Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 16: Give And Take

"What we share with another ceases to be our own." -Edgar Quinet

***

Somewhat to Harry's surprise, his Christmas morning turned out remarkably pleasant.

He awoke to the scent of fresh herbal tea, and for the second time in his life his first sight upon opening his eyes was the grinning face of a house elf.

"Dobby?" Harry asked, stretching and yawning. "What are you doing in my dorm room?"

"Great Professor Dumbley is sending Dobby," the elf replied, his ears twitching with delight. "He is sending Dobby with breakfast for Harry Potter sir and Harry Potter sir's doggy."

"My--oh." Harry turned, spotting Padfoot seated at the foot of his bed and eying the tray Dobby was toting with obvious interest. "That's awful nice of him," Harry continued.

"Is good for Harry Potter sir," Dobby said, floating his tray over to hover a few inches above Harry's legs as he sat up and propped himself against his headboard with pillows. "Harry Potter sir is needing rest and good eats."

"Well, this certainly fits the bill," Harry remarked, surveying the feast laid out. There were omelets in the shape of Christmas trees, bacon strips, mounds of hot cereal, a pitcher of juice and a pot of tea, and more toast than Harry thought Hagrid could put away. "And merry Christmas, Dobby," Harry added, looking back up at the elf. "I have a present for you." He started to rise, but Dobby gave a distressed shriek and leapt onto the bed, pushing Harry back against the pillows with his little hands.

"No!" He exclaimed, horrified. "Harry Potter sir must not get up! Harry Potter sir is to rest today! Great Professor Dumbley is saying so."

Padfoot, who had risen as Harry tried to, gave an unmistakable 'yeah, what he said,' look and subsided back onto his haunches as he eyed Dobby with obvious approval. Harry was momentarily annoyed, but the feeling didn't last. Dobby had, purposely or not, reminded Harry of the night's events, and now that he was thinking about it he was still bone tired. Breakfast in bed didn't sound all that horrid.

"But your present," he protested.

"Dobby will fetch," The elf proclaimed. "Just Harry Potter sir tells Dobby where his great kind present is being and Dobby will fetch."

"In my trunk," Harry directed. "It should be on top. It's in red and white paper...yes, that's it. You can open it now, if you like." He watched in amused gratification as Dobby cradled the package, then opened it. His big eyes rounded and grew roughly to the size of dinner plates as he gave a squeal of ecstasy.

"Harry Potter sir is too kind," he exclaimed, reaching one long finger into the wrappings to caress his new acquisition.

"No trouble," Harry replied, then beckoned the elf over as if to tell him a secret. "You know, Professor Dumbledore has a pair almost exactly like those."

Dobby's rapturous expression nearly split his face as he hugged his new purple and gold socks to his chest. The little Gold Crups danced around the footwear under the elf's awestruck gaze.

"Like Great Professor Dumbley?" Dobby whispered, obviously not sure whether to be honored or worried. "Is Dobby allowed to have sockses like the Great Professor Dumbley?"

"I don't think he'll mind," Harry assured, grinning at the success of his gift. "In fact, I think he'll enjoy it."

"Dobby is having a present for Harry Potter sir," the elf explained, then hopped up onto the bed. He shifted things about on the tray, then extracted a lumpy package wrapped in what looked like several Christmas garlands. Harry accepted it with due ceremony, and opened it with interest.

"Oh, wow," he exclaimed, unwinding the garlands to reveal a neatly folded square of cloth. A very brightly colored square of cloth.

"Dobby is finding it Harry Potter Sir in Hogsmeade." The elf leaned close and Harry feared he might burst into tears. "Dobby is using his 'wages'." He said the word like some people said 'The Queen'.

"That's very kind of you," Harry said, unfolding the cloth and discovering that it was, in fact, a scarf. He wondered if anybody but a house elf would ever buy such a thing. It was all red and purple, and the little gold sequins literally danced along the edges, singing a piercingly high rendition of the Hogwarts song. Harry cocked his head, wondering for a moment if he was imagining a resemblance to one of the old Beatles songs Uncle Vernon used to play when he had been hitting the whiskey.

"Thanks, Dobby," he said to the expectant elf. "It's lovely."

"Dobby is happy Harry Potter Sir is liking humble gift," the elf replied, then gave a start as if he heard something Harry could not. "Dobby must go. There is being much for house elves to be doing for Christmas feast!" And with that he popped out, throwing Harry a cheerful salute as he did so.

"You do acquire the most interesting friends," Sirius remarked, resuming his human form and scrambling up to join Harry at the head of the bed. "God, that smells good."

"Help yourself," Harry said, pushing the tray towards him. "And I know I do. You should meet this dog friend of mine--"

"Oh be quiet," Sirius said through a mouthful of omelet. He swallowed, pouring himself a glass of juice. "Don't you want anything?" he asked, suddenly frowning at Harry.

"Er just some tea and a little cereal, thanks," Harry replied, pulling the pot towards him.

"I guess I wouldn't be able to eat either, if I'd seen what you did," Sirius said quietly, a forkful of omelet suspended in midair as he studied his godson.

Harry nodded silently, not willing to reveal how that statement had forcibly reminded him of his dream, or that he suspected he wouldn't have been hungry regardless.

They ate in silence, Sirius diligently working his way through the tray with occasional benedictions upon house elves everywhere.

It wasn't until his godfather had leaned back with a contented sigh and pushed the still hovering tray away that Harry caught a glimpse of the mound of brightly colored packages at the foot of his bed.

"Presents!" He exclaimed, giving a little bounce.

"Well, yes," Sirius said dryly. "They do tend to pop up this time of year. Funny, that."

"Git," Harry said affectionately, making an absolute shambles of his bed as he attempted to crawl down to reach his gifts and stay warmly tucked beneath the covers at the same time.

"Oh, here," Sirius said, shooing Harry back to the head of the bed and going to fetch the gifts. He laid them out on Harry's lap, giving each an experimental shake to see if he could guess the contents of the package from the sound. Harry couldn't suppress his delight, for he had never seen another adult do that. It was one of those things he figured you were supposed to stop doing when you had things like an income and a job. But of course Sirius had neither, or not officially, and Harry wondered if that had anything to do with why Sirius was the coolest adult ever.

His godfather nabbed some pillows off Ron's bed, then settled in next to Harry, looking just as excited as Ron usually did on Christmas morning. "Well," he said, leaning forward eagerly, "Open them, open them."

Harry laughed, and reached for Ron's package, picking it out by the atrociously individual handwriting. He ripped it open eagerly, and let out a whoop as he lifted out the clear plastic packaging and surveyed the seven tiny figures imprisoned within.

"Oo, that's neat," Sirius exclaimed, helping him tear open the packaging. The seven little figures, each outfitted in painfully orange robes, stood on Harry's palm, a few venturing a ways up his forearm to peer into his face. Each carried a broomstick slung over the shoulder, and according to the instructions Sirius was reading aloud, each could rattle off the entire Quidditch history of the player it was supposed to represent.

"But why the Canons?" Sirius asked, nearly as enthralled by the little figures as Harry was.

"Ron loves them," Harry explained, tilting his fingers and watching as two of the figures took the hint and mounted their brooms, zipping about in the air around Harry's head. "He insists they're up for a come-back."

"Hmph," Sirius commented. "Your friends aren't just weird, they're nuts too."

After the seven little figures had been reluctantly replaced in their box and pushed aside for later raptures, Harry dove back into the presents. Hermione surprised him by forgoing her usual book and sending him a lovely carved Hippogriff, which could act as either a paper-weight or a pencil holder. He bore a striking resemblance to Buckbeak, and Harry saw as he scanned Hermione's letter that this was why she'd purchased it.

"He just made me think of you and me in the third year," she had written, "and of course how very much I abhor flying."

Mrs. Weasley had sent the usual jumper, red again this year, and a whole stack of beautifully frosted Christmas cakes.

"Good," Sirius commented. "I'm glad someone's mothering you."

"She's good at that," Harry replied, grinning. "She likes to make me eat four helpings and hug me a lot."

"Sounds just about right," Sirius said, a wistful note in his voice.

Harry hesitated, not sure whether to pursue that, but he decided to let it go as Sirius' hand settled warmly around his shoulders and his godfather indicated the next gift with a tilted eyebrow.

"It was, to Harry's delight, from Hagrid. Harry heaved the package onto his lap, a little wary at it's bulk and weight. He wondered how many owls it had taken to carry it from wherever Hagrid was. Or perhaps, he realized with a spurt of delight, Hagrid was back in Britain, even at the castle.

"What's in there, a body?" Sirius asked, looking with interest at the long, oblong box.

"Possibly," Harry said. "Though knowing Hagrid, it's probably not dead."

He lifted the lid of the box, wondering vaguely if he should have gotten his wand first, then let out his second whoop.

"Wow!" Sirius exclaimed.

"Yeah," Harry enthused, reverently lifting the crossbow out. It was nearly as tall as he was, all polished wood and smooth lines. "And he sent arrows, too!"

"Oh no you don't," Sirius said, plucking the arrow away from Harry, who had been attempting to fit it into the bow. "Not indoors. And not outdoors, either, unless Hagrid is there to help you."

"I wasn't going to actually shoot it," Harry retorted, but he set down the arrow obediently. "I wonder if he'll teach me--yes, it says here in his letter that he can show me how to work it. He practices out behind his hut sometimes, and I can come along. This is great!"

"Oh dear," Sirius muttered, looking suddenly crestfallen. He waved away Harry's concern, smiling self-consciously. "Oh, nothing. I just realized that compared to that, my present looks pretty silly."

"I doubt that," Harry said, letting the bow lie on the bed as he looked up at Sirius. "It's coming from you. That in itself makes it great."

"I suddenly wish I hadn't gotten you that Firebolt," Sirius muttered. "I'm setting myself up to be outshone by myself."

"Don't say things like that," Harry exclaimed. "I love my Firebolt, and the knife and the watch, and whatever you've gotten me this year."

"Let's see, then," Sirius said, leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve his bag. He withdrew a very small box, maybe half the size of Harry's palm. "I asked Remus for advice with this, so if you don't like it it's entirely his fault."

Harry took the box, turning it over and giving it the ritual shake. It gave only the faintest of rattles, and with one last glance at Sirius' slightly nervous expression, he peeled off the red and gold paper and flipped open the box inside.

"But I don't..." he said, a bit confused as he lifted out the exquisite gold lion, suspended from a winking red gem. "I mean, I've never--"

"You have an appointment in Hogsmeade," Sirius said, pointing out the slip of parchment at the bottom of the box. "At Magi-art, the only wizarding piercing and tattoo parlor around here."

"Really?" Harry asked, a slow smile blooming. He lifted the lion and held it against his right ear lobe, enchanted by the feel of the metal. He had a sudden urge to go make up with the mirror in the boys bathroom.

"So you like it?" Sirius asked, sounding mightily relieved. "Moony said you would. I asked him, you see, because I couldn't really think of anything. He said to get you what I would have wanted most at your age, and since I wasn't about to get you a motorcycle or Brenda Persmiddle, the earring it was."

"It's great," Harry said, really meaning it. "I've never thought about having one before, but I really liked Bill Weasleys. He had a fang."

"It'll look dashing," Sirius said, a roguish smile curving his lips. "Though it appears you don't particularly need the help. Harry followed his glance and stared in surprise at the two remaining presents. One was wrapped in a pink wrapping, patterned with painfully cute bunny rabbits who continually twitched their noses at him. The other wasn't nearly as flamboyant, but it was still obvious that a feminine hand had wrapped it. The silky crimson bow served also to hold a card, whose envelope was covered in tiny, sparkly little stickers.

"Who...?" Harry said, reaching for the package with the card first. "All the usuals are accounted for."

"What about your girlfriend?" Sirius asked. "One of them is probably from her."

"Who?" Harry asked, caught completely off guard. "Oh, Padma. Er, we, uh, that is to say--"

"You split up?" Sirius asked, his grin melting away. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry."

"S'alright," Harry said, running his fingers along the silky fine texture of the bow. "We, er, we're still friends." He felt a moment's pang as he hastily slitted the envelope and removed the card. It was indeed from Padma, and her warm holiday greetings made him feel like the worst heel for not even sending her a present.

"You're first break-up," Sirius said, his hand squeezing at Harry's shoulders. "It wasn't horrible, was it?"

"No," Harry assured. "It was, well, my idea mostly. Though I think she wasn't all that surprised."

"I remember my first breakup," Sirius reminisced. "She threw her pumpkin juice at me and yelled that I was the biggest boogerwad she'd ever met."

"You must have made her really mad," Harry said, thinking about how sometimes, when she was really furious, Hermione lost all semblance of eloquence and just sputtered.

"Oh, not really," Sirius said, waving a casual hand. "We were six, and at that age anybody who steps on your mud fort is the greatest boogerwad the world has ever known. What did she send?"

Harry stopped gawking at his godfather, trying desperately not to think about a love struck six-year-old spattered in mud and juice, and turned back to his package. Inside the box was an assortment of wizarding records, some familiar to Harry from their dancing lessons, or even from the ball itself. He lifted them out one by one, smiling at the funny pictures on the covers, and nodding when he recognized a particular name.

"That's nice of her," Sirius commented. "I remember some of those from old dance parties. Oh my, who's that?"

"Celestina Warbeck," Harry said softly. The record was the last in the stack, and Celestina's face gazed up at him from the cover. Her odd, purple tinted eyes seemed eerie in the dawn light, and Harry almost swore he could hear her voice whispering in his ear, singing softly. "We, uh, danced to it when she was teaching me. And, er, Celestina was at the Yule Ball."

"And you sent her a Christmas present," Sirius said, a look of understanding crossing his face.

"Well, yeah," Harry said, feeling a bit defensive. He felt bad enough about not sending Padma her gift without Sirius knowing. "We talked at the ball. She's nice."

"Nice?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "Nice."

"What do you want to bet that last present is from her," Sirius asked, his lips twitching.

"I don't," Harry said quickly, pulling the package close to him. He discovered, as he untied the bow and opened the paper that a card was taped to the top of the box within. "I'm sure it's from, er, somebody else. Maybe--" He was cut off as he slit the envelope and lifted the flap. Before he could reach inside, a small explosion went off before his eyes and there was suddenly a shower of multi-colored fireworks shooting out of the envelope. They crackled and sparked around the bed for a moment, then gathered in one rainbow mass before Harry's eyes and formed a brightly blinking 'MERRY CHRISTMAS!'

"Well, that was...festive," Sirius commented, blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision and giving the slowly fading letters a dubious look. "Who's it from?"

"Um, well, that is--"

"Ha! I was right!" Sirius crowed, grinning at Harry's discomfort. "Well, what does she say?"

"Just holiday wishes and stuff," Harry said, setting aside the brief card in favor of the box it came with. "She's staying outside London for a few weeks, she said."

"How'd she sign?" Sirius asked eagerly.

"What?" Harry asked, mystified.

"The card," his godfather explained. "How did she sign it?"

"Er, 'Yours, Celestina'," Harry said, confused.

"Yours!" Sirius exclaimed, grinning broadly. "Oh my, my, my. And no last name? That's definitely on the intimate side."

"Sirius--"

"So, what did she send?" His godfather sailed on, ignoring Harry's flushing protests. "That mark looks familiar." Harry followed his gaze to the complicated crest stamped on the lid of the box, frowning as a distant bell rang in his memory. For some reason, it put him in mind of Padma, and that made him squirm not in a good way.

"Me, too. But I can't place it." He pulled the box closer and opened it, then shifted aside several folds of fine tissue paper. "Hey, is that real dragon hide?"

"Looks like it," Sirius replied, helping Harry unfold and spread out the beautifully tooled cloak that nestled in the box. "Yes, it is. That crest, it's Lucanwear. They're the premiere wizarding designer label. I doubt they would deign to carry fake dragon hide. That's a fabulous cloak."

Even Harry, with his limited knowledge and appreciation for clothing had to agree. The cloak looked as if it would nearly sweep the floor when worn. The dragon hide was a gorgeous opalescent blue, with patterns of silver and gold scales decorating it. The material was rich and supple as it slid through Harry's fingers, and the clasp was set with a winking blue stone to match the rest of the cloak. Harry remembered that crest now, stamped on a purse Padma had been eying in Gladrags. She hadn't bought it because it would have cost her entire spending allowance through next Christmas.

"It's from an Irish Blue," Sirius said, leaning over Harry's shoulder. "Those scales, that means it was a pretty old dragon. Wow, this must have cost a small fortune." He nudged Harry and winked significantly.

"I'm awful glad I sent her the perfume now," Harry replied, still letting the cloak slide pleasantly between his fingers. The worked dragon Hyde caressed his skin smoothly and lightly, yet Harry knew that it was one of the warmest and most flexible materials in the world.

"Not a bad idea," Sirius said, sitting back. Harry shot him a look over his shoulder, confused by the odd tension he could hear in the man's voice. Indeed, the pallid rays of early morning sunlight starkly illuminated the strain lines about Sirius' eyes, and the even more prominent etchings of his frown.

"What is?" Harry asked, concerned.

"The cloak," Sirius said, as if that would explain it. "Oh, honestly," He said, frowning at Harry's continued blank expression. "I would have thought Hagrid would have devoted a whole year to dragons, knowing his predilections." He reached over Harry and lifted a corner of the cloak, caressing the fine fabric much as Harry had. "Remember last year, when I was trying to tell you how to get past a dragon? They're nearly indestructible. Most spells do nothing, if not bouncing right off them. Apparently their hide retains those special characteristics, even after it's separated from the dragon. If you're wearing this, you'll be safe from some of the nastier magical attacks."

"Then why doesn't everybody wear dragon hide?" Harry asked, having a sudden urge to give the cloak to Sirius on the spot.

"Because it's so bleeding expensive," his godfather replied. "And not many people have really made the connection between the powers of a dragon and clothes made from its hide." He smiled at Harry and patted his shoulder. "I have to admit, I'll feel better knowing you're wearing this."

"I wonder if Celestina..." Harry started, then cut himself off with a shake. Even in their brief acquaintance Harry felt confident in saying that Celestina wasn't the sort concerned with curses and attacks. He had a feeling that this gift had more to do with the opulent, yet fashionable look of the cloak than anything else.

***

The rest of the morning passed in a pleasant haze of and companionship. Sirius was just as eager as Harry to put his new Quidditch figures through their paces, and the two of them spent a blissful few hours sprawled side by side on their backs, excitedly cheering and exchanging critiques as the Canons went through a regimen of their most famous (perhaps infamous, Harry thought) Quidditch moments. A tired but accomplished Hedwig returned towards noon, bearing thank you notes and general holiday well-wishes. Amongst these tidings, as Sirius took great pleasure in pointing out, was a note from Celestina, written in a looping script that covered every inch of available space.

Dear Harry,

Thank you so very much for the perfume, it was such a thoughtful present. The scent is positively enchanting and when I wear it I will think of you. I hope your Christmas was as happy and contented as mine.

Yours,

Celestina

"Enchanting!" Sirius crowed. "She'll be 'thinking of you'."

"I didn't ask for your opinion," Harry said, mock grumpily.

"Ah, see, but you so obviously need my input, the steadying voice of an older and wiser individual, one with great experience and knowledge to impart to the eager student."

"Who?" Harry asked, looking around in confusion.

The ensuing pillow fight was interrupted only by the arrival of Dobby, who only blinked and flapped his ears as Sirius transformed into Padfoot and dove under the bed. Harry was momentarily alarmed, but then shrugged it off. As he well knew house elves were sworn to secrecy about the affairs of their masters, and even if the title rankled in Harry's mind, he supposed he was Dobby's master to a certain extent.

"Harry Potter Sir," The elf said, ignoring Padfoot with an aplomb which spoke of many Malfoy exploits, "Professor Hagrid is waiting for you in the great hall. He is saying a merry Christmas for Harry Potter sir, and is wanting to see Harry Potter sir after his long time away."

"Hagrid's back?" Harry exclaimed, springing up in delight. "Tell him I'll be right down."

"Yes sir," Dobby said, then paused. "Though, if Dobby is being allowed, Dobby is thinking Harry Potter sir should be leaving his doggy here."

"Quite right," Harry agreed, scrambling for his shoes. He didn't bother dressing, for he never had through the lazy morning, but simply threw a school robe on over his pajamas. He had a feeling Hagrid wouldn't mind.

"I'll be back soon," He said, waving to a mournful Padfoot as he skidded out the door and down the stairs. Hagrid had been such a constant in his life ever since his eleventh birthday, always stolidly there with his wild beard and cheerful love for anything fanged and clawed, that Harry had never really realized how much he enjoyed the man's company. The past few months without him had been strange, and Harry had caught himself on many occasions thinking that Hagrid would like to hear about this, or he should go take tea with his friend and show him that. Professor McKinnon had been great, but she could never measure up, literally and figuratively, to Hagrid.

"'Arry!" The Gamekeeper bellowed the moment Harry came down the main staircase. He was standing by the door, a bag roughly the size of Harry himself dropped at his feet. Harry was warmed by the sight of him, and noticed as he rushed to be crushed and thumped about with Hagrid's usual affectionate abandon, that the man had just taken off his coat. It felt nice to be wanted so, to think that his friend hadn't wanted to wait to see him even to rest his obviously travel-weary feet. "S'been a long time," Hagrid said, placing Harry back on his feet, then offering a tree limb of an arm to steady him as he swayed unsteadily. "Sorry. Didn't mean ter thump yeh abou so."

"It's fine," Harry reassured, grinning up at him. "How've you been, Hagrid. We've really missed you. Professor McKinnon was great, but class just wasn't the same. Where did you go? Is Madame Maxime here with you?"

"Whoa now," Hagrid exclaimed, throwing back his head and letting out a peel of booming, delighted laughter. "Slow down a mite 'Arry. I can't keep up with yeh." He paused, then looked more closely down at Harry. "Yeh've grown!" he exclaimed, with obvious delight.

"You think?" Harry asked, always eager for such comments. "You really think I'm taller?"

"Definitely," Hagrid said solemnly. "Yeh're almos' up ter me ribs yeh are."

"I think if I measure myself by you I'll give myself a complex," Harry laughed.

"I know what yeh mean," Hagrid confided, a secretive sort of smile gracing his face. "Why, this past month when I was staying with--er, tha' is ter say I haven' been doing anythin' these months. How abou' you?"

"Oh, same old," Harry said, waving a hand dismissively and chuckling at Hagrid's familiar clumsiness. He loved Hagrid dearly, not just for his seemingly endless heart and equally endless supply of vicious pets, but for his guileless knack of letting information slip. It had pointed Harry and his friends in the right direction more than once, and Harry made a mental note to tell Hermione what Hagrid had said. He was beginning to suspect that Hagrid had been off visiting the giants, and wondered if Hermione had come to the same conclusion.

"Say, Hagrid," he said, "thanks for the crossbow. It's wicked!"

"I 'oped yeh'd like tha'," Hagrid said, beaming. "I've seen yeh eyein' mine. I can teach yeh ter shoot it, if yeh like."

"That would be brilliant," Harry agreed, giving a little bounce in eagerness. "Though I don't know when we could," he realized, drooping. "I'm busy all the rest of vacation. I'm learning, er, new things you see."

"I'm sure yeh are," Hagrid agreed, looking suddenly solemn. "I'm sure yeh're very busy." He studied Harry for another long, silent moment. Harry was just beginning to feel uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny, a regard which usually made him feel comfortable and warm, when Hagrid surprised him by reaching out and gently placing both hands on Harry's shoulders.

"Yeh have grown," the half giant said quietly.

"I guess," Harry agreed, suddenly not nearly as eager to hear that. There was something in the way Hagrid was looking at him, in the softly carved lines of sadness on the man's face that unsettled him.

"'Arry?" Hagrid said, bending his head down to look Harry in the eye. "I've got ter tell yeh something."

"Yeah?" Harry asked, unaccountably nervous.

"I'm very proud of yeh," Hagrid said, gazing intently at him. "Yeh've been a good friend ter me, and it's an honor to see yeh grow up."

"I--" Harry said, utterly at a loss. He gazed back at Hagrid for a long moment, half afraid, half quietly awed. "Thank you," he said finally. "I, that is, I'm proud to be your friend, Hagrid."

"Just wanted yeh to know," Hagrid said, his voice brightening as he stood up and reached for his bag. "I'd love ter stay and chat, bu' I should be getting' back to me hut. Fang is waitin' I'm sure."

Later, Harry couldn't remember saying goodbye, or making the promises to come and visit soon that he would have liked to, but he must have. For the entrance hall was suddenly echoingly empty without Hagrid's bulk, and Harry found himself staring into the empty air where his friend had stood. He had a sudden, irrational need to go chasing after Hagrid, tell him to come back, not to go even as far as his hut.

For the 'just in case' which trailed Hagrid's words like an ominous commentary tail was still lashing about his mind with a sick chill. Just in case for whom? Hagrid? Harry himself? Both of them?

Harry felt like he had just lost something, and as he stood there he realized it was the impervious world of gruff love that he found with Hagrid. That place which had been previously untouchable, and so very precious to him, had been invaded with something Harry couldn't really understand, and didn't really want to. Hagrid had looked at him like...like...like Ginny did sometimes, when she thought Harry wouldn't see, with an embarrassing admiration shining plain to see. Hagrid had never looked at him like that before, not even when he told Harry what the scar on his forehead meant. Hagrid was a friend, stolid and unshakable, and he would have been Harry's friend no matter whose child he was or what sort of marks he bore.

But that wasn't true anymore. Hagrid had looked at him with the same boundless affection, yet the admiration in his eyes had quite effectively put a distance between them which had never been there before. It felt almost like a betrayal, that Hagrid of all people would look at him like that, think of him like that.

Harry wondered what had changed in the past months. It was as if Hagrid had learned something, or figured something out in his travels, something which now hung between them, disrupting the comfortable closeness that had existed before. He felt sad and angry, and not a little hurt.

Harry let out a slow breath, feeling his own shoulders slump in the wake of a meeting he had been joyously looking forward to, and which had in fact been something of a trial. He pivoted slowly on his heel, wanting only to get back up to his room, to sit with Sirius and talk about nothing, or maybe play a little Exploding Snap.

"Potter!"

Damn it! He really wasn't in the mood for this.

"Professor Snape," Harry acknowledged, turning to face the man as he emerged from the dungeon stairwell. For a moment Harry wondered if the potions master had been eavesdropping, but then shook it off. Snape would have no reason, let alone inclination, to listen in on the reunion of two of his least favorite people.

"What are you doing loitering about?" Snape snapped, striding across the hall towards Harry.

"Hagrid just got back," Harry explained distractedly, his mind still elsewhere.

"Wonderful," Snape snorted. "I thought I caught a whiff of his particular brand of...woodsy charm." He glared ferociously at Harry, as if it were Harry's fault Hagrid existed in the first place. "Don't you ever go home, Potter?" he asked abruptly. "It isn't enough that I must put up with you in class all year, but you must stay over every single holiday as well?"

"I'm not allowed to go home," Harry snapped, to exasperated and desperate to escape this conversation to fabricate anything. "I make a deal with my uncle every year. He drives me to the train station and I don't come home on holidays. It's not as if I'm staying just to annoy you."

Snape's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared in what every Gryffindor would recognize as his 'ready to pounce' expression. "I beg your pardon, Potter," he said in one of his deadliest low voices. "One would think that after five years in this school you would have learned how to address your betters with some respect. I can see your uncle is an eminently intelligent man for doing his best to be rid of you."

"May I please go now?" Harry snapped, his whole attention suddenly and furiously on the conversation. "I have somewhere to be, where somebody is actually waiting for me and eager to spend time with me. Where are you going, Professor?" Harry let his eyes slide downwards to the crook of Snape's left arm, which he had noticed the man usually held almost protectively to his side.

"Get out of my sight," Snape snapped, for one of the first times Harry could remember actually raising his voice. Snape's deadliest remarks were usually delivered in a sibilant hiss, not this angry, somewhat uncontrolled shout.

But Harry didn't stay to ponder. He just spun on his heel and headed up the stairs back to Gryffindor, more furious at Snape than he could ever remember being. How dare the man intrude on him just then. It was so typical of him, to show up just when Harry was in the worst frame of mind for dealing with his particular brand of conversation. Snape was bad enough on normal days, but after the strange conversation with Hagrid, Harry had possessed neither the patience, nor the tact to deal with the professor.

He stomped up the stairs, working out some of his anger by breaking into a trot up the next three flights. Bloody Snape, with his oh so sarcastic voice and non-existent sense of fairness. He had never attacked Harry from the angle of the Dursleys before, something which Harry supposed he should have been prepared for. But he hadn't been, and Snape's words had slapped him in the face with something he tried not to think about.

It occurred to him only as he was approaching the Fat Lady to wonder why Snape was still in the castle, too. Most of the staff went somewhere or other over holidays, and only Dumbledore and three or four professors had stayed back this year. As he considered it, Harry realized that Snape had been as regular a guest at the holiday tables over the past five years as he himself had.

"Nowhere to go to, probably," He muttered.

"I beg your pardon, dear?" the Fat Lady asked, looking up from her knitting. "That's not the password."

"Snidget," Harry said automatically, then stepped into the common room. He was even angrier with Snape now, for the simple fact that the man evoked a sort of pity in him. This was Snape. He didn't need, and probably would be enraged to learn, that Harry felt sorry for him. As he ascended the stairs back to his dorm and his waiting godfather Harry remembered something Hermione had said at the beginning of the year. He nearly tripped as he realized just how haggard Snape had looked. His usually unkempt hair was an even more untidy mass, and his skin was a sickly white.

"Damn him," Harry muttered as he reached his door. "He's not supposed to make me worry about him, too."

***

It was sheer will power that got Harry out of bed the next morning. The two days off had been blissful, more for the opportunity to sleep in a bit than anything else. He and Sirius had taken a late dinner the previous night, and had stayed up late what with one thing and another. Harry listened jealously to the light snores coming from the lump of dark fur at the foot of his bed. He still thought it was a little weird to have his godfather sleeping on his bed, but Sirius insisted he slept best in dog form, and the least he could do was keep Harry's feet warm.

Harry took a fortifying breath, then rolled out of bed in one quick motion. He dressed as fast as humanly possible, bundling into a T-shirt, his new Weasley jumper, and his school robes. Winter mornings in Scotland were nothing to dawdle about.

Sirius woke with a snort and a start as Harry sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes.

"Where you going?" his godfather asked, transforming in the middle of an enormous yawn.

"Lesson with Moody," Harry explained, pulling on his other shoe and casting a longing look at his cozy bed.

"Make sure and get some breakfast," Sirius admonished, waking up a little more.

"Don't have time," Harry replied, standing and snatching up his wand and winter cloak for extra warmth. "But why don't you go back to sleep. You look knackered."

"Good luck," Sirius said, taking Harry's advice and flopping back onto his side. His parting "be careful," morphed into a doggy grumble as Padfoot once again tucked his tail over his back paws.

Harry mused, as he headed down the stairs and through the silent common room (none of the few remaining Gryffindors were as nutters as Moody, hell, the sun wasn't even up yet) about being an animagus. Sirius' transformations had seemed so instinctive and natural, something he could do with half his brain still asleep and the other half not doing much better. Harry had always thought the animagus transformation was extraordinarily difficult. Wasn't that why so few wizards became Animagi? Or was it just the process of learning that was difficult?

But then again, if it was so hard, how had three boys, three teenagers learned it? Harry's dad had been talented in transfiguration, and McGonagall had said Sirius was very bright, but what about Wormtail? It was somehow disturbing to think that the quivering shell of a man Harry knew possessed the talent and vocation to become an animagus. For some reason it was easier for him to think of Wormtail as feeble, as little of a wizard as he was of a man.

Harry waved absently at Nearly Headless Nick, who was chatting companionably with a painting of what looked rather like a vampire. He was almost to the Defense classroom, where he and Moody always met up before those abominable ambushes.

Harry froze, one foot suspended in midair and his body canted forward at an angle to take the corner onto the Defense corridor. He rocked back onto his heel, silently berating himself for his own carelessness. The past two days had been blissful in their peace (though Harry had briefly worried that Moody was lying about the break just to soften him up for something particularly horrific) and Harry realized he'd gotten careless. It was disgustingly early in the morning, he was exhausted and muddle headed, and Moody, being Moody, would see that as a prime time to attack.

He withdrew his wand, pleased a little by the quick and skillful flick of his wrist. That was something else he'd learned over this vacation, how to have his wand in his hand within a second of sensing trouble.

Harry cast a preliminary defensive charm, a sensing spell which would tell him of any approaching presences. Or any presences not magically concealing themselves in any other way, as Moody most likely would be. Nothing showed up, so Harry tried a few other charms, checking for body heat, then the presence of magic. There was nothing.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Harry stood pondering at the corner for a minute, then shrugged. Moody was always telling him that running away was a perfectly viable option, but that implied that walking right into something was sometimes just as viable. Harry inched around the corner, wand up and senses straining.

Nothing.

Harry paused again, his back against the wall just a few feet from the dubious safety of the corner. He did a quick visual scan of the corridor ("Don't rely on your magic, boy! Anybody good enough can hide anything from magic, and some just forget to hide from the good old human eye.") Everything looked fine, silent and dimly gray in the steely dawn light.

Harry continued down the corridor, pausing every few feet to cast his probing spells again. Moody had only taught them to him a few days before, so he wasn't entirely confident in their use and implementation, but he was pretty sure he would recognize signs of danger. Advanced wizards could tailor the spells to react in certain ways, sounding the alarm by making a certain portion of the body tingle or some such. Harry wasn't nearly at that level, so he was stuck with the defaults. If the spells detected any sort of magical trap or approaching heat source, they'd make enough racket to rouse the entire castle and half of Hogsmeade. That was, if they worked.

By the time he'd made it to the door of the DADA classroom and had yet to encounter any problems, Harry was torn between relief and extreme paranoia. Either Moody was being easy on him this morning, or he was waiting inside the classroom with one bugger of a surprise.

It wasn't much of a decision. Harry took one deep breath, mentally readied himself as best he could and flung open the door. He leapt through, spinning in a semi-circle as soon as he landed and fixing his wand on the first target he saw, a particularly nasty itching hex on the tip of his tongue.

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered, raising one silvered eyebrow and extending a metal candy tin.

Harry gawped for a moment, then slowly lowered his wand. He took one more look around the room to make sure Moody wasn't hiding out somewhere, using the headmaster as a distraction. But they seemed to be alone

"Rough morning?" the headmaster continued, blithely ignoring Harry's expression as he sunk into a chair. "I always say a touch of sweet in the morning will brighten any day."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, accepting the tin and picking out one of the little yellow candies. "Where's Professor Moody?" he added, his brain catching up to the rest of him.

"I was forced to send Alastor away for a time," Dumbledore said, taking the desk next to Harry's. "There was work to be done that only he and his particular talents could handle."

"When will he be back?" Harry asked, finding that indeed the lemon drop did help. As he sucked on it his entire body seemed to warm with a tingling sensation, and he swore the colors in the room deepened and brightened. "That is," he added hastily, "I don't mean to sound like I don't want him back or anything."

"No need to apologize," Dumbledore said, laughing softly. "Alastor has put you through something of a trial these past days, and I can well understand you're wanting a bit of a break."

Harry didn't really trust himself to comment, so he only nodded.

"And to answer your question, Professor Moody should be returning shortly after term begins. And until then," Dumbledore continued, twinkling merrily, "I shall assume the task of tutoring you in these lessons."

"Really?" Harry asked, not sure whether to be delighted or terrified. He had always thought how easy it would be to be taught by Dumbledore, how the man's seemingly universal understanding would make even the most difficult tasks seem easy. But on the other hand he wondered if he weren't getting in over his head. The greatest wizard in the world could probably make Moody look like an amateur when it came to some things.

"Really," the headmaster confirmed, his warm smile reassuring Harry. "I admit I'm rather looking forward to it. I've missed teaching so."

"You taught Transfiguration, didn't you?" Harry asked, recalling that from somewhere.

"Correct," Dumbledore confirmed. "It is something of a specialty of mine." He chuckled again at Harry's hopeful look. "No, my dear child, no Transfiguration today. We will however," He continued, his smile widening at Harry's dismay, "not be continuing with Alastor's program. He has been doing an excellent job with you, but there are other things of equal importance I wish to share with you."

That was just right, Harry thought as he nodded. It should be sharing what they did here in this classroom, as much as learning. He liked that concept, the idea that he and Dumbledore were somehow linked by the process of imparting knowledge. His mind flashed to Snape, the brutal way he taught, the expectation that knowledge would be pounded into your head until it would never come loose, and that was the only option. But for some reason, instead of feeling irritated or annoyed as he usually did when he thought of Snape, Harry was surprised by a wave of pity.

"Sir," he blurted suddenly, "Does Professor Snape have a family? I mean, he never goes home over the holidays, and he just seems, I mean, I don't mean to be disrespectful..." It was only because he was watching so closely that he saw the flash of deep abiding sadness that flickered across the Headmaster's face.

"No," Dumbledore said quietly, seeming not at all taken aback by Harry's abrupt question. "Severus never does leave for the holidays as many of the staff do." He paused a moment, as if picking over his words. "I believe," He added, "that he considers this castle and its inhabitants his home now." He cast Harry a significant look, and he found himself inexplicably flushing under the Headmaster's gaze.

"Yes sir," Harry muttered, ducking his head.

"Come now," Dumbledore said, laying a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. "Let us attend to these lessons. After all, the sooner we start, the sooner you can get back to a friend of ours whom I know is very impatient."

Harry nodded, the odd surge of emotion subsiding as he waited for instructions. So Hogwarts was Snape's home just as it was Harry's. And Snape didn't look well at all. Harry felt a little strange thinking so much about the Potions master lately. He usually tried to avoid the slightest hint of the man with all alacrity. But for some reason He couldn't not think of Snape, the way his mouth had twisted when Harry had snapped back, the rage in his voice. And the fact, Harry realized with a start, that he hadn't taken any points from Gryffindor for an infraction which would have netted at least a ten point deduction from any other professor, and probably fifty from Snape.

***

Lessons with Dumbledore were pretty strange. At least with Moody Harry sort of knew what he was supposed to be getting out of the things he did. But he found himself completely mystified, and not a bit worried for Dumbledore's sanity, as the day progressed.

First they ran through a series of charms Harry remembered from his first two years at Hogwarts. The Headmaster would point out an object in the room, perhaps a desk or book or some such, and levitate it. Then he'd tell Harry to copy him. That was really rather silly, Harry thought, for he'd mastered all those spells years ago. But Dumbledore didn't seem to notice his strange looks, or--just as likely--was ignoring them for his own Dumbledore reasons.

Finally, after about two hours of this, the Headmaster beckoned Harry over to himself and extended his wand.

"Let's switch now," He said cheerily.

"Beg pardon?" Harry asked, completely knocked for sixes.

"Wands," Dumbledore said, as if it were obvious. "Let's switch and try those spells again."

"But--but," Harry spluttered, finding his wand plucked from his fingers and then replaced with a slightly longer one, made of a lightly reddish tinted wood. "We can't switch wands. It took me forever to find my wand, and all the others didn't work for me. I broke things and made strange noises, and one of them even shot out the wrong end and nearly lit my robes on fire."

"Oh, that's alright," Dumbledore said. "I know several excellent anti-inflammatory charms."

"But I--"

"Now then," The Headmaster sailed on serenely, turning away from Harry and surveying the classroom. Let's try the podium again. I'll go first, then you. Wingardium Leviosa!"

Obediently, the podium rose into the air, hovering five feet off the ground and rotating slowly as Dumbledore beamed as if he'd just done something miraculous. And, Harry thought, he sort of had.

"How did you do that?" Harry asked slowly into the silence. "I mean, you can't use somebody else's wand. Ron had to use his brother's one year, and it never worked right for him. It was old, but not that old and I think it kept going wrong because Ron was using it. And like I said, it took me forever to find the right wand for me. All the others were just...wrong. Is it because it's Fawkes's feather in there? Is that why you can do that?"

"No, it isn't," Dumbledore said, lowering the podium to the ground and turning to face Harry once more. "I could have done that with any wand on Olivander's shelves, that, and much more."

"But how?"

Dumbledore cocked his head to the side, a frown creasing his face. "Why don't you try out my wand first, and then we'll see."

Harry obeyed, a bit nervous and feeling not a little sacrilegious as he raised the Headmaster's wand. It felt strange in his hand, a little heavier than it should be, not as bendy, and more...liquidy. Harry's wand had a sort of flick to it, a springy resilience that was complimented by a warm tingling glow that was a sort of subliminal hum to every spell he cast with it. But Dumbledore's wand seemed to shift in his hands like it was full of liquid. And that tingle was nowhere to be found.

"Wingardium Leviosa?" Harry tried tentatively.

"Oh goodness," Dumbledore exclaimed, stepping up beside Harry. "You won't get anywhere if you don't think you will. Try it again, but this time tell it, not ask it."

"Alright," Harry nodded, lifting the wand again. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

For a moment he thought he might actually have done something, but that was only because something did come out of the tip of the wand. But the familiar jet of sparkly light did not head for the podium and loft it neatly into the air, but instead curved in a neat U-turn, gave a little shiver that Harry later swore was laughter, and caught Harry straight between the eyes. He staggered back, only keeping hold of the wand by remembering that it was Dumbledore's, and the Headmaster probably wouldn't like to see it tossed about.

"Oh my, that is interesting," Dumbledore commented, extending a steadying arm for Harry. "Dear me, I wonder if that's reversible?"

"What is?" Harry asked, reaching up to feel for fangs, or perhaps a Skrewt nose.

"Your hair has turned a lovely shade of, well I suppose puce is the best way to put it." Dumbledore's solemn expression was only slightly ruined by his twitching lips.

"How could that happen?" Harry demanded, halfway between horrified and curious. Good thing Malfoy went home for the holidays. If he got a look at Harry's hair...well it just didn't bear thinking about.

"My wand has a rather strange sense of humor," Dumbledore explained, giving a long suffering sigh.

Harry just barely restrained a muttered, "Like wand like wielder."

"The problem here is that you're not thinking in terms of the magic required to use my wand, to use a wand different from your own," Dumbledore explained, growing completely serious.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well, what is it about your wand that makes it yours?" Dumbledore asked, holding up the holly stick. "How do you know it's your wand?"

"It...feels right," Harry said slowly, wincing as he was unable to explain it better. "I mean, when I first picked it up, it was warm and it felt like...like..."

"Like finding an old friend again," Dumbledore said softly, then smiled at Harry's relieved nod. "Yes, my boy, that is precisely how it should feel when you hold your wand. It is in effect the act of binding this supremely magical object to yourself, finding the right match of your personality with a specific magical signature. From then on, that bond is what allows you to access and use magic so easily."

"But your wand doesn't tingle for me," Harry said, squinting down at it. He noticed, as he ran a tentative finger up its length, that the wood had the thin look of extreme age. Harry wondered if Dumbledore had had this wand all his life. But no, that didn't really make sense, for Ron had told him how Charlie had had to change wands a few years ago, and Hermione had once mentioned that most wizards went through several wands in their lifetime as they changed and grew.

"It doesn't yet," Dumbledore replied. "What you are doing, Harry, is reaching for that connection you have with your wand. When you perform a spell you expect your wand to be there and read your intentions and motivations, and respond the way you want it to. But that connection isn't there with my wand. What you need to do now is reach past that connection and touch the magic itself that you want to manipulate. My wand will not channel and activate spells for you as yours does, so you need to show it and let it help you."

Harry frowned thoughtfully, studying the Headmaster's wand again. "But I didn't even know I used this connection. How do I stop doing something I didn't even know I was doing?"

"A question which has baffled Muggle and wizarding psychologists alike for years," Dumbledore replied, smiling genially. "Let's get started, shall we?"

***

By the time Dumbledore proclaimed the day's lesson over, Harry had decided that the Headmaster's wand really didn't like him. He'd managed to spray a rather spectacular display of multi-colored bubbles, turn the podium into a three-headed chicken which informed him that his aim was awful, caught Dumbledore's beard on fire, and generally done anything and everything except float the podium. Dumbledore, a bit singed but not the least daunted, didn't seem at all disappointed with his progress.

"Takes time," He said when Harry haltingly apologized for not being able to complete the task set him. "You'll get it. Never fear. We'll have you floating and cursing with any wand you like in no time."

This was rather cheering, so Harry left the classroom in good spirits. It was late afternoon (Dumbledore had conjured up lunch for them at noon) and Harry was eager to get back up to his dorm and his godfather. He was sort of amused to find as he walked that he kept fingering his wand, now happily returned to him, and marveling at that feeling of contact he had with it. Just for the heck of it he gave a suit of armor a set of angel wings as he passed, simply for the pleasure of seeing a spell he cast do what he wanted it to.

He wondered a little too why he was learning this. He supposed being able to cast spells with other people's wands was a good party trick, but he honestly couldn't see much practical use to it. There was always the possibility that his own wand would be taken from him, and he had the opportunity to get someone else's in a fight, but aside from that Harry was mystified as to the purpose of all this.

His thoughts were interrupted as Peeves zipped around the corner ahead of him, took one look, did a double back somersault of glee and shot off again laughing maniacally. Harry was momentarily worried, but he shrugged it off, figuring the little git was just trying to psych him out.

It wasn't until he made it back to his dorm and Sirius recovered from his hysterical laughing fit that Harry realized his hair was still puce.

***

The rest of vacation passed in a similar manner. Dumbledore confirmed himself as one of the greatest wizards of the age in Harry's mind by proclaiming that pre-dawn risings weren't going to help his concentration any, and setting the beginning of their days after the normal breakfast hour. Harry found himself feeling a bit guilty for monopolizing so much of the Headmaster's assuredly valuable time, but Dumbledore didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, if Harry wasn't flattering himself, he sort of thought Dumbledore was enjoying the time they spent together. The two of them usually took lunch in the DADA classroom, and Harry looked forward to their chats over conjured delicacies. Sometimes talking to Dumbledore was like talking to Ron, except with a lot more wisdom. That easy camaraderie was there, the sense that you could say almost anything and knew you wouldn't be laughed at. Or at least not in a bad way. And Dumbledore listened with endless patience, and seemingly great interest, as Harry chattered about Quidditch scores, or his new figurines, or anything else that came to mind.

On the learning front, things were progressing, if slowly. Harry had gotten to the point where he could perform simple spells with Dumbledore's wand, and he had even caught a feel of that illusive sense of right that Dumbledore said he would find. The trick, apparently, was for Harry to be amused when he tried casting spells. They'd discovered that by accident, for Dumbledore was just relating a particularly hilarious account of a long ago staff holiday party as Harry reached for his wand to clear away their dishes. It wasn't until he saw the triumphant look on the Headmaster's face and glanced down that he realized he wasn't holding his own wand and that the dishes were obediently marching off to get washed.

From then on things had improved, slowly but surely. Dumbledore seemed to have an endless supply of anecdotes and jokes to tell, some of them so funny just because they weren't funny at all. Harry was mightily relieved, though he was beginning to develop a constant ache in his sides from chuckling so much.

Dumbledore said that as soon as he mastered spells with the Headmaster's wand, it would be easier to try someone else's wand. He told Harry to practice after the holiday, and give him progress reports.

The only dark moment came the second day after Christmas. This was after the breakthrough with jokes, so Harry was feeling pretty upbeat as he headed back to Gryffindor tower. He had actually managed to levitate the podium and make it bounce around the room under his instruction that day, though on the other hand he had also managed quite an astounding array of other, completely unintentional minor disasters. Harry really admired Dumbledore's eternal good humor, because Harry himself was about ready to either give the Headmaster's wand a good wallop, or try it on his own head.

He returned the Fat Lady's greetings, nodded distractedly to the two students in the common room, and headed up to his dorm. At the moment all he could think of was a shower, and maybe a little Chess with Sirius.

He knew the instant he entered the fifth year boys dormitory. Sirius sat, in human form, on the edge of Harry's bed. An owl Harry didn't know was perched on his shoulder, hooting companionably as Sirius fed it bread crusts.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Harry asked, as soon as the door was closed.

Sirius eyed him a moment, his face reflecting his worry and guilt. "I have to," he said, standing and moving to take Harry's shoulders. "I know I said a week or so, but I just got an owl and I really should--I am one of the few unregistered Animagi around and it's...oh bollocks." He made an exasperated noise and flopped back onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"No, I understand," Harry said, sinking onto Ron's bed. "You have important things to do."

"Don't do that," Sirius snapped, sitting up and almost glaring at him.

"What?" Harry asked, recoiling a little.

"Sound so...brave and resigned," Sirius answered, his glare softening apologetically. "You're supposed to beg me not to go or something."

"I could, if you like," Harry said, "but would it do any good?"

Sirius flinched as if he had struck him. "Yes," he said, then rose to his feet.

Harry sat, miserable not only at the prospect of Sirius' leaving, but at the knowledge that he had somehow angered his godfather. Sirius kept his back turned as he tossed things into his bag, his head bent as he gathered his meager possessions. Harry's throat tightened as he saw Sirius pause and carefully lift Harry's present to him, a slender homemade book filled with pictures of Harry and his friends, Quidditch matches, Hogsmeade weekends, feasts, even a few of Harry lying in the hospital wing with tart comments in the margins from Ron and Hermione. It was sort of from all of them, and even Colin had unknowingly contributed when he was all too happy to produce copies of some of his many photos for Harry.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, still not really sure why. "I didn't mean to sound like that."

"I know," Sirius answered, his back still turned. His voice sounded tight with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. "You're quite right, you know." He finally turned and Harry was shocked by the lines of fatigue and guilt creasing his face. "But I've got to go. These last few days, they've been, well the best."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I don't know how I'll sleep without Padfoot now." They laughed a little nervously, then stood in silence facing each other.

"Well then," Sirius said, then stepped forward and clasped Harry tight to his chest. His grip was nearly bruising, but Harry didn't mind at all.

"How will you--"

"I have a portkey."

"Do you know when..."

"No."

"Will you be able to write?"

"I'll try. I promise."

Their words blended together in the tight confines of their hug, overlapping and becoming something more than just what they meant.

Harry pulled back first, knowing somehow that Sirius wouldn't. "Take care of yourself," He said.

"That's my line," Sirius answered. He took a deep breath. "I've got to go. They said immediately, but I had to wait for you."

"Bye," Harry whispered, dropping his hands and stepping back. He watched as Sirius swung his small pack over his shoulder, then drew his wand from his sleeve and tapped the rumpled letter clutched in his hand. The pop of his exit was a lot like the sound made when he changed to or from Padfoot, and it was this that undid Harry.

He sank onto his bed, absently waving away the still hovering owl, and curled into a tiny ball. He lay there for a long time, not quite crying, not quite not, until he fell asleep like that. His feet were cold that night.

***

After that, Harry's progress with Dumbledore's wand stalled quite dramatically. The Headmaster tried Muggle knock-knock jokes, some 'you know you work in the department of mysteries' jokes, and even a few 'there's a wand in your pocket' ones that Harry was pretty sure even Sirius didn't know, all to know avail. Finally he halted the practice, retrieved his wand, and told Harry to wait there for him.

Harry, who really had been trying to think cheerful thoughts (he was beginning to grasp the sort of mindset Dumbledore's wand expected, and a strange mindset it was) slumped down dejectedly into a seat. Dumbledore probably needed to take a break--he was probably getting frustrated with Harry and needed to let off some steam. Harry would sort of rather the Headmaster yell at him outright, but he supposed he couldn't complain. Dumbledore had been as patient with him as Harry could expect, given his poor performance today. He was trying, he really was, but he just couldn't think...like that right now. Not when he was missing Sirius so, and worrying just as much.

"Here we are," Dumbledore said, startling Harry as he strode back into the room. "Let's try this one instead, shall we? I expect it will better suit at the moment."

Harry blinked at the smiling Headmaster, then slowly accepted the outstretched wand. It was shorter than either his or Dumbledore's, thicker too. It had a sort of stout feel to it, and Harry knew without knowing how that there was a dragon heartstring inside.

"Give that one a go," Dumbledore encouraged.

Harry raised it, more than a little surprised as the wand seemed to fit comfortably in his hand, not like Dumbledore's had when Harry first held it. "Wingardium Leviosa!" He said firmly, giving the wand a decisive upward flick. The podium shot off the floor, and it was only Harry's quick reflexes and the powerful downward jerk he gave that saved it from crunching itself into smithereens on the ceiling.

"Marvelous!" Dumbledore cried, delighted. "I thought you might do well with that wand today."

"Who's is it?" Harry asked, cautiously lowering the podium to the floor and examining the wand more closely. "It feels...not like mine, but not like yours either."

Dumbledore made a sound not unlike someone trying very hard not to laugh, and Harry shot him a suspicious look. "Well," the Headmaster said, a grin slowly forming on his face, "I borrowed it from a member of staff who really doesn't use his wand very often at all. Not in his area of study. And today I believe Severus is working on a potion which doesn't require any wand work, so I doubt he'll miss it."

"This...is Professor Snape's wand?" Harry asked, aghast. "But it--but I--"

"Don't take it personally now," Dumbledore said, letting his laugh out this time. "Though I'm sure Severus would. You see, Harry, what we've been doing here is not about people and how they act. It's about magic. My wand responds to a certain touch with magic, yours to another, Severus's to a third. When I told you jokes to make it easier for you with my wand, it was not unlike the way you use your own wand instinctively. You know how to work with your own wand, and hearing silly jokes helped you know how to use mine. Eventually you will not need that cue and will be able to channel and control the proper sort of magic with the same ease you work with your own wand. It just so happens that today you are in the correct frame of mind to work well with Severus's wand."

"Does that mean he feels like this all the time?" Harry asked, startled. "I mean, I'm having sort of a bad day, you know?"

"I'm afraid that what Severus feels, only Severus knows," Dumbledore replied, his eyes suddenly far away. Harry watched him, a little concerned at the sadness the Headmaster wasn't trying to hide.

"Sir?" he asked after a moment. "Is he, that is to say, is Professor Snape alright? He looks...sick."

"It is kind of you to ask," Dumbledore said, his gaze returning to Harry. "And yes, Severus is looking a bit haggard lately. But I believe he will be alright. His lot is as difficult as the rest of ours, he just must bear it sooner."

"Sir, what are we doing here?" Harry burst out, suddenly unable to restrain his curiosity, and a bit of his dread. "What am I supposed to be learning? Why are you teaching me if you don't want me involved? And I'm sorry, but how can you want me out of the way when always before I've gotten in one way or another anyway?"

"You have, haven't you?" Dumbledore said, his whimsical tone not matched by the seriousness in his eyes. "And I should not be surprised by that...considering..." He shook himself, as if casting aside an errant thought. "But Harry, I have never really wanted you out of the way, and please don't take my reluctance to involve you now in affairs as an insult. It is, I admit, a bit of a switch, but I feel it is necessary. For now. Please Harry, just wait. Trust in me, and in Sirius and many others to do what's right just for a while. Your time will come, sooner than any of us, including you, may expect or want."

Harry nodded, unable to speak as he and the Headmaster gathered their things and left the classroom for the day. He did not speak as he exchanged Professor Snape's wand for his own, or as Dumbledore bid him a good afternoon and headed in a different direction from the tower. His thoughts were a whirling mess of conflicting loyalties and memories, trusts and assurances.

That night, after a strained dinner where he couldn't look at Professor Snape without either cringing in fear that the man would somehow know what Harry had done, or feeling an odd swell of worry, Harry's dreams were equally jumbled. He dreamt of Dementors swarming the school, of Dumbledore smiling benignly as they administered the kiss to everyone they found, and the Headmaster's iron grip on Harry's wrists and his firm voice in Harry's ear. "Not yet, my boy," he said cheerfully as Professor Moody collapsed, his body nothing but an empty husk. "Not yet. Trust me. I have steered you right before, and I will do so again."

***

The students returned the day before classes were to begin again, and Harry was more glad than he could imagine to see Ron and Hermione again. Both of them had apparently had excellent holidays, though Ron was a bit overenthusiastic in describing the family festivities, casting significant glances over at Hermione. Viktor had come along just for that day, to help Hermione unpack he said. He planned to Apparate out that night, and Harry had to step hard on Ron's foot to keep the "about time" below hearing range.

The common room and dorms were all a flutter with excited students, bags overflowing with the benefits of holiday generosity, and Harry felt a bit overwhelmed. He had gotten sort of used to the near silence in the tower, and the emptiness of the castle itself.

It started that evening, when things had settled down a bit and most people were lounging around the common room or out looking for friends from other houses. Harry and Ron were playing with the Cannons figures, much to the annoyance of the twins who kept getting on the wrong end of minuscule, but apparently very powerful, bludgers. Hermione and Viktor were seated with them, chatting idly about the day they'd spent at Covent Garden.

It started, as it would end, with Hermione.

"So, what did you get for Christmas?" she asked, leaning over to get Harry's attention. "Aside from these ridiculous things, of course," she added, waving at the figures.

"Well, a jumper, of course," Harry said, giving Ron a wink. "And an earring from, er, that friend in the tropics."

Ron looked up with sudden interest. "Really? Why isn't it in?"

"I have an appointment for the next Hogsmeade weekend," Harry explained, laughing.

"Did he like the photos?" Hermione asked eagerly. She had worked pretty hard on stitching the binding of the tiny book, scoffing at both of the boys' efforts at sewing.

"He did," Harry nodded. "He especially liked your guys' comments in the margin, especially the 'Harry is in the hospital wing again. This time it actually wasn't his fault.'"

"That was rather inspired," Ron commented, stretching lazily. "What else did you rake in?"

"Well, some wizarding music. And Hagrid sent me a crossbow! I told you he's back didn't I? And he's going to show me how to shoot it sometime. And Celestina sent--er, that is to say, I mean that's all."

"Oh no," Hermione exclaimed, sitting straight up. "You just said 'Celestina sent.' What did she send? We'll find out anyway so you might as well say."

Sighing in resignation, Harry described the cloak, then fetched it to display. Hermione and Viktor ooed and awed appropriately, but Harry couldn't help noticing, just as he had been trying to avoid, that Ron didn't look very pleased.

"Did you write her back?" Hermione asked, after Harry had put the much admired cloak away.

"Er, no," Harry admitted, ducking his head. "I've been a little busy."

"Harry," Hermione chastised. "If you don't write her back, she'll think you didn't like it. You at least have to thank her for such a spectacular gift if nothing else."

"I know," Harry said, a little defensively. "I sort of don't know what to say."

"Tell her it vas just vat you vanted," Viktor put in. "And that you vill think of her ven you vear it. That's very personal."

"It is?" Harry asked, a little alarmed as he recalled Sirius' reaction to Celestina's note. "I'll do that then, sure."

So it was that Harry found himself hunched over in his bed, wand casting elongated shadows over his curtains as he composed his note to Celestina. He felt sort of silly repeating her words back at her, but he figured Viktor's suggestion was a good one. As Ron had said earlier that night, "he knows how to charm a girl, doesn't he?"

Harry signed his name, waved the ink dry, then held up the parchment for one last perusal.

Dear Celestina,

I'm sorry it took me so long to reply, but I've been dreadfully busy over the holiday. I just wanted to tell you that the cloak is beautiful, and I will think of you whenever I put it on. I'm also very glad that you liked the perfume I sent.

I hope you are doing well,

Yours,

Harry

He nodded when he finished, still a little unsure about the "yours" bit after what Sirius had said. But he had decided to take his cue from Celestina in whatever it was that was happening with them, and it did seem to fit right.

He folded the parchment carefully, suddenly quite taken with the thought that very soon Celestina's slender fingers would be touching and unfolding this parchment, that those strange eyes would be reading his words. He wondered if she would be wearing the perfume he had sent, and how she would have her hair.

It was because of these thoughts that he decided to head for the owlery that night, instead of waiting for the next morning. If he sent it now, she would probably get it over breakfast, and the mental image of Celestina in a frilly, and rather short, bathrobe was remarkably motivating.

Harry slipped out of bed, pulled on his shoes and dug out his invisibility cloak. It was, after all, a while after curfew, and not even his Prefect status would save him from Filch's wrath.

Letter in hand, Harry crept out of the dorm and started down the stairs.

He was on the final turn of the spiral, having just emerged into the straightaway where he could see into the common room when he stopped. He didn't really mind sneaking past people in the common room when they were just chatting or playing games, but he felt strange about trying it now. There were only two people left in the common room, but they were quite involved with each other, and Harry felt his face heat as his eyes skittered over them and away. He stood poised a moment, unsure. He did so want to send that letter, but then again he couldn't imagine getting caught sneaking out right now.

Finally he decided to retreat up a few steps to where he couldn't see them anymore and hope they'd be, er, able to part for the night soon.

Harry settled himself on a step, glancing occasionally up the stairs to make sure no one else was coming down who would trip over his invisible legs. The silence in the tower was not absolute, but comfortably full of the presences of many people. He could hear the footsteps of someone moving around on the girls' side of things, and apparently the couple below could as well. They were speaking now in low tones, too quiet for Harry to make out even if he had wanted to. He rose to his feet, figuring they were saying their good nights and he could make it out more easily now. He waited a moment longer, then shrugged and started descending again.

He had just rounded the curve of the stairs again and was still half turned away from the common room below when it came, accompanied by a hushed but still clearly intelligible "Obliviate!"