and flapped her hand at Harry, saying, "Go on, Harry, you were telling us about the lesson."

"Yes, er... where was I?" After Hermione eagerly redirected him to the previous topic, bypassing Professor Strolm's amazing appearance, he continued to tell them about his morning, and in no time, Ron and Hermione had received the low-down on his top-secret meeting with Dumbledore and other experts.