Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 18

Seeing The Hero

"Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid... He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete

man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought

of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world."--Raymond Chandler.

***

Harry woke slowly, swimming up out of a pool of engulfing darkness into a world not much brighter. He lay still for several long moments simply enjoying the lethargic pleasure that comes after a much-needed rest. He could tell from the angle of the diffuse glow that painted his closed bed curtains that his internal clock had roused him right on schedule. Indeed, as he finally convinced himself to move and reached for his glasses through the curtains, he could hear Dean's distinctively heavy feet hitting the floor. A moment later there was an evil chuckle, a splash, and a word Harry didn't think even Uncle Vernon knew. Seamus was up then, too.

Harry started to roll over, intending to make a dash for the showers before anybody else could. It was the sixth year prefect's turn this month to make sure everybody was out of bed and ready for class, so he had time to enjoy the morning. He didn't bother going to the Prefect's bathroom unless he'd been out running; not even that luxurious pool of steaming water was worth slogging across the castle in his pajamas.

It was only his quick reflexes that kept the precarious stack of books which had spent the night weighing down his chest from toppling off the bed and waking the whole dorm. He'd forgotten about them; he must have fallen asleep reading last night.

Harry took a moment to ruffle through the pages one more time, not surprised when it garnered him only a faceful of dust and the scent of crisp parchment. He'd checked these out of the main part of the library last night, and what an endeavor that had been. He'd had to send Hermione off on a wild goose chase about their Potions assignment so she wouldn't see him collecting them or checking them out. As soon as they'd gotten back to Gryffindor he'd feigned exhaustion (not hard, considering) and escaped up to bed to read.

He hadn't been expecting much, and had learned less. His original conviction that the only useful information to be found would be in the restricted section appeared to be quite correct. The only related information these books contained about the Obliviate spell were vague definitions of its effects, and even more useless history. They revealed nothing about reversing it.

But that was alright. It had been a desultory effort to begin with, just something to keep his mind occupied and to fill the long, dark hours of the night when thoughts became little prisons of fear and worry, inescapable fortresses of his own emotions. It was alright that he hadn't found anything because now he had a plan. A plan which, according to his class schedule, he could set in motion this very day. He had Defense Against the Dark Arts right after lunch, and as he had with History of Magic the day before, Harry intended to arrive a little early.

Harry considered for a moment, then simply left the books sitting on his bed. Normally he'd worry about Ron discovering them and wondering what in Merlin's name he was doing with What's My Line: Defining All Those Pesky Latin Phrases That You Just Can't Remember. But Ron had refused to speak to either him or Hermione all the previous evening, apparently still fuming over the business with Malfoy and the points, going so far as to walk away from them when Hermione tentatively invited him to join them in the library. Harry figured his possessions, as well as his person, would be anti-Ron territory for a while yet. And really, Harry reflected as he swung out of bed and cast Ron's still closed curtains a look, he couldn't bring himself to be too upset about it. It was weird spending just one evening without Ron at his shoulder, exchanging muttered imprecations on their homework and the professors who had assigned it, but Harry was sort of glad, too. Ron wasn't as observant and suspicious as Hermione, but he knew Harry the way he knew his own face--so familiar and oft-seen that it didn't even really register. Until, of course, something was different or wrong, and despite recent events Harry still didn't have much confidence in his acting ability. Particularly around his best friends.

He'd let Ron stew for a while, at least until this whole Hermione-Viktor disaster was cleared up. It would be the best thing to do anyway, as Ron was as slow to cool as he was quick to anger. He'd come around when he was good and ready, and Harry was relieved, if not content, to let him.

Harry nodded a good morning to a groggy Neville and a still dripping Seamus, then escaped to the showers. One nice thing about Hogwarts--you never had to wait for the water to heat up, even on the coldest of January mornings. And it never ran out, either.

"Good morning," the bathroom mirror chirped. Harry paused, blinking. Why was it that the blasted thing was polite to him only when he was starkers?

"Morning," he replied and ducked hastily into a shower.

Ten minutes later, hair still behaving marginally well under the influence of the water, Harry made his way down to the common room. He could hear Simon Fri, the sixth year boys prefect, rousing Ron as he passed the open dorm door, and Harry let out a little sigh of relief. No hostile glares or pointed silences on the way to breakfast, then.

He met Hermione down in the common room. As usual, she looked like she'd been up for a few hours already--she didn't sleep with ink on her fingertips, after all.

"Er, where's Ron?" she asked, reaching out to hold Harry back as he headed for the portrait.

"Just waking up, I think." Harry studied her more closely, noting the barely visible tinge of red in the corners of her eyes, the too firm set of her chin. "I don't think we should wait for him," he added more gently.

"Probably not," she agreed, tearing her eyes away from the boys' stairs and accompanying Harry out of the portrait. "I just hoped..."

"It'll take time, you know that. That's the way Ron works."

"Yeah." She sighed gustily. "I do know that, but it doesn't mean it still doesn't drive me mad...or make me feel any better." She paused, looking almost imploringly up at him. "Harry, do you think I was, you know, out of line?"

"Er," Harry said, stalling desperately. "I, er, that is I don't think--"

"I'm sorry." She waved him silent. "That was unfair of me to ask. Forget about it."

Harry nodded, greatly relieved. It was only in the past year or so that he'd begun to believe the old adage "three's a crowd." It was such an awkward number, fraught with the danger of leaving someone out. Or, as he was discovering now, of having someone stuck in the middle.

Harry found, however, as he and Hermione moved with the rest of the Gryffindors down to breakfast, that he couldn't take Hermione's advice and forget it. She'd looked so...desolate just now, as if Ron's anger had hurt her more than a simple flare of tempers should. Harry hated that look in her eyes, it made him sort of queasy and angry all at once. He could tell Hermione was being very careful not to feel guilty over the whole thing. That was the Hermione way--she thought she was right and she would not apologize for doing what she considered the right thing. Harry decided, as the two of them settled at the end of the Gryffindor table closest to the staff, that he felt guilty enough for the both of them, and not just about Ron. He felt like such a fool as he watched Hermione pouring herself some juice. She looked the same as always, robes neatly pressed, hair long and heavy over her shoulders, her every gesture performed with an economy of movement which somehow, in its simplicity, became a sort of grace.

And he should have known.

He should have seen it somehow, in the circles under her eyes or the inflections of her voice. He should have known that something was horribly wrong. And he hadn't suspected a damned thing.

"Harry?" He jumped, then smiled embarrassedly at Hermione.

"Sorry. What?"

"Oh, nothing. You were just staring. Do I have ink on my nose or something?"

"No, no," he said, laughing a little as she wrinkled said feature quite fetchingly. "Just lost in thought, that's all."

She looked so normal.

But that didn't make him feel any better.

With an effort, Harry pulled his eyes away from Hermione and glanced around the hall. They were just a few minutes ahead of the main breakfast crowd, so the four house tables were sprinkled lightly with eating and chatting students. As Harry watched, Dumbledore came into the hall from a door back behind the staff table. Harry couldn't help smiling as he watched the Headmaster crossing to his seat. The man was practically skipping along, and his beaming smile had everyone in his line of fire grinning back. He was almost obscenely cheerful, even for Dumbledore.

The influx of later risers and the flapping of hundreds of owl wings pulled Harry's eyes away from Dumbledore, who appeared to be drawing something with great care in catsup on his plate. The patter of parchment rain echoed throughout the hall as letters, newspapers and packages found their way into the hands, or the porridge, of their intended recipients. Hedwig landed on the table before Harry, her leg extended and her eyes flicking about as if to be sure other owls were watching. Her posture practically screamed "this is how the professionals do it."

"Hey, thanks," Harry said, snatching a piece of bacon from a platter and offering it. "Who is--oh!"

"Well?" Hermione asked, alerted by his exclamation. "Who's it from?"

"Er..." Harry looked between the letter in his hands and Hermione's inquiring face. The jolt of elation he'd felt at seeing Celestina's distinctively large handwriting was tempered with a strange reluctance to tell Hermione. They'd always shared mail, reading notes from Sirius and articles from The Daily Prophet alike. But somehow, this time, Harry wanted to keep this missive to himself.

Hermione, apparently reading something of that in his face, simply lifted an eyebrow and turned away. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, realizing only then that he had clutched the parchment roll to his chest, and was nearly crushing it in his protective clasp.

Harry tenderly unrolled it, glancing about to be sure no one was behind him and could read over his shoulder. He hunched over the letter, and as he bent close he swore he caught a whiff of something spicy and exotic, something that filled his mind with flashing purple eyes and shimmering golden hair. He breathed out slowly, working hard to suppress a truly goofy grin as he began to read.

Dear Harry,

I am positively delighted that you like the cloak. I'm sure you look just smashing in it. In fact, I was wondering if I might get an opportunity to see you in it. You see, I'll be leaving for a very brief appearance in the States in the next few weeks, and I was hoping that before I do, you and I could meet. Perhaps have dinner in Hogsmeade? There's a charming little restaurant on Dragonelle Avenue. They have the most divine éclairs.

Please reply soon and tell me when you have a Hogsmeade weekend, or even when you have a free evening. I'm sure a man of your skills would be able to slip out of Hogwarts for one night. I'd so like to see you again, and have the chance to speak more with you.

Write me soon, and do let's find a way to meet again.

Yours,

Celestina

Harry sat back, his pleasure so intense it was almost painful. He had a sudden urge to jump up on the Gryffindor table and yell, "I have a date with Celestina Warbeck! I have a date with Celestina Warbeck!" He restrained himself, settling for a grin fit to pull a muscle, and reread the letter a few more times. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Hermione casting him curious, and increasingly exasperated, glances, but he really couldn't bring himself to care. By the time students began to rise and make their way out to their first classes, Harry had the letter practically memorized and was already concocting wild scenarios in his mind for how the evening would go.

For it was a date, it had to be. Even with his brief and somewhat sheltered experience in such matters, Harry could tell that Celestina Warbeck was (gleeful grin) flirting with him.

Classes that day were strange to say the least. Ron sat near them as always, but that only made the strained silence and furtive glares more noticeable and distracting. Hermione spent practically the entire day in silence, which was just fine with Harry but seemed to anger Ron even further. Harry caught only fleeting glimpses of her face during Charms and Transfiguration for she kept her head down, a curtain of dark hair shielding her tight mouth and hurt eyes. Harry alternated between concern over the situation, silent guilt over his general lack of motivation to fix things, and a tingling elation every time he reread Celestina's letter.

"...a man of your skills..." She thought he was a man. And that he had skills. Harry squirmed as he suddenly found himself wondering just what sorts of skills, aside from sneaking and evading, she was talking about.

"...look smashing in it..." Harry wondered with a sudden spurt of panic what he was going to wear under the cloak. His dress robes would go, maybe. He hoped. He'd never really bothered with that color coordination business. But she'd already seen him in them. Perhaps he should wear something else. But what?

"...leaving for a very brief visit in the States..." Well, at least it was a brief visit. She would be gone for only a bit and--

Harry frowned, rereading that bit again. Hadn't she said she was leaving the day after Christmas? Yes, when they'd danced at the Yule Ball. But she hadn't mentioned it since, and in fact, now that he thought about it, she'd said in another letter that she was staying outside of London. That was odd...ah well, her plans had probably just changed.

Lunch was its usual boisterous affair. Normally, Harry would have worried about his friends noticing him slipping off early, but both Ron and Hermione were too preoccupied to take notice when he surreptitiously pushed his plate away and ducked out. It would do no real good to arrive early after lunch as Professor Moody was famous for waiting until all the students were ready in their seats and then making a dramatic entrance, but Harry had yet to plan his strategy for the upcoming encounter. Knowing Moody, he'd probably be peppered with questions about just what he intended to do with the Commoneo spell, and he needed to prepare some good, Moodyproof answers.

So Harry escaped the great hall and hurried his way up to the Defense classroom. He considered making notes on what he was going to say when he cornered Moody that evening, but he felt a bit nervous about that. He didn't want any written evidence about the memory charms, for even though Viktor was a continent away by now, Harry felt a prickle of panic when he imagined the Bulgarian somehow discovering his inadvertent spying and turning the charm on him. Besides, it was really rather Hermione-ish, and a little too structured for Harry's tastes. He firmly believed that he did his best when he was on the spot; In some things anyway; that talent didn't seem to apply to Potions pop quizzes.

Harry spent the fifteen minutes before the rest of the class trickled in deciding that he would play off of Moody's own tendencies by claiming he wished to use the spell on himself on a regular basis as a security measure, and that he would be wearing his dress robes for his date with Celestina. They were his best robes, after all, and even though she'd seen him in them before he wasn't about to wear one of his plain student robes.

The rest of the Gryffindors came in, first Dean, then Neville. Harry beckoned the latter over, smiling reassuringly as Neville took the seat beside him. Perhaps if Ron and Hermione weren't on either side of him, he wouldn't feel quite so much like the fulcrum of a dangerously teetering seesaw.

"How was your holiday?" Neville asked, settling in and getting out his quill and parchment.

"Interesting," Harry answered, unable to think of any other word to adequately describe it. "Yours?"

Neville's smile had a tremulous quality to it that caught Harry by surprise. "Christmas is special. Gran invites the whole family over--all my aunts and uncles and cousins. There are heaps of them. We spend a whole week together, and have a big dinner on Christmas." He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "And on Christmas Eve we all go to church and then out to St. Mungo's. That's where..." he made a vague gesture, his eyes cast down.

"Oh," Harry said quietly. "You do that every year?"

Neville didn't reply, as just then Hermione entered and took the seat to Harry's other side. Ron followed shortly after and settled next to Neville. The classroom buzzed with the muted murmurs of a few overlapping conversations as the rest of the Gryffindors arrived and settled in to wait for Moody.

They were all so accustomed to Moody and to his admittedly strange ways that it hit them all at the same time. The familiar echoing footsteps approached outside the classroom door (Harry swore somebody, probably Moody himself, actually, had put some sort of charm on this corridor so you couldn't not hear anybody approaching) but there was something wrong. Moody walked slowly and unevenly, his wooden leg giving a hollow thump at every stride. But these footsteps were quicker, more regular, and the walker seemed to have both his feet intact. All the students looked at each other, then swiveled as one to face the door.

Albus Dumbledore smiled brilliantly around at them as he entered and moved for the head of the classroom. His usually flamboyant robes had been replaced with a subdued (for Dumbledore) dark purple, and he was carrying a bulging bag over one shoulder. He looked as pleased as Harry had ever seen him as he surveyed their surprised faces.

"Good afternoon," he greeted. "My, you all look so very surprised. I'll have to have a word with the first two classes of the day, they actually listened to me when I asked them not to spread the word about this class. Can't have that." He stepped behind Moody's desk and set down his bag, then made a show of counting heads. "Right then, Gryffindor fifth years. Yes, that's right. Now then, let's get started."

"Sir?" Harry asked, lifting a hand. "Er, where is Professor Moody?"

"Oh, where is my mind," the Headmaster muttered. "Professor Moody is off running a few errands for me. I will be teaching his classes until he returns in a few days."

Harry sat back, suddenly remembering the Headmaster mentioning that when he'd taken over Harry's private lessons. Harry had just assumed Moody would be back in time for the beginning of term, but now that he was thinking about it he realized that he hadn't seen the professor at the staff table, or anywhere else in the castle, in over a week.

Bloody hell, what was he going to do now? He couldn't ask Dumbledore for help; that had been decided from the very beginning and Harry was not about to question that resolve now. Dumbledore had said a few days, but could Hermione wait that long? Could whatever secret Viktor wanted hidden wait that long?

"Now then," Dumbledore was saying. "I haven't taught an actual lesson before today in about thirty years, so bear with me if I seem a bit excited." He leaned forward from the edge of Moody's desk where he had perched and winked at them. "You all are much more interesting than what I'm usually doing this time of day. Now then, you can put away your notes, you won't be needing them today."

Hermione frowned in obvious disappointment, but obeyed with everybody else. Harry could just hear her wondering what on earth they could be doing that wouldn't require note taking. He wondered how long it would take her to ask if the lesson would be included on the O.W.L.s.

"Excellent," the Headmaster said, and hit them all with that beaming smile again. "Let's begin. Tell me, what is magic?"

There was a long, resounding pause.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted Hermione's hand rising, very slowly and with uncharacteristic hesitance. He suddenly remembered Professor McKinnon posing them the same question several months back. She'd done it only in passing, but the lack of an answer had bothered Hermione, he knew. And knowing Hermione, she'd probably made a point to do some research on the subject since then.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore nodded encouragingly at her.

"Well," she said, lowering her hand and sitting up straight, "according to A Guide to Magical Theory in the Twentieth Century, magic is defined as an energy which can be harnessed and used to power functions of alteration, conjuration, destruction, and more permanent processes. It is focused through the use of a wand, particularly the core, which is known to have specific magical conduction properties." She paused, a frown creasing her brow. "But that doesn't really say much. All it means is we use magic with our wands to do spells. We know that."

"I think," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly at her, "that you are just discovering an unfortunate tendency in some of our esteemed academic colleagues to cover up a lack of knowledge with fancy words and obscure references. You are quite correct in that that particular definition, which incidentally has become the standard for defining magic, really says nothing at all. It does not, for example, tell us where magic comes from. Would anybody like to pose a theory about that particular question?"

There was another long pause. Looking around, Harry saw that the majority of the class appeared slightly flabbergasted. It occurred to him with a jolt that for all these pureblooded, or at least magic-raised, wizards, magic was like gravity or oxygen. It simply was, and it worked. He doubted any of the other students had ever wondered about the nature or origins of this "energy" before.

"Er," Neville said, surprising everybody as he lifted his hand. "Well, my Uncle Algie says the world is like, a, er, swamp. You have thick bits and thin bits. The thick bits are where there's lots of magic, and the thin bits are where there isn't much. He says Muggle cities that don't have wizarding places are like thin bits and if we're not careful we'll all drown." He paused, looking around at everybody. "Er, he's also the one who says we're descended from dragons."

"An interesting perspective," Dumbledore said. He reached into his bag and withdrew something small and shiny. "For your answer, Mr. Longbottom, and you, Miss Granger." As he was seated between the two, and he was rather adept at catching small, flying things, Harry plucked the two objects out of the air before they could sail past. He handed Hermione and Neville a chocolate frog each, thinking as he did that he really should volunteer a comment sometime today. His card collection could always use a little adding to.

"According to Mr. Longbottom's esteemed Uncle Algie, magic is present as a part of this world we live in. There are areas of greater and lesser concentration, relating to the activities of magical folk or the presence of magical objects in that area. This is a very common conception in the matter--so common it has begun to assume the guise of fact." The Headmaster sat forward, his eyes intent. "However, there is, as there almost always is, an alternative to this view. Some scholars believe that magic is actually not a part of this world. That in fact, it does not even exist here, in a way. Tell me, if this is true, if magic comes from another...plane of existence shall we say, how and why do we have access to it?"

"Well," Hermione said, as Dumbledore nodded at her raised hand, "there'd need to be some sort of portal, a transferal of energies between this plane and the other one. Magic comes through, and maybe something else flows back."

"Excellent," Dumbledore cried, and tossed Hermione another frog. This time she caught it about an inch in front of her nose. "Portals of magic, conduits through which energy flows onto this plane, where it imbues objects with its essence and is used by wizards and witches. Would anyone like to hazard a guess as to the nature of these portals? Where are they? How do they function? Why can wizards access them and Muggles not? Or do Muggles access them?"

"Well," Seamus began, "it'd have to be something...you know...universal. But not because Muggles don't do magic. It has to be in our wands. Like what Hermione said, the cores."

"Ah yes, another very common notion," Dumbledore said, pitching another frog. "However, tell me, have any of you ever done magic unintentionally? Perhaps when you were very small and prone to outbursts of emotion. And when, of course, you had no wand."

"Oh," Harry said, then flushed as everyone turned to stare at him. "Er, that is, I did magic, I think. I made my hair grow and once I think I made a pane of glass disappear and one time I--"

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore said, almost hastily. "Excellent, Mr. Potter." Harry caught his frog between two fingers like it was a Snitch. He would get his practice in wherever he could. "So," Dumbledore said, "some of you, all of you probably, have done magic without realizing it, at one time or another. Why do you think these incidents tapered off or stopped altogether as you grew older?"

"Because we got wands?" Hermione suggested. "I mean, I remember doing one or two magic things when I was little--like making my milk chocolate flavored once when we didn't have any chocolate. But I was really little then. I haven't done anything like that since I came to Hogwarts." She paused, frowning. "But that doesn't make sense. These portals can't be in wands because we do magic before we have wands. But why would having a wand stop that?"

"Well," Dumbledore said, targeting Hermione's nose and letting fly, "perhaps it is not the wand that makes the difference, or at least not initially. These uses of magic when you all were small, what caused them? Beyond portals and wands, why did it happen?"

"Because we wanted something," Ron said, nodding slowly. "My Mum is always telling this story about how she thought I put a Sonorus charm on myself when I was a baby and wanted something, 'cause I was so loud. It's like, if you want something really bad like Hermione's milk or Harry's hair, you make it happen without knowing it."

"Exactly!" Dumbledore said, beaming and tossing another hapless frog. "Emotion. Want. For a young child emotion is a tricky thing. A small thing, chocolate in your milk for example, can take on the emotional significance of world peace. A magical child who wants something so extremely much will sometimes inadvertently cause that thing to happen. This does, of course, apply only to small acts of magic--conjuring one small thing, usually at the expense of a neighbor, or moving one object. As a child grows, emotional complexity changes. The child wants to grow up to be a Quidditch star or something else that does not possess the immediacy it once would have. Spontaneous magic fades as the child's emotional complexity develops, particularly as the child learns the difference between others and self, and also learns that others are just as important. So, we have most magical children displaying small signs of magic early in life, and that fading. Then we have eleven-year-old children given wands and taught Latin words to do charms and spells. So tell me, where are these portals?"

Harry sat still, as did everybody else in the room. He could see Hermione chewing on her lip out of the corner of his eye, and on the other side Neville looking baffled. It seemed that none of his classmates could even guess...which seemed strange to Harry as the answer, for him, was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Blood," he said softly into the silence. "They're in magical people's blood, these portals."

A shiver ran up his spine as Dumbledore nodded, his face suddenly solemn. Harry remembered with a jolt of near terror the flash of triumph he'd so briefly seen in the Headmaster's eyes that awful, sickening night last June. Blood. His blood in Voldemort's veins. His magic in Voldemort.

"Blood," Dumbledore echoed, then tossed a frog as an afterthought. "These portals of magic, gateways if you will to a plane where magic is the element upon which everything is based, are in blood. What part of blood, if there is a physical manifestation of this, is unknown. There has never been serious research into this topic, for the reasons I stated earlier. The belief that magic is part of this world, and that we wizards somehow suck it up through our wands, is so universally held that few choose to question it anymore."

"But that's not right," Hermione protested, not even bothering to raise her hand. "People have researched it. All those pureblooded factions who say Muggleborns and halfbloods aren't really magic. They say it's because of their blood, it's always blood."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said, nodding. "An interesting paradox. Those who claim that a wizard's blood is his mark of superiority are the very same who have also never bothered to conduct research into the matter. Tell me, Miss Granger, do you think Muggleborns are any less worthy, have any less aptitude for magic than pureblooded wizards?"

"Of course not," Hermione snapped. "That's ridiculous. I do spells just the same as all of you." She shot a defiant look around at all of them. "Better than some," she added in a mutter.

"Quite," Dumbledore rumbled. "However, consider this. How could we possibly measure magical aptitude? You all are so diverse--some of you are skilled in Charms, some of you have a hard time levitating things. Others of you have an excellent grasp of the basic tenets of Potion making, others do not. How do we compare things? How do we measure them? Here lies the crux of the pureblood-Muggleborn conflict. The purebloods cite cases of purebloods being better at certain things than Muggleborns, and the Muggleborns claim cases of Muggleborns being equal or superior. It is individuals they are arguing, not groups." He looked slowly around at them, settling on Hermione's pensive frown. "Now, don't get me wrong. We can and do generalize about wizards and their talents. Perhaps we cannot exactly measure what a wizard is capable of, and it will be a dark day in the wizarding world if we ever can, I think. But we can observe, and we can see trends. There appears, for all practical purposes, to be no difference in the magical aptitudes of Muggleborn children from wizarding born, aside from a tendency in Muggleborns to be more apt for Arithmancy than Divination, and for Charms over Transfiguration. And this is where we come back to what we were discussing earlier. These portals, if they are indeed in a wizard's blood, how do they work? Why do some wizards have aptitudes for certain disciplines, and others not? Why do the general tendencies I mentioned earlier exist?"

"Everybody has their own talents," Parvati said. "I mean, nobody ever learns the same as anybody else, or the same things."

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore said, letting loose at Parvati's right ear, "talents. But why? How?"

"Well," Ron spoke up again, "these portals. Are they all the same? I mean they could be different...sizes, I guess. Like you could have a big portal for Transfiguration and a small one for Potions."

"An apt enough analogy," the Headmaster affirmed. "Though perhaps not quite so compartmentalized. Magic, after all, is magic, no matter the use it is put to. The force that you would use to turn a pincushion into a porcupine is the same force you'd use to set the final containment charms on an Incendius solution. There has been research in the areas of magiphysiology, in connecting certain parts of the body with certain magical processes. The Occipital lobe of the brain, for example, has become associated with magical activity in the area of Divination and future gazing. It seems, on a most basic, physical level, that magic centers in different parts of the body for different functions. This jibes nicely with Mr. Weasley's description, doesn't it?"

There was a general round of nods, and Hermione lifted her hand again.

"So that's it," she said when Dumbledore called on her. "Some people are better at certain types of magic because their portals are bigger there. It's what you're born with." She paused, cocking her head. "Wait, no. That'd have to develop over time. I mean, when we first started here none of us could even levitate a feather."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said. "You anticipate my next point, Miss Granger. These issues of inborn talent--and the prejudice that has grown over millennia--what does it all mean for you? Are you born with a set of magical talents, and that's it? Or, through your seven years here at Hogwarts can you learn new skills, develop strengths which you might not be predisposed for?"

"You can always get better at something," Hermione said firmly. "It's just a matter of study."

On Neville's other side, Ron coughed something that sounded suspiciously like, "divination!" Hermione shot him a trenchant look.

"Hmm," Dumbledore said noncommittally. "Interesting. Tell me, why, when you first learn a spell, does it not work? Why do you point your wand, say the correct word, and nothing happens? Why must we practice magic to get it right?"

"Well, because," Dean said, frowning. "I mean, some spells are hard. Pointing your wand and saying the word just doesn't do it. You have to...to..." He trailed off, a baffled expression on his face.

"Ah," Dumbledore pounced. "Have to what? What is it you do? What makes the difference between the first time you cast a spell and it doesn't work, and the time when you cast it and it does? You say the words, you point your wand. What has changed?"

"It has to be something in us," Harry said slowly. "Like in how we think the spell. Because we can do magic without our wands and the words. Or at least we could." He paused and cocked his head at Dumbledore. "For some reason I don't think we can now."

"Quite right," Dumbledore nodded. "The ability to perform magic without a wand or incantation usually disappears by a magical child's eighth or ninth year. We'll come back to why that is in a moment. Please, Mr. Potter, continue."

"Well," Harry said, "maybe the difference is in our heads. Maybe we have to learn how to...to use the magic in the right way. You said all the magic is the same, we just use it differently. So maybe each spell is a different...way...of magic, and for each one we have to learn how to use it."

"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed, and pelted another frog. "We have to learn how to manipulate the magic before it can be channeled by our wands and our words." He paused and frowned a little. "I'm afraid, however, that we'll have to save an explanation of why we use incantations, and just how wands work, for another time. I fear it would be detrimental to your education to explain it all now. However," he continued, brightening, "we have magical portals inside ourselves, and the focusing power of a wand whose core is imbued with a certain flavor of magic. We have an incantation, we have the knowledge, subconscious or not, of how to manipulate our own innate magic, combine it with that of our wand, and execute the spell. What are we missing?"

There was another long pause.

"Hmm," the Headmaster murmured. "Well then, let's come at it from another direction. Tell me, those of you who have experience in both, what are some of the differences between the wizarding and Muggle worlds?"

"Well, there are the obvious exterior differences," Hermione began. "Muggles dress differently, have different jobs, use technology to do some of the things magic can do." She paused, thinking. "But there's more to it. There's something...something else that I've always felt but could never put my finger on."

"Humor," Harry said, slowly. "Muggles, they don't laugh like wizards do. Not at the same things. The wizarding world has this sense of...of..."

"Whimsy," Hermione cut in, nodding triumphantly. "There's a feeling of whimsy and a real sense of the ridiculous. I mean, Muggles would never put up with Bertie Botts Beans. Nobody would buy them. But wizards do because it seems no matter how old they get, they'll still laugh when their friends get a black pepper bean."

"Good, good," Dumbledore encouraged. "What else?"

"Well," Seamus said, "the wizarding world is a bit more...medieval I guess. I mean, there are places in the Muggle world that are much more backward because most Muggles can't travel nearly as easily as wizards can, but it seems like wizards as a whole have a sort of older view of things. Like the old families that still dominate most of wizarding society. That sort of thing is dying out in the Muggle world."

"And the titles," Harry chimed in. "You're a Supreme Mugwump, aren't you, sir?"

"And very proud of it," Dumbledore nodded. "What about the titles, Mr. Potter?"

"A Muggle would never say that," Harry said. "It sounds too...too...undignified. It's part of that humor thing I was talking about."

"So," Dumbledore summarized, "you're saying that the wizarding and Muggle worlds have very different world views. The wizarding world has a much more acute sense of the ridiculous, while the Muggle world has a feeling of taking itself very seriously. At the same time, and in an interesting juxtaposition, the wizarding world is still governed by many customs and social standards which the Muggle world has cast aside as outmoded and barbaric. Two very different mind sets, two ways of life which are very different, yet essentially the same existence. Tell me, why is there a tendency in Muggleborns to gravitate towards Arithmancy and away from Divination?"

"Because it makes so much more sense!" Hermione exclaimed. "Divination is so...fuzzy. Arithmancy has rules and explanations and theorems. It's a science." She stopped abruptly and her eyes widened. "Oh!" she said. "A science. Because we're raised in the Muggle world, where science has the answers to everything and where there is supposed to be a right answer."

"Precisely," Dumbledore praised. "Through no fault of their own, Muggleborn wizards and witches often have a difficult time with the more open-ended branches of magic such as Divination. Some also have great difficulty with Transfiguration. It has something to do with the concepts of a fellow named Einstein and some others. They see the Transfiguration done, they know it is possible, yet they do not know. They still believe, with logic and 'common sense,' that a thing cannot be utterly destroyed, nor can it be conjured from nothing. Nor, apparently, can the very structure of a thing become something else."

Out of the corner of his eye Harry could see Hermione's half displeased, half thoughtful frown.

"So," the Headmaster said softly. "Back to our question. What are we missing in our spell casting? What is the final ingredient, perhaps the most essential one?"

"Feeling," Neville said into the ensuing silence. "I mean, sometimes I'll try a spell, and if I'm not really paying attention or I'm too tired or frustrated, it'll come out all wrong, or nothing will happen at all. It's what we were talking about before, the wanting it."

"Marvelous!" Dumbledore cried, letting loose with another frog. "Wanting. Magic is belief. Belief in what you are doing, in the spell you are casting, in yourself. The power of the mind over the senses is immeasurable. For thousands upon thousands of years wizarding folk did not have such a thing as a memory charm. Muggles saw wizarding activity everyday. Some of it became myth, some of it fed the boundless rumors and superstitions about magic." He leaned forward, staring around at them seriously. "Some of it was forgotten, simply because it 'could not really have happened.' A Muggle saw, a Muggle did not believe. So a Muggle made himself forget, as what he had seen did not make sense in his world. Belief is the key. If you do not expect a spell to work, it probably will not. Magic, this energy which flows into us through these portals, we say the name so often we forget what it is. Listen to the word. Magic. Something extraordinary. Something powerful, unexplainable, a force which acts outside the known laws of the universe. And think of it, you have control over this thing. You with your wand and your incantation and your practice and your belief in magic, your knowledge that it does work." He looked them each straight in the eye for a long moment. "It is a great responsibility you have," he said very quietly. "That we all have. The power to change things, to influence minds and objects. Take care that you do not abuse it."

The silence this time was even heavier, fraught with the sort of stunned tension which only comes when a deeply held and seemingly inviolable truth is questioned, changed.

A responsibility, Harry thought. A responsibility, not a right. Somebody should tell Voldemort that.

Hermione's voice, when she spoke, made them all jump as they were released from the spell of contemplation Dumbledore had woven around them. "Sir?" she asked, uncharacteristically timid. "I have a question."

"Of course, Miss Granger," the Headmaster encouraged.

"What you said about belief, it doesn't make sense in some ways. Are you saying that if we believed something hard enough, it could happen? And why are some spells easier than others, anyway? Is it all a matter of mindset, of what we see as possible and not? Or is there something in the magic itself?"

"Excellent questions," Dumbledore said. "First, let me answer one which we neglected a few minutes ago. Why do you suppose, given these portals of magic we have been discussing, does the ability to do magic without a wand fade during childhood? Why is it there in the first place?"

"It seems backwards," Lavender commented. "You'd think that we would learn to do magic without a wand as we got older, not the other way around. I mean, you said these portals were part of our bodies. Why don't they grow as we do?"

"Ah, but they do," Dumbledore assured. "Haven't any of you felt, in the last year or so, that you were somehow...bigger on the inside than out? Haven't you ever looked down at yourself and been surprised that you weren't seven feet tall?"

Harry glanced around the room, finding about half the class nodding along with himself. It was a weird experience when somebody else's words so aptly described a feeling he hadn't even really been conscious of. He remembered now a feeling of tugging, like muscles stretched to endurance and a bit beyond, where there were no muscles to be found. So he was growing magically, if not physically. Well, that was sort of a consolation for being one of the shortest people in the room.

"This is a part of your adolescence," the Headmaster was saying. "It will continue for several more years. Your last two years at Hogwarts will be very interesting as you discover new talents, learn new skills, define your own limits. You are coming into yourselves magically, and it is a very exciting time." He paused and his seriousness returned. "And, to a certain extent, a very dangerous one. Your magical self is unstable now, almost as your physical self can become in these years. Be careful with yourself. Respect your body and your mind. Push yourself to learn new spells, but do not mistake over-exertion for growing pains. I have seen too many bright, promising young people destroyed by their own blossoming strengths. Be good to yourselves. Listen to your own warnings, and remember that you are, after all, a human. A magical one, but still a human." He waited until he had received a sober nod from every person in the room. "Now," he continued more brightly. "The portals do grow as you do. They change as you change. It is an interesting symbiotic relationship--these portals which both dictate and adapt to your strengths as you both adapt to and test their limits. These coming years are your opportunity to learn about yourself. Each of you is different, each of you has unique skills and unique pitfalls. Learn them well."

"I still don't understand," Hermione pressed. Harry guessed that she already knew all about this magical adolescence. Glancing around again, he surmised that he was perhaps the only person in the room who had not heard of this before. He wondered if this was one of those things Ron was always saying his Mum lectured about on a nearly daily basis. Sort of a wizarding version of the infamous 'talk'.

Harry wondered, too, just what they were being warned about. Was there actual physical or magical danger in this development? Could they somehow damage their ability to do magic? Or was it something else, something more sinister that had to do with those perceptions they were talking about before? What if now, in these formative years, was when the seeds of the sort of darkness that had devoured Tom Riddle from the inside out were planted? Was now the time when the line between right and wrong, the distinction between magic and manipulation was blurred by a young mind drunk on its own power?

"My apologies, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "I keep becoming distracted. Now then, when we are born, we have portals already formed within ourselves. They are something of a magical map of what we can become. They grow and change as we grow and change. They eventually settle down into a relatively stable state sometime around your twenty-fifth year. Why, then, can very small children perform wandless magic?"

"For protection?" Seamus hazarded. "Like one of those things evolved to keep the species going?"

"Partly, partly," Dumbledore agreed. "Any other ideas?"

It appeared that nobody, including Hermione, had any.

"Well then," the Headmaster said, "I will just have to tell you. It appears that for the first six or seven years of a magical child's life the ability to perform wandless magic in circumstances of great emotional interest serves two purposes. It does, as Mr. Finnegan aptly noted, act as a defense mechanism. It is incidental that the emotional development of a child of that age also allows for wandless magic to occur in response to situations which, to an adult, would seem trivial." He smiled at Hermione. "Say, for example, if a magical child desperately wanted chocolate milk. The second purpose of this capability should not even be called a purpose. In fact, wandless magic is something of a consequence of it, not the other way around. These essential years, as the child's mind and body mature at an astounding rate, are the only opportunity the child has to...begin to build his magical muscles, shall we say. We are born with access to the flow of magic, but it is a thready, questionable access. As he grows, the child spends great amounts of energy, magical as well as physical, on the act of growing physically, and of solidifying these portals. The child's small supply of magic acts as a catalyst for a process in which great floods of energy pass through the child, widening and firming the portals, forcing them to grow and change as the child does. There is speculation that a Squib is a magical child whose magic, for some reason or another, does not catalyze this event. It simply fizzles in the child's first few years, and never gathers the force of other magic, never deepens the child's connection to magic. There are also cases of halted growth, of children who experience some psychological or magical trauma which somehow stunts their growth." He paused, his eyes sad. "They have a hard time of it, and their lives are often short. The great stress of a body which continually calls upon reserves and sources of magic which it never created or strengthened is often too much to be borne."

"That's fascinating," Hermione murmured. "It's like the magic parallels a child's development. There are the important formative years, the time when connections and strengths must be established. And that affects a wizard all their life."

"Exactly," Dumbledore agreed. "Interestingly enough, some scholars have used this as a support for anti-Muggleborn arguments. They claim that a child raised by Muggles is stunted and not properly formed, magically speaking, and will never achieve the strength or versatility of a wizard born and raised child." He smiled at Hermione's outraged expression. "There is no real evidence to support this, of course. Muggle-raised children simply have different ways of accessing their magic, the roots of which lie in the paradigms of perception we spoke of before."

"And wandless magic is like the extra stuff?" Harry asked. "All this energy passing into the child so it grows physically and magically, the extra sort of pours out in different ways?"

"Precisely," Dumbledore nodded. "And as a child's magical development slows its headlong rush a few years before he arrives at Hogwarts, this activity ceases. Eleven years was not just an arbitrary decision on when to begin a child's magical education. It catches the child old enough so that any training will not result in uncontrollable bursts of magic, yet young enough so the process of growth and change is still in progress and can be exploited for the learning process. The course of your studies also reflects this. Many of you will choose to change elective courses after your O.W.L.s so you can take your N.E.W.T.s in different areas. There will be new subjects made available to you, not simply because you are older and have the base of knowledge to deal with them, but also because your particular affinities and talents for magic will begin to manifest themselves. These are exciting times for you." He beamed around one more time, and pelted a chocolate frog at each of them for good measure. "Now then," he continued. "I hate to say this, but you all had better get out your textbooks. Professor Moody will be most displeased with me if he comes back and finds I've entirely ignored his lesson plan."

For the next half hour the classroom was filled with the scratching of quills and the rustle of pages as they all took notes. Dumbledore sat behind Moody's desk, apparently completely absorbed in their textbook. Harry kept his head bent conscientiously over his parchment, but his mind was not on the Leadfoot curse. It had been a fascinating lesson, one which Harry was sure he would remember for a long time to come. He felt like he had learned more today than he normally did in a week of classes, and that they had been more fundamental, universal things.

And some more immediate things as well. It really shouldn't surprise him anymore, Harry knew, when something about the wizarding world came up and slapped him in the face with the sheer surprise of it. He'd been in the wizarding world five years now, yet there was still so much he didn't know that everybody else took for granted. He supposed he could always go to the library and check out lots of books, but that wasn't his way. He liked learning things as he did them, liked engraving fact and extrapolation in terms of his own experiences.

There was a muffled "ribbit!" to his right, and glancing over Harry saw Ron surreptitiously popping a chocolate frog into his mouth. Harry looked down at the small mountain before him and grinned. He hadn't added any cards to the mutual collection he and Ron had been building up for the past five years in a long time. Harry propped his textbook up on the desk to shield his hands. Not that he thought for a moment Dumbledore would be fooled, but he also figured the Headmaster wouldn't have given them all this candy if he didn't want them to eat it.

One Dumbledore, some Greek Potions expert Harry had never heard of, and an Aidan Lynch later, Harry was growing impatient. They already had all these, five times over. Well, except for the Greek fellow, but Harry couldn't even pronounce the man's name, and had never heard of any of the Potions he was credited with. Harry reached for another frog, seizing it figuratively by the scruff of its neck to keep It from hopping away as he peeled the wrapper off and turned the card over. Hey, they didn't have this one, he didn't think. And that name sounded oddly familiar.

Michael Krieger Medicus Potissimus of Great Britain, Order of Merlin, First Class

1503-1621

Michael Krieger, an Austrian born wizard who came to Great Britain in his infancy due to dark activity in his home country, is most famous for his work as the Medicus Potissimus for wizarding Great Britain. He single-handedly discovered the cure for a virulent and infectious curse set loose on wizarding kind by the dark witch Azelus. He is also famous for his work in the areas of bone and nerve regeneration, and for analyzing the chemical nature of phoenix tears.

Flipping the card over, Harry looked down at a smiling man with light blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He waved cheerily at Harry, then turned as something moved in the photo behind him. Squinting, Harry thought he could make out a pair of fluttering wings, but he wasn't sure.

Well, at least he got one new card out of the lot, even if he still couldn't remember where he'd heard that name before. Besides, he could probably use them as peace offerings on the Ron front, when things cooled down enough for that.

It was only then, as Dumbledore rose and bid them put their books away and get ready to go, that Harry remembered his panic from the beginning of the lesson.

Oh, bloody hell.

Moody was an Auror, or at least had been. Moody hopefully knew the Commoneo charm.

Moody wasn't here, and Harry didn't know when he'd be coming back.

How in Merlin's name was he supposed to help Hermione if his source of information pulled a disappearing act?

Harry moved through a fog, gathering up his book and parchments, not noticing as a few of the unwrapped frogs hopped off his desk and escaped into the corners of the classroom. His sense of panic, which had faded after the decision last night to approach Moody, returned in full force. This was Hermione, his friend and companion and so much a part of his life that the very thought of it without her was a glimpse into the vast hole she would leave behind if anything ever happened to her. This was an immediate danger, not the hypothetical worries he'd lived with for five years. And perhaps most importantly, it was attacking Hermione in the place where she was most herself, in what she was best. That mind, its brilliance and sheer determination and thirst for knowledge sometimes frightening in their intensity, yet still containing an immense capacity for kindness and sensitivity. She united the cool calculation of intellect with the fire of a heart that rebelled at injustice, and a spirit not afraid to speak out and be heard. And oh, he was afraid for her.

They trooped down to the dungeons for Potions in the slightly sullen silence of the doomed. Harry was still wrapped up in his worries, but he still took note of the pack of Slytherins entering the classroom ahead of them. Just how he wanted to end his day, with a little dose of humiliation and Snape-induced rage.

Really, he thought as he took his seat, the man could be a little more subtle. Harry would have thought that an ex-Death Eater, even one apparently trusted by Albus Dumbledore, would be a little more circumspect with his opinions and propensities. Though he supposed that that might just be part of the point, having Snape so obviously allied with the Slytherin students in a bid to lull their parents into believing Snape was really working for them in the--

Harry sat up so abruptly his back gave a loud crack and his neck hurt. Hermione cast him a strange look, but turned quickly away as Snape slammed in. Harry, too, turned to observe the man. Long hair, looking slightly lank and greasy as it fell around the man's pale face. Eyes black as the hair, glaring with an anger that never seemed to burn itself out. Long black robes, complete with a high collar and intimidatingly billowing sleeves.

Sleeves which hid a symbol that marked Snape a fallen man, one who had studied the dark arts, who was smart enough or corrupt enough or just plain nasty enough to interest Lord Voldemort.

A mark which just might mean that he could help Harry.

Potions was absolutely miserable. Hermione and Ron had apparently decided, in their own silent language of cold looks and disdainful shakes of the head, to switch seats. Harry was relieved not to have to deal with the day's assignment (a topical potion to counteract the effects of a nasty fungus hex) while not speaking to his partner, but working with Hermione presented its own challenges. She had exacting standards when it came to assignments, and Harry found himself re-cutting the Mugroot three times before she was satisfied. Meanwhile, Ron and Neville muddled along together, their matched looks of expectant doom vindicated as, ten minutes before class was to end, their cauldron erupted like a mini volcano and spewed Chudley Cannons orange gel in a circle of disaster nearly ten meters wide. Harry and Hermione, of course, were caught by the blast. Harry was closer, so his entire left side was painted with the stuff. While Hermione frantically cast charms to protect their cauldron from contamination, then turned to mourn over her ruined notes, Snape descended in a whirl of orange spattered robes and fury. Thirty points later, Harry discovered that the gel dried amazingly quickly, and incidentally turned to roughly the consistency of granite. It gave him little consolation to see that Draco Malfoy, positioned in the desk directly in front of them - the better to be irritating - now sported a cap of vibrantly orange and rapidly hardening spikes.

When Snape finally released them, after assigning a sadistically long essay, of course, things did not improve. Even Hogwarts students, who were used to seeing both the ravages of Fred and George and the sometimes worse consequences of botched schoolwork, seemed to think the colorful Gryffindors and Slytherins were the funniest thing since Canary Creams. It took fifteen red faced (and thank you, Justin Finch-Fletchly for pointing out that red and orange really don't go together) minutes to make it up to the dorm. Harry really pitied the house elves who would have to deal with the multiple sets of school robes, splattered orange and so stiff by then that most of them stood up on their own. And then of course, Seamus discovered that the goop, unlike the potion they had been supposed to make, was not particularly water-soluble. Even after twenty minutes of conscientious scrubbing, Harry could still see an orangey tint to his skin and hair.

Needless to say, it was a set of remarkably grumpy Gryffindors that finally made it down to dinner that evening. Most of them cheered up when it was pointed out that Malfoy's hair still had a decidedly pumpkin cast to it, but the meal was still a gloomy affair. Harry, who sat between Hermione and an empty chair which everybody automatically assumed was for Ron and would not sit in, decided that today was just not his day.

"So it's true?" a voice beside him asked.

Harry turned and nodded a surprised greeting to Ginny. She stood behind him, smiling shyly and gazing down at him with that familiar, starry-eyed look. "What is?" he asked.

"The Potions accident." She gestured at the side of Harry's face. "You look sort of..."

"Orange?"

"Yeah, that'll do."

"Hey, you can sit here," Harry said, noting her wary look at the empty seat.

"What about Ron?" she asked hesitantly.

"Oh, he's still scrubbing," Harry said, shrugging. He refrained from commenting that Ron probably wouldn't have sat there anyway.

Ginny smiled a bit shyly and took the seat. She sat stiffly, her back straight and her gestures stilted as she ate with exaggerated politeness. Harry watched her out of the corner of his eye, unconsciously turning his head to compare her with Hermione, who was also eating in silence. Ginny was taller by maybe an inch or two, which also put her just about at Harry's height. While Hermione seemed to be growing her hair out long, Ginny had cut hers short. It clung to her cheeks, and the wispy ends just brushed the collar of her robes as she ate. Hermione's expression--sort of her default look when not engaged in conversation or another pursuit--was vaguely thoughtful yet relaxed. Her mouth curved in a slight smile and her eyes sparkled with a gentle contentment that was so familiar Harry rarely noticed it anymore. Ginny on the other hand had an odd, pinched look on her face. Her mouth was set in an almost grim line, and there was a guarded look in her eyes.

It made Harry sort of sad looking at them, and also frustrated. He could remember Ron, on the few occasions when they'd talked about Ginny, describing her as outspoken nearly to the point of loudness and possessed of a temper to match her burnished copper hair. Harry had seen little evidence of this, barring that brief, disturbing conversation in the owlery a few months back. He wondered with a sudden pang if the Ginny he knew, the girl who silently followed his directions during Quidditch practice, and who, now that he thought about it, rarely spoke in his presence, let alone to him, was really Ginny. He'd had glimpses, like that time in the owlery and the conversation just now where she'd actually spoken to him first, of another person, one with a dry sense of humor and a well of suppressed frustration. It made him a little sick to the stomach to think that maybe it was his presence that restrained her, some sort of misguided attempt to get his attention by being as polite and perfect as she could manage.

Ginny'd had a crush on Harry as long as he had known her. It was just one of those truths he didn't question and didn't bother to really investigate. But he was no longer an embarrassed and uncomfortable twelve-year-old who had no interest in girls for pretty much any reason. He was a teenaged boy who was just starting to understand the intricacies and many secrets of the human mind and heart. And he wondered, watching Ginny picking birdlike through her stew and eating only the daintiest of morsels, whether he owed Ginny an apology for not feeling what she did. It was a sobering thought, and one which came with its own special guilt. Malfoy's words whispered tauntingly in Harry's ear: "That's nearly a third of your life, Weaslet. Tell me, has it been worth it?"

Harry let out a long, slow breath. He couldn't consider this now, not with everything else hanging over his head. And really, what could he honestly say to Ginny? "I'm sorry you have a crush on me and I've ignored you?" "I'm sorry I've laughed about you with Ron sometimes?" "I'm sorry I don't think of you like that?" "I'm sorry I'm not sure I even know you well enough to tell, even after four years?"

No, those were the sorts of things only people in Aunt Petunia's endless afternoon dramas would say. They weren't the kind of things you could say to someone in the middle of a crowd of students while passing the gravy. They weren't the sort of things Harry thought he could ever say, no matter what the circumstances. They were too big, too remote. They were vague concepts of thought and feeling pretending to be intimacy. They weren't made for people, at least not real ones.

"How was your day?" Harry asked quietly.

Ginny jumped, and a sliver of potato on her fork went sailing across the table. Harry pretended not to notice as Ginny flushed and hastily set down her fork.

"Er, fine," she said, casting him a nervous glance. "Normal stuff. Just notes and essays."

"Me too," Harry nodded, "if you add an explosion to that."

She smiled a little, and her eyes slid to his left ear and the tendrils of no longer entirely black hair around it. "I heard all about it," she said. "Though I didn't get to see you guys."

"Ron and Neville were the worst off," Harry explained. "They got it full in the face and all down their fronts." He grinned a little. "At least it got Snape a little, too."

Ginny followed his gaze up to the head table. "Hmm, can't really tell."

"Look closer. His nose, right at the tip." Harry pointed as discretely as possible.

"Oh, yes." Ginny cupped her hands over her mouth as she giggled. "I guess that's why you're the Seeker."

"Speaking of which," Harry said, leaning back in his chair and smiling warmly at her, "did the twins tell you we've added an extra practice on Friday morning?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "Sunrise practice. My favorite."

Harry chuckled. He was really rather pleased with himself, and this conversation. Ginny had visibly relaxed, and as he watched she reached for a hunk of bread and began using it to mop up some of the succulent juices at the bottom of her bowl. She brought the dripping slice to her lips, and blushed only afterwards as she saw him watching her.

"Well," Harry said, once again ignoring her discomfort, "if we weren't playing Slytherin, I wouldn't add the practice. But you never know what they'll come up with, especially in our games. Malfoy may be a pretty crummy Seeker, but he's awful good at thinking up ways to cheat."

Abruptly, the shy warmth in Ginny's eyes snuffed out like a candle caught by a gust of wind. For a moment a look of intense dismay crossed her face, like a fragile resolve had just been shattered, then her lips tightened and her whole face seemed to close up, like a door barred against some approaching enemy. "Yeah," she said quietly. "Have to be careful with those Slytherins. There's no doubt about that."

She spent the remainder of the meal with her eyes fixed steadily on her stew bowl, as if she were reading some obscure fortune in the scraps of carrot and potato and smears of juice. She rebuffed all of Harry's further attempts at conversation with monosyllabic answers, or silent nods. Defeated, Harry finally turned away. He would worry about Ginny later, when his mind wasn't so full of Hermione. One of them at a time was plenty for anybody to deal with, especially now when quiet, bashful Ginny really wasn't so quiet or bashful if you knew where to look. Perceptions, indeed.

Ginny left the table shortly afterwards, the brief glimpse of her face that Harry got as she passed revealing and intense exasperation that Harry instinctively knew was directed at herself. Ron had come in while Harry and Ginny were talking, but he had settled further down the table with Dean. Harry hesitated a moment in his seat. Hermione was eating rather slowly and looked as if she might be here a while longer. He wouldn't have to worry about Ron, and it seemed like the majority of Gryffindor house was still at the table. Snape was still seated above at the staff table as well, but that was alright.

Harry tapped Hermione, and told her he was heading for the library. She gave him a look which clearly said "You? Library? Without me making you?" but she didn't ask any questions. Harry slipped out of the hall unnoticed, and made it up to Gryffindor tower without spotting anybody he knew.

It was a matter of only a few moments to zip through the mercifully empty common room and up to the dorm. Two minutes later the Fat Lady sighed resignedly as her portrait was opened, then closed by unseen hands.

Harry took his time on the way down to the dungeons. It wouldn't do to get stuck in a staircase and be plowed into by a hurrying after-dinner student. He knew where Snape's office was all too well, and it didn't take him very long to arrive before the door which, even in its simple wooden frame and with its round brass knob, still managed to look remarkably foreboding.

Harry didn't even try to get in. He guessed Snape would be up at dinner for at least another few minutes, but Harry wouldn't put it past the man to rig up some sort of alarm wards which would alert him of an attempted entrance wherever he was. Instead, Harry settled against the opposite wall with a good view both ways and waited. Snape would be along eventually, even if it would only be for a moment to collect assignments to mark in his quarters. But a few moments would be all Harry needed.

Surprisingly, and most assuredly without knowing it or else he would have never done so, Snape behaved exactly as Harry had anticipated. The professor swept around the corner a minute or two before the time Harry calculated when most of the students would leave the great hall. Snape had his wand in his hand before he even stopped at his office door, and even though he had moved up close behind the professor, Harry couldn't make out the incantations Snape mouthed over the knob. It was a close thing, but Harry slipped through, ducking under Snape's arm (First time I'm glad he's so bloody tall) and into the darkened office.

He waited as Snape closed and secured the door behind them, then lighted several torches. The room looked the same as it had as the last time Harry had been unfortunate enough to come here; dark, slightly damp, and populated with jars and beakers full of unidentifiable dead things, and some even more disturbing things that wriggled and thrashed. Snape's desk was covered in neat stacks of parchment, and a cornucopia of rolls bristled from a scroll holder next to the blotter.

The man himself moved then, shedding his outer robe and hanging it on a hook behind the door. Beneath it he wore black pants and a high-collared, button up white shirt. Harry watched as Snape settled behind his desk and began shuffling through parchments. He almost forgot why he was there, caught up in the complete bizarreness of Snape without the intimidating billows of black robes. It was very strange to see that beneath the concealing barrier the man was nearly skeletally thin, his long limbs and narrow torso outlined in sharp angles of bone. It was very disturbing to see him like this, and Harry suddenly felt his position for the intrusion Snape would undoubtedly take it as.

To hell with it. He was here now, and he wouldn't be able to get out without Snape spotting him, anyway.

Harry took a deep, quiet breath, squared his shoulders, and took off his cloak.

"Petrific--"

Both Harry and Snape froze, the former staring wide-eyed at the polished tip of the professor's wand, the latter with a look of intense displeasure etched upon his face. Slowly, Snape lowered his wand and slid it back into the sleeve of his shirt. He remained in the standing position he had sprung to the moment Harry appeared, the height Harry had been thankful for only a few moments before allowing him to tower menacingly over his student.

"What," he asked in one of his softest voices, "is the meaning of this?"

"I, er, needed to talk to you, sir," Harry explained, fumbling with his cloak as he attempted to fold it. "I remembered you were worried about being seen last time, so I figured I'd be even more careful."

"Oh, wonderful," Snape snapped, dropping into his chair. "Just what this day needed. What is it this time, Potter? Have you raided the Headmaster's office and come away with new fodder for your conspiracy theories?"

"No," Harry said, looking around the office for another chair. There wasn't one, and he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. What kind of professor didn't have any visitor chairs in his office? Silly question. Snape, of course. It probably made people leave faster. Well, Harry decided, that wasn't going to work on him. "I had a question for you," he added with assurance he didn't feel. Snape could very well pitch him out on his arse, and then where would he be?

"Go to Dumbledore," Snape said, not even bothering to look up from his parchment. "I'm sure he's more than capable of dealing with anything your limited intelligence could come up with."

"Probably," Harry said, ignoring the insult. "I mean, I figure a man like Dumbledore who fights dark magic has to know a lot about it." He paused, gratified as Snape's head rose and those black eyes fixed on him with something that could almost be surprise. "But I can't go to him," Harry finished.

"Why not?" Snape asked.

"Because he'd just give me a lemon drop and tell me I would discover the answers when the time was right." Harry didn't realize how bitter he sounded until Snape's eyebrow arched.

"Probably," the professor agreed, the other eyebrow rising to join the first. "It seems you know this from experience?"

"Yes," Harry affirmed, then added a hasty, "sir."

"And he would be quite right," Snape continued, leaning forward. "There are many things in this world which should only be understood when you are older, more capable of dealing with them." He paused and the familiar scowl contorted his features. "Of course, in your case, you're unlikely to ever see that time. Not with the way you continually fling yourself into the path of oncoming trains and other such nonsense."

"You answered my questions before," Harry pointed out. "And this is really important."

"I didn't realize you were so like a stray puppy, Potter. Feed it once and it's always looking to you. The only reason I bothered with your inquiries before was because I was probably the only person who could answer such questions. Go look whatever it is up in the library and leave me to whatever small peace can ever be attained in this accursed school."

"I already did," Harry said, his patience wearing thin. "I even checked in the Restricted Section. I had a note," he added, forestalling the acerbic comment which hovered, nearly visible, on Snape's lips. "I found some history and stuff, but I need somebody to teach me how to do this."

"You want to learn some dark magic?" Snape demanded. "This just keeps getting better and better. Get out of my office, Potter. And I don't want to hear anything about this ever again."

Harry paused, a protest on his lips. Snape looked almost...afraid. That was strange--of all the many emotions he associated with Snape, fear was the last thing he would have expected. It occurred to Harry with an icy jolt that perhaps the Professor wasn't just nervous about the Headmaster discovering he had taught something dangerous to a student, but afraid of Harry himself, afraid of his motives and his need for this knowledge.

"It's not really dark magic," he said quietly. "It's actually a counter-spell. I can't do any harm with it--quite the opposite."

Snape studied him a long moment. Those black eyes were hooded, but Harry could still read the fear there, matched by curiosity and something that could be resignation. Finally, Snape reached for his wand and snapped out a rapid spell. Harry sat in the straight-backed chair the professor had conjured, and drew a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts.

"Well?" Snape snapped. "What is this counter-spell?"

"It's called Commoneo," Harry said. He was pleased as he saw the flicker of recognition in the man's eyes. "I've read all about it, but reading won't do it this time. I need somebody to teach me how to do it."

"Interesting," Snape murmured. "And why, Mr. Potter, would you want to remove a memory charm? Have we been experimenting where we should not be? There's a very severe penalty for unauthorized use of a memory charm, you know."

"I know," Harry nodded. "I saw that in my research. But I didn't cast any memory charms."

"Enough of this," Snape exclaimed, obviously irritated. "Out with it Potter, and don't dawdle. What are you planning?"

"There's someone I need to help," Harry explained, then winced at Snape's expression. "Somebody who's been Obliviated."

Snape sat up straight, the casual displeasure of a moment ago lost in his sudden attention. "Who?" he demanded. "And by whom?"

Taken aback, Harry stammered. "Well I, that is, I'd rather not--"

"Mr. Potter!" Snape leaned forward, his glare ratcheting up a few notches. "This is not one of your foolish quests or schemes to garner recognition and house points. This is a serious matter, one which should be taken up with the proper authorities. None of which, fortunately, include a swollen-headed fifteen-year-old who has no idea what he's getting into. Now, tell me what is going on!"

Harry rocked back in the chair, then made a conscious effort to straighten. This wasn't working out well at all, and he had a sinking feeling that he'd be sitting in the Headmaster's office in nothing flat if he didn't do something. All the careful strategies he'd planned for Moody were out the window now. He suspected Snape would see them for the manipulations they were and be even more irritated.

"I can't," he said.

Snape blinked, then opened his mouth to blast Harry again.

"You don't understand," Harry said hastily. "What would you do if you saw somebody messing with your best friend's mind?" He had a surge of inspiration and leaned forward. "I can't go to Dumbledore because he'd be obligated to report this to the Ministry, and they can't get involved. I have to lift the charm myself and find out what he erased, because it has to do with me, and it's my responsibility. This is personal, and it's also really important. Don't you understand?"

Snape regarded him for a long moment, and Harry realized with a sinking sensation that he had as much as told the professor that the charmed person was Ron or Hermione.

"Well, Potter," the professor said, sitting back at last, "the Commoneo charm would do you no good even if I did teach it to you. You said you have to find out what was erased? Well, you have to know what has been erased to restore it."

Harry's heart plummeted. "What? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

"Quite," Snape agreed. "The Commoneo charm is seriously limited in that respect. This is why the Obliviate spell is so incredibly dangerous. The only way to restore a memory that has been erased is by performing the charm while thinking of the proper memory, or through means of extreme physical or mental stress. I doubt you will want to be performing Unforgivable Curses on your unnamed friend, so I'm afraid you are out of luck."

Harry sat stunned for a long moment, his plans crumbling around him like so much sand under the onslaught of the incoming tide. Snape was looking at him, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes, no pleasure at 'thwarting Potter's latest scheme.' Instead, he seemed sad, worried, almost compassionate.

"I'm sorry, Potter," he said into the silence. "But magic of the mind and memory is a tricky, dangerous thing. There is no fairness in it, and little logic."

"Then what should I do?" Harry asked, his voice rising in his distress. "I can't just leave her. He could do it again--he could have been doing it for months! And I...I don't know how but I'm sure that this is really important, and that it has something to do with me." He made a vague gesture, indicating the world outside of Hogwarts. "And with what's going on out there."

"You must tell me who it is," Snape said, leaning forward. "Who is memory charming people. This is more dangerous than you could ever conceive of, Potter. The entire school is in danger."

"He's gone now," Harry said. "But I know. I, er, do you promise not to tell Dumbledore?"

Snape's lips pursed. "I promise not to inform the Headmaster until I see fit to do so, or until I have reason to. I don't see why you don't simply go to him now, but I will trust your previously woefully inaccurate instincts." He gave Harry a narrow-eyed look, and Harry actually relaxed a little under the familiar glare. It had been unsettling talking to Snape about memory charms. There had been an odd shuttered look to the man's eyes, a darkness which could only be knowledge of things Harry didn't want to think about.

"Viktor Krum," Harry said finally, after a pause. It was very strange, trusting Snape with a secret he wasn't prepared to tell any other living being on this earth. But there was something here, something in the way Snape was sitting, that normally ramrod straight spine slumped and those bony shoulders hunched almost protectively. And of course, there was still that fear in his eyes.

"Ah," Snape said, an expression of profound disappointment crossing his face. "Mr. Krum. I had hoped...ah well. It is done." He took a deep breath and fixed Harry with an intense look. "You will inform me the moment Mr. Krum sets foot in this castle again--the moment he thinks of even coming to Britain. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, somehow relieved. "He shouldn't be back for a long time. If ever," he added, a little grimly.

"Mmm," Snape said. "And Miss Granger? She is the obvious target--is she showing any ill-effects?"

"I--" Harry let out a breath and made an effort to unclench his hands. "That's what I'm really worried about. She's mentioned a few times that she's having trouble with Arithmancy, and some other stuff, too. Could that be a side-effect?"

"Possibly," Snape nodded. "An improperly focused Obliviate, for you must know precisely what you are intending to erase, could possibly effect the brain's ability to process and retain new data. On the other hand, Miss Granger could finally be meeting her match in her studies. Would do her good," he added under his breath.

"Sir, will you teach me the charm, anyway?" Harry asked suddenly. "For protection, I mean. And in case I can somehow figure out what he erased?"

Snape gave him a wary look. "What makes you think I would know this charm, Potter? It is restricted to official Ministry personnel, after all."

"Well," Harry said, squirming a little, "I had originally intended to ask Professor Moody. But he's away, and now that I think about it he would probably insist on taking me straight to Dumbledore." He paused, giving Snape a weird look. "I really don't know why you haven't, sir."

"Me either," Snape muttered darkly.

"Anyway," Harry continued, looking down, "one of the books I read said that the Ministry weren't the only people who knew the memory charm, or the counter, that dark wizards had been using them for years. So I thought, maybe, since you--you know--you might--"

"Oh, honestly," Snape snapped. "If you can't even say something, Potter, you have no business exploiting it."

"Were a Death Eater," Harry finished. He had the rather dull satisfaction of seeing Snape's eyes widen a little in surprise. "I thought maybe you would know it," he added softly.

"Well, I do," Snape said after a moment. "But it is by no means an easy spell. Many wizards never master it."

"I know," Harry nodded. "But many wizards never conjure a Patronus, either."

"Hmm," Snape muttered, his nostrils flaring in irritation at the remembrance. "Quite. Stand up, Potter."

Harry obeyed, his heart speeding up in excitement. He hadn't actually expected Snape to agree to this. In fact, the man's compliance with his wish to keep this information between them in itself was very strange. Harry knew very well that by all rights he should go to the Headmaster, to the Ministry, that he should have Viktor arrested for what he had done. But he also knew, in a quiet, sure part of himself, that this was not a Ministry matter. This was a personal matter, something for him and Hermione and Viktor to deal with. And now, as Snape moved around his desk and bade Harry draw his wand, he was finally going to be able to do something about it. Maybe.

An hour and a half later, Harry slumped back into the chair, exhausted but satisfied. Snape still stood beside him, his face craggy in the flicker of the high torches. He looked surprised, and grudgingly impressed. On his part, Harry had to work hard to suppress his jubilant smile. The spell was hard, no doubt about that. It required a level of focus and concentration akin to that needed for the Patronus spell. Indeed, Harry suspected that his experience with learning and performing a difficult spell like the Patronus aided him enormously in learning the spell. As they worked, Snape standing behind Harry ("I refuse to have you experimenting with a dangerous spell on my person, Potter. You can practice on the walls,") speaking quietly to him as he cast again and again. He had gotten nothing at first, then a diffuse white mist, which slowly solidified into a more proper spell. The stone wall of Snape's office stood unmoved by the repeated expenditure of magic, but Harry was pretty sure that if he directed his wand at a person now, and summoned the correct sort of focus coupled with knowledge of what he wished to restore, he could really get something done.

"You are aware, of course, that this spell is by no means always successful," Snape said, moving around to sit behind his desk once more. "It depends on the power of the Obliviate charm."

"Yeah," Harry said. "But I'll worry about that when I have something to restore." He slipped his wand back into his pocket, and smiled hesitantly at Snape. "Thanks, Professor. I really appreciate this."

"As well you should," Snape said. "I could be arrested simply for knowing how to perform this spell, let alone teaching it to someone else."

"I won't tell a soul," Harry promised.

Snape only grunted, a pensive and slightly confused expression on his face.

"May I try it on you, just once?" Harry asked. "I mean, it wouldn't do anything, right?"

"Actually," Snape said, "the Commoneo charm performed on a mind unaffected by the Obliviate spell has a beneficial effect. It organizes jumbled thoughts, controls extraneous distractions, and generally helps the mind focus and understand more clearly. The spell is simply too difficult to be used in everyday life."

"So can I try it?" Harry asked. "Just to be sure?"

Snape winced. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Potter. I think it is high time you returned to your dormitory."

"But--" Harry snapped his mouth shut at Snape's look. He rose to his feet, staring fixedly at the professor. Why wouldn't Snape want--oh. Harry's stomach churned at the thought of anybody, even Snape, willingly submitting to a memory charm. Yet it made a sick, necessary sense. If Snape were trying to rejoin the Death Eaters to help Dumbledore, as Harry was beginning to suspect, there were things he simply couldn't be allowed to remember, names of other wizards allied against Voldemort, memories of plans and strategies. Things that the Dark Lord could not find out, and things that he'd probably have to torture Snape to get. "Thank you, Professor," Harry said very quietly.

"Good night, Mr. Potter." Snape did not look at him.

Harry stood there a moment longer, something of a revolution going on inside his head. Snape had been a Slytherin in school, he knew that. Snape was cruel and nasty and favored his own house. Snape enjoyed humiliating people and putting them down.

And he was one of the bravest person Harry had ever known.

Harry turned on his heel and slipped his cloak over himself as he left. He had a lot to think about tonight. There was of course the issue of Hermione, and how on earth he was going to figure out what Viktor erased. But there was also Snape, his glare and his fear, and the quiet, reluctant respect Harry had seen in him that night. Snape respected him, respected his ability to learn a complex charm, his determination to help Hermione. He respected Harry enough to trust him when it came to keeping their conversation secret. He trusted Harry with knowledge that could mean Snape's sanity. To hell with being arrested.

Harry moved through the darkening halls on auto-pilot. There were few students about, and even the paintings were settling down for the evening. Harry's footsteps were the only thing that marked his passage; that and the thunder of a heart honored by the trust of a man he didn't even like, and terrified of letting that man down.

For whatever reason, seemingly unknown even to himself, Snape had helped him. As he mounted the stairs from the entrance hall, Harry silently vowed that after all this was over with Hermione, after he'd figured out a way to restore her memory and deal with Viktor, he'd find a way to thank Snape. And maybe, somehow, he could help Snape in his unenviable, solitary task.