Rating:
R
House:
Schnoogle
Characters:
Harry Potter
Genres:
Drama Mystery
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:
Published: 04/02/2002
Updated: 04/16/2004
Words: 305,784
Chapters: 30
Hits: 74,152

Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

E. E. Beck

Story Summary:
First in a trilogy of novels about harry's last years at Hogwarts. This one takes Harry through a new world of Death Eaters, secret identities, girls, battles and more than I can list here.

Chapter 19

Chapter Summary:
A date, an interesting encounter, a Quidditch match and a revelation.
Posted:
11/06/2002
Hits:
1,909
Author's Note:
Author's notes: First, know that in this story *every* detail is important. I mean that literally. Pretty much every conversation has a point, which you


Chapter 19

Who Will Not See

"One might speak to great length of the three corners of reality what was seen, what was thought to be seen, and what was thought ought to be seen." -Marvel Bell

***

It was astoundingly easy, once he set his mind to it. Harry found it sort of amusing that Hogwarts, the impregnable fortress that it was, the safest place in the wizarding world, was also remarkably easy to escape. It had taken only two more letters (though that certainly hadn't limited them) for Celestina and Harry to settle on a Friday evening, the day before the Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match. Harry spent the intervening ten days drilling the Quidditch team until they were about ready to mutiny, dealing with the ever increasing deluge of school assignments, and wondering how in Merlin's name he was going to find out what had been erased from Hermione's memory. The first was entirely in honor of the Slytherin team. The second was becoming increasingly irksome, for practically every professor had begun assigning revision material for the rapidly approaching O.W.L.s, and even Hermione was staggering a bit under the onslaught. The third garnered him little more than frustration and anxiety.

Harry tripped over another tree root and flailed in the semi-darkness to regain his balance. He smacked an elbow hard into the slightly damp earth of the wall, and his wand wobbled out wildly, the glow at its tip birthing small armies of shadow demons along the sides of the tunnel. Really, Harry thought as he regained his footing and hurried on, this place had been a lot easier to navigate when he was less than five feet tall.

Ron and Hermione had been surprisingly easy to evade. Ron had warmed considerably to both of them over the past week and a half, but he and Harry had not yet regained the easy camaraderie that so characterized them. For her part, Hermione had thrown herself into the increased loads of assignments (the professors seemed to think they could cover new material and give revision assignments at the same time, the sadists), and hadn't said more than five words to Harry in the past three days. When he'd slipped out of the common room, his bookbag slung over his shoulder as casually as possible, holding his everyday cloak shut over his dress robes so nobody would notice, they had been engrossed at opposite ends of the fire, Hermione in her Arithmancy and Ron in a spirited, if slightly befuddled, debate with Dean over the eternal Quidditch/football issue. Harry had made it up to the statue of the hump-backed witch with no difficulties, and had left his student cloak just inside the entrance for pick-up on the way back. He still hadn't replaced his watch, but as far as he could tell, he was running right on schedule.

In fact, Harry picked up his pace as the floor of the tunnel began to slope upwards. Five minutes and one cleansing charm to rid himself of the collected grime of the tunnel later, Harry emerged into the basement of Honeyduke's. He did a quick check to be sure he was alone, then swung his bag off his shoulder. The dress cloak came out first, shimmering faintly even in the basement gloom as Harry settled it over his shoulders. He spent a few more moments checking through his bag to be sure he had everything.

The small, padded box containing his earring hovered eerily a few inches above the blossoms of the bouquet of Snowdrop Roses Harry had, er, borrowed from Greenhouse One. Good, the protective bubble he had cast to keep the blooms from being crushed had held. Beneath the flowers was a bulging sack of wizarding money. Harry didn't profess to know all that much about these things, but he thought it was expected that he at least pay for half of the dinner, regardless of whom had done the inviting. Finally, tucked far down into the corner of the bag glimmered the invisibility cloak, his insurance for a quick and painless return to the dorm later that night.

Harry lifted the flowers and reversed the spell, then closed his bag and slung it back over his shoulder. He paused for a few seconds at the foot of the stairs, head cocked as he listened for the slightest hint of occupancy above him.

"Thank you, Professor Moody," Harry muttered as he ascended. His lessons with the menacing Auror had not resumed, even though Moody had been back in the castle and teaching again for over a week. He had made no mention of what he had been doing during his absence, and none of the students had dared ask. He had, however, discreetly informed Harry that due to his ever more complicated schedule, their lessons were postponed until further notice. With the way things were going, Harry was betting they wouldn't resume until the spring holidays.

Celestina was waiting just where they had agreed when Harry finally made it out of Honeyduke's. Even in the lamp-lit darkness she was easy to spot--there was no mistaking that hair. She was standing on the corner of Dragonelle and Krieger Avenues, draped in knee-length robes of an unusual purple. Harry suspected, though he couldn't tell in the dim light, that they exactly matched her eyes.

He paused a moment out of her line of sight, and just looked at her. Her hair was done up in a complicated looking twist, piled at the back of her head and adorned with jeweled pins. Her cloak was very short, reaching barely to her waist, and Harry suspected it was one of those things there just for the appearance of it, not for any practical reason. She looked relaxed, confident, and completely unaware of the stares she was garnering from every witch and wizard who passed. That warmed Harry a little, a feeling of camaraderie with this woman settling alongside the low-level tingle that just the sight of her provoked. He felt very awkward about approaching her, particularly with the audience, but at the same time it felt good to realize that people could just as easily be staring at her as at him. Besides, he supposed she was quite a bit nicer looking.

"Hello," he greeted, approaching and extending the roses with a little trepidation. He'd reckoned some sort of token or gift was in order, but he hadn't had the time or resources to come up with anything more elaborate than nabbed flowers.

"Harry!" Her greeting was effusive as she ignored the flowers and stepped forward to embrace him. Her lips ghosted over his cheek in a breathy kiss that was more air than anything, but which still sent a bolt of awareness down Harry's spine. "So good to see you again," she continued, stepping back and accepting the roses. "And oh, these are just beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Harry replied, his hands fumbling at the new cloak before he recalled that it didn't have any pockets to stuff them into.

"Did you bring your earring?" Celestina asked, glancing at his admittedly incongruous battered bookbag. "I hate to rush you along, but it really is nippy out here." She shuddered, crossing her slender, bare arms over her breasts.

"Oh, yes," Harry said hastily. "Er, would you like my cloak?"

"Please." She smiled winningly up at him as he struggled out of the garment and traded it for hers. No wonder she was cold, he thought, as he observed the single strap looped around her neck and holding her robes up. Her arms and quite a good portion of her back were bared to the elements, and her skin was chilled beneath his fingers as he helped her into the cloak. "Thank you," she said, sliding her arm through his. "Much better. I must admit, I'm very silly sometimes about these things. My new cloak is just so charming and it went just smashingly with my robes, and I didn't even think of the weather. Now then, we haven't far to walk."

"Are you sure they'll be open?" Harry asked as she drew him up Krieger Avenue. "It seems like most people are heading home."

"Oh, not all," she said, laughing. "Believe it or not, there is a livelier side to Hogsmeade at night. It's not London or New York, granted, but there are still some exquisite restaurants to visit, and enough of the right people to visit them. And don't worry about the parlor--I took care of that."

Harry considered asking just what that meant, but decided against it. He figured it was just one of those euphemisms he'd get the hang of eventually. "So we're going to a local restaurant?" he asked, then kicked himself. Of course they were going to a restaurant; how else would they get fed?

"Well, we could..." she trailed off and cast him a sideways look through long golden lashes. Harry had the disconcerting feeling that she was sending some sort of message that he just wasn't getting.

"Er, what else could we do?" he asked, a bit unsure.

"Well, I do have an apartment here in Hogsmeade. My elves are just marvelous--you have to taste their raspberry strudel--and we could just curl up in front of the fire instead of all the fuss of going out."

"Well," Harry said, nervously. "I really don't know. I mean..."

"Why don't we just wait and see?" she suggested, giving him a sweet smile.

Harry nodded mutely, wishing to put off a question rife with so many meanings and possibilities that he hadn't quite grasped yet.

"Here we are," Celestina announced a few moments later. She tugged gently on Harry's arm, guiding him up a shallow flight of steps and to the glass paneled doors of a small square building sandwiched between what looked like a bakery and a jewelry store. All the windows were closed and shuttered, and Harry would have protested that no one was around if it weren't for a single dim lamp casting a fuzzy puddle of yellow light onto the stone steps. Celestina didn't knock, but simply ignored the 'Closed' sign on the door and walked right in.

"Albert?" she called, drawing Harry after her into a small, cozy room.

"Ah, Celestina, darling."

A man emerged from the backwash of shadows behind the single lamp, just an outline of long robes and an almost deformed looking profile. It was only when the man--Albert--took a few more steps forward that Harry realized the strange protrusions he'd mistaken for malformation were in fact...

"Wow," Harry exclaimed, without realizing it. He flushed scarlet as Celestina giggled and Albert smiled tolerantly.

"Something else, isn't he?" Celestina asked.

Harry could only nod. Albert was certainly something else. Harry had heard about nose piercing before, even seen a few on the sort that his aunt and uncle called "bad company." He hadn't, however, ever heard of eyebrow piercing. Or lip piercing. Or adorning the ears with so many tiny sparkling gems that the folds of pink cartilage were completely obscured. Oh, and there was a sparkling gemstone glimmering in the lamplight at the tip of Albert's tongue. Harry couldn't help wondering just how much metal was concealed beneath Albert's professionally tailored, yet somehow still very individual, robes.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter," Albert said, extending a hand. "When Celestina asked me to do a piercing for a friend, I had no idea it would be for such a prestigious guest."

"Oh, er, I don't mean to be a bother," Harry said, accepting the hand. "I do appreciate it, though."

"No trouble," Albert said, casting Celestina a fondly amused look. "Anything for the lady."

"Oh, stop it, you old wretch," Celestina said, sounding not at all irritated. To Harry, she continued, "I met Albert a few years ago when I got a piercing of my own."

Harry turned to regard her, surprised. "Your ears?" he asked, noting for the first time the tiny, twinkling gold charm depending from each delicate earlobe.

"Hmph!" Albert snorted. "Blasphemy, that."

"I got my ears done when I was younger," Celestina explained. "In Diagon Alley. Albert has yet to forgive me."

"So where--" Harry began, taking a quick survey of her unadorned eyebrows, lips, and (slight quiver in his belly as he checked) the pink tip of her tongue.

Celestina grinned. "Perhaps I'll show you later."

Harry paused, not sure what to do with that.

"Now then," Albert cut in, "what exactly will you be wanting?"

"I got an earring for Christmas," Harry explained, relieved for the distraction. He dug out the box and extended it. "I actually had an appointment with you for our next Hogsmeade weekend in a few weeks, but Celestina figured since we'd be out here tonight it might be fun just to get it done now."

"Oh now, this is nice work," Albert approved, lifting out the earring. "It will look just smashing on you. Come along then, this won't take long at all."

Harry obeyed, following the man past the single lit torch on a high, reception-looking counter, and through a swinging door into a much brighter space. It was a windowless, but airy room, all pristine white floors and sparkling displays of different jewels. The walls were adorned with photographs of people with various and sundry piercings or tattoos (the locations of a few of which made Harry flush) and there was a single chair positioned in the center of the room next to a work surface.

"Right there," Albert encouraged, gesturing to the chair. "This won't hurt a bit. First piercing?"

"Yes," Harry said, settling into the chair and fidgeting a little nervously. He'd only been to the dentist once (the Dursleys weren't about to pay valuable money to take care of his teeth when Dudley needed a cavity or five filled every visit) but the one officially required experience had been enough to instill in him an automatic distrust and dislike for the feeling of somebody leaning over him while he lay in a chair.

"You've got nothing to worry about," Albert assured, drawing a stool up to the work table. "You won't feel a thing. A little numbing charm, a little sterilization, and you're all set. Just be glad you're not a Muggle, they stick them in without any numbing...what are they called?"

"Drugs," Harry supplied, relaxing a little. Even though he'd just met Albert the sure movements of his hands as he examined, then sterilized Harry's earring, and the calming, practiced steadiness of his voice were relaxing.

"That's right," Albert nodded, setting the earring aside and turning to Harry. "Now then, right side?"

"Sure."

"Right then, hold your hair back, please."

"I'll do that." Celestina moved forward from the doorway where she had been standing, mostly unobserved. It was difficult, Harry reflected, to ignore Celestina Warbeck, even when you had other things on your mind. "Here." She moved behind Harry and her hands were warm and dry on his neck as she gathered and held his hair back.

"Thank you, dear," Albert said. "Now then, I'm just going to sterilize your ear lobe, cast a localized numbing charm, then make the hole. You ready?"

"Sure," Harry said, his nervousness returning. Odd that he could face down Dementors with indomitable force of will and strength of determination, but just the sight of the pointed prong on the back of the earring made his stomach a bit queasy.

"Here," Celestina murmured. She shifted behind him, leaned over in a rustle of silk and an exotic, hothouse scent, and took his hand in hers. Harry found himself holding his breath, completely forgetting about Albert and the earring and his soon to be wounded self as Celestina slowly massaged his hand and caressed his fingers.

"Are there any particular magical properties of this earring?" Albert asked, breaking Harry out of his slightly dazed concentration.

"Sorry?" he asked, jerking his head around then smiling apologetically as Albert gently pushed it back.

"Magic in the earring. Like a health charm or a fertility spell or a fortune blessing. It's not particularly important, but I just find it interesting what some people think of casting on their jewelry."

"Uh, no," Harry said, frowning. "At least, not that I know of. And I think he--the person that gave it to me that is--would have mentioned it."

"Hmm," Albert said. Harry looked at him without turning his head. He was a little disconcerted by the intent way Albert was scrutinizing the earring, his eyes narrowed as he rotated it slowly in the light.

"Is there something wrong with it?" Harry asked.

"No," Albert said hastily. "Tell me," he continued, sounding almost too casual, "this person who gave this to you, he's a friend of yours?"

"Yes," Harry answered, frowning slightly. Albert couldn't possibly know it was the infamous Sirius Black who had given him the gift, but there was something unsettlingly sharp in his gaze as he looked from the earring to Harry.

"A close friend?" Albert continued.

"Uh, yes," Harry agreed slowly.

Albert spent one more long moment examining the earring, then shrugged. "Alright then," he said, his tone lightening. "Let's get this done, shall we?"

Harry relaxed as best he could, carefully not looking at what Albert was doing. He tried fathoming what on Earth had caught the man's interest in the earring, but that was futile. Knowing Sirius, it could always just be some horrendously expensive and valuable design, or something.

As Albert murmured beside him and his ear tingled, then went numb, Harry focused in on Celestina's hand, still gripping his. She was wearing a gold ring on her pinky, a tracery of flowers twining around the band and matching with eerie precision the floral decorations on her long, violet nails. Her skin was much paler than his, and softer than he remembered. He found himself turning his hand in her grip, sliding his fingers more securely through hers and returning her gentle touches. Something deep inside him began to unwind, a slow melting of a tension Harry hadn't even previously been aware of. It was like the soothing of a low-level pain, more poignant in its absence and his knowledge of it. Harry found himself wondering a little dizzily how he had possibly waited the entire hideously long ten days to see Celestina again, and questioning a bit frantically how in the world he was going to wait another ten or more until they could meet up for a second date.

He flicked his eyes up the slender arm, delicate bones and intricate jeweled bracelet revealed as she had removed Harry's cloak when they first arrived. Without moving his head, Harry could follow the line of arm, the soft bend of elbow, the firmer flesh of her upper arm, the temptingly bare shoulder and unadorned throat. When he finally made it up to her face, Harry found Celestina gazing back at him, her eyes sparking with something that was at once familiar and nameless.

"Right then," Albert said, cutting into Harry's increasingly foggy thoughts. "We're all set. Would you like to have a look?"

Harry jumped and inhaled sharply. Albert looked somewhat amused as he turned away and retrieved a small mirror. For her part, Celestina appeared entirely serene and simply loosened her grip, sliding her hand up Harry's arm and giving his shoulder a brief squeeze before she moved around the chair to face him.

"Hmm," she said, cocking her head. "Take a look."

Harry did, and frowned slightly. He'd expected to be a little surprised by the earring, to have a feeling of strangeness when gazing at his own face. He looked, however, entirely normal. His ear, what was visible of it through a curl of unruly dark hair, looked slightly red but otherwise fine. The earring itself seemed a lot smaller now that it was actually in, and there was only the faintest of sparkles as he turned his head.

"It's..."he started, then trailed off.

"It's your hair," Celestina said, leaning forward and smoothing back the strands. The moment she let go they simply flopped back in place. "They're covering it up. Goodness, who cut your hair, anyway? This shape is not at all flattering to you."

"Er, I don't remember," Harry said hastily. The truth was that he couldn't actually remember the last time his hair had been cut. It had been years ago, before Hogwarts even. It occurred to him suddenly that it was really rather strange for someone's hair not to grow for over five years. Aunt Petunia had pretty much given up on it after the barber incident, and Harry had entirely forgotten that hair was supposed to...grow.

"Would you let me cut it?" Celestina asked eagerly. "I know exactly what I'm doing--hair is a big hobby of mine. And you know, it would be a lot more fun then going to a salon, if we could even find one open tonight."

"If you want," Harry said, then silently swore. He supposed, now that he was really looking, that his hair was sort of...floppy and...well...untamed, but he couldn't help worrying that Celestina wouldn't do any better than that Muggle barber. If there were salons in Hogsmeade, wizards obviously got their hair cut, and somehow Harry suspected his odd hair tricks would be unusual, even for a wizard. He found himself wincing after the words were out of his mouth, regretting his quick, instinctive acquiescence to what she wanted.

"I'd love to," Celestina said. "I'll just take some off the ends and top, refine the shape, and take off your fringe and expose your ears. You'll look marvelous when I'm through with you."

"Thank you," Harry said, rising and shaking Albert's hand. "How much do I owe you?"

"You don't," the wizard said, laughing. "You're a friend of Celestina's. That's enough for me."

Harry would have protested, but Celestina pre-empted him by moving forward to embrace and thank Albert herself. Before Harry knew it, they were back out on the street and Celestina had slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and was drawing him after her.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, lengthening his stride. He couldn't imagine how she managed to go at such a clip in shoes that tall.

"My apartment. I figure we can have dinner and I can do your hair. Seems easier than going back out to a restaurant, don't you think?"

"Sure," Harry agreed. A moment later, feeling the conversation faltering, he continued, "So you live here sometimes?"

"Not yet," she explained. "I only got the apartment this last September. Before that I usually stayed outside of London or in Suffolk with my mother. I have an apartment in Paris, too, but I don't get over there much at all anymore."

Harry nodded a little dumbly. He felt suddenly and keenly the difference in their ages and life experiences. He supposed that he could get several apartments too, if for some reason he wanted them. He'd never counted or asked, but that mound of gold in his Gringott's vault really was impressive. But even knowing that, he felt unaccountably disheartened.

Celestina glanced over at him, frowned a little, and slowed her pace. "Harry? Am I making you uncomfortable somehow?"

"Oh, no," he hastened to assure. "I was just, you know, thinking."

Her eyes sharpened on his face and her smile flattened a little. "I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you," she said. Her tone was strange, as if a few layers of polite conversational overtones had been peeled away to reveal something plainer, something stronger and more abrupt beneath.

Harry opened his mouth to disclaim any trouble, to divert her with a retelling of the latest Hogwarts Quidditch match, or perhaps ask her about her current musical endeavors. "It's just the whole apartment thing," he said, shocking himself. "I mean, it just struck me. You're..." he waved a vague hand at her fine robes and the assuredly real gemstones in her hair. "You're something else," he finished.

She nodded slowly, her smile relaxing in what could have been relief. She reached up and touched his face, gently tracing his cheekbone with the tip of her finger. Harry had to work hard to suppress the full-body tremble that simple movement nearly provoked. He felt wild with her so close, sort of out of himself yet more aware than he could ever remember being. Everywhere she touched, her hands on his face and arm, the brush of her hip against his, were like conduits through which a feeling of intoxicating well-being and goodness flowed, making Harry both lightheaded and hyper-aware. She was distracting just by breathing, and the way the street lamps painted the hollows and planes of her face, highlighting hints of glitter brushed over her cheekbones and eyelids wasn't helping either.

"It's alright," she said quietly, firmly. She leaned in, one hand sliding up and the other down until she was hugging him around the neck and leaning into his chest. Harry nearly rocked on his feet with the sheer force of her presence against him, and he caught her waist for support. "We all live different lives," she continued. "We all have different pasts and stories and possessions." She gazed solemnly up at him. "The trick is to find people, find someone whose past and story and everything they are is pointing to the same future that your past and story is." Her eyes glazed over, and Harry thought she was not seeing him, that she had perhaps forgotten he was even there. He found himself holding his breath, watching her avidly as she viewed some internal filmstrip. Whether she was replaying a memory or projecting ahead he couldn't tell, but there was something in the set of her jaw, in the bold line of her mouth and the muted gleam in her eyes that made him unaccountably uneasy.

The moment ended and she refocused on him, her mouth softening and the fanatical expression falling away. She leaned up, kissed his cheek, and stepped back.

"Let's go," she said, retaking his arm. "It's cold out here."

***

Harry let out a sigh and pushed back from the dining table. Across from him Celestina was sighing over the remains of her green-tea ice-cream.

"That was delicious," Harry said, even though it felt a little weird to be praising the person who hadn't actually cooked the meal. He had a sudden urge to go find the kitchen and tell the house elves what geniuses they were, but he pushed it away. That thought made him think of Hermione, and for some reason picturing her face just then made him feel sort of queasy and dizzy.

"Oh, thank you," Celestina said, smiling brilliantly. "The elves are just marvelous. I'm tempted to bring them with me when I travel."

"Where do you get elves, anyway?" Harry asked curiously.

"Why, you breed them, of course," Celestina said, giving him a strange look. "The elves here are all descended from my mother's stock. It's an excellent line--very loyal and fast learners."

Harry blinked, then nodded. It was sort of fitting that even house elves had blood lines, he supposed. It was still a bit disconcerting for him to eat the delicately prepared roast and vegetables, the artfully arranged salad and the prettily decorated sundaes and think that they had been made in less than half an hour by quick little hands. It was different here than it was at Hogwarts, more personal and somehow more reminiscent of the slavery Hermione was always going on about.

Oh, and there Hermione was again, dancing behind his eyelids with a book open before her as she pontificated on some vitally important subject. Harry squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pressed his fingers to his temples. He was developing a pounding headache and that uneasy feeling in his gut had returned.

"Well then," Celestina said, cutting into his thoughts. "Shall we get to your hair?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, rising as she did. "Where should we do this?"

"In the parlor is fine," she said and led the way out of the opulent dining room.

It wasn't really a flat, Harry decided. It couldn't be, not with three floors. Celestina had spent the minutes waiting for dinner showing him around, guiding him down high-arched corridors and into elegantly furnished rooms which looked like they had never been lived in. She had said this place was new and it showed in the pristine lines of the curtains and the carpet Harry was almost afraid to walk on.

She settled him before the fire in the parlor, ordering a tall stool to be brought in by a huffing house elf. Harry settled gingerly on it, watching as Celestina cast a charm over his shoulders and the floor to catch the hair.

If any hair would be forthcoming. Harry was a bit concerned that no matter how much she cut, she wouldn't be getting anywhere. He really did need a haircut, though, and Celestina did seem to know what she was doing. Perhaps all he really needed was a magical person to do it for him.

"Hold still," Celestina directed, appearing behind him with scissors, comb, and a spray bottle of water. "You just washed your hair, right?"

"This evening, yes," Harry agreed, trying to hold his head as straight as possible as she went to work with the spritzing and the combing.

Five minutes later, Harry's anxieties about never-ending hair began to fade. Celestina was humming softly behind him, smoothing out one section of his hair at a time and then drawing it taut to work at the ends. She hadn't yet mentioned about any trouble, and Harry was beginning to think that getting his hair cut really wasn't so bad. Her skin was warm and dry as her wrists and sometimes her fingers brushed his neck and shoulders. Harry had never had anybody play with his hair before and he decided he had been really missing out. He felt himself drifting away as Celestina worked, forgetting to worry about making interesting conversation, even forgetting how intoxicated the scent of her made him feel. He felt disconnected, relaxed as she moved to one side, then the other. The fire blazed merrily before him and Harry focussed his eyes entirely on it, letting the flames consume first his senses, then his thoughts. There was nothing but the fire, weaving intricate patterns of fluorescence in the darkened air and whispering its secrets to him in soft crackles and the rustle of flames.

It was an intense feeling, more so for its complete wholeness and simplicity. Harry felt himself in himself, felt the breaths of flame take over the ebb and flow of his thoughts, remove the ordered disorder of his fears and his concerns and his confusions and hopes. It was not a stillness, and perhaps that was what was so comforting about it. Harry felt like a passive observer in his own mind, simply watching as flickers of memory and idea and plan lapped up from his consciousness like dancing flames. He caught glimpses of his classmates, professors, Sirius and the Weasleys. There was Draco Malfoy, then Celestina, then Viktor Krum. Harry recalled the suffocating fear as he crouched in his cupboard under the stairs over the summer, just waiting for the Death Eaters to come and get him. He remembered their table at the ball, the sound of his friends' laughter and the spicy flavor of the punch. He remembered Snape, his voice a mix of awe and disgust as he spoke of a fellow Potions brewer, and a fellow servant of Voldemort. He felt again the weight of Fawkes on his lap, felt phantom fingers of warmth caress his insides. He remembered Hermione, though it wasn't a true memory he knew. She was standing framed in the great doors of Hogwarts, looking scared and determined and happy. She looked as if she were about to go into battle...or perhaps about to meet a lover.

And then something swelled up inside Harry, something amorphous and indescribable. He had the sudden feeling that he should be seeing something, that he should be understanding some message or whispered secret. It was as if he had tuned into a radio frequency in his own head that had been murmuring in the background all along, but whose sound now blared through his consciousness, static-ridden and incomprehensible. There was something, Harry felt suddenly, several somethings that he had to realize, had to understand. It was very important that he do so, vitally so, he felt. And for the life of him, Harry couldn't make any sort of sense out of any of it.

"All done," Celestina said.

Her voice was a little loud and Harry jerked violently in surprise, nearly tumbling off the stool. He steadied himself and it took a moment or two before he stopped seeing the polarized after-image of fire wherever he looked. Celestina was standing before him, comb and scissors discarded and a look of forced casualness in every line of her body.

"Take a look," she said and proffered a large hand mirror.

Harry took it automatically and gazed unseeingly into it. He felt dazed and slightly confused as if he'd just been awoken from a nap. Maybe he had fallen asleep in front of the fire and all that...whatever it was...had been just a strange dream. It was plausible--the stool was warm and comfy and Harry's stomach was pleasantly full. It had been a long, busy few weeks, and he'd heard that stress could induce strange dreams, even some odd half-waking ones, too.

Shrugging off those considerations, and the sense of...something that still lingered, Harry turned his attention to the mirror.

He blinked. Looked again.

"My, my," the mirror cooed. "Aren't you a dish?"

Celestina laughed, though to Harry's ear it sounded a little strained. "Sorry about that," she said, retrieving the mirror. "It's used to me."

"That's really me?" Harry asked, still stuck on the image of his own face framed by a neat but wavy fall of shiny dark hair. His fringe was almost entirely gone, and Harry knew that later he'd probably regret the loss of cover for his scar. But at the moment all he could think about was the strange man who had gazed back at him from the mirror, complete with bared ears and twinkling earring.

"Really," Celestina said. "I told you it would make all the difference."

"Wow," was all Harry could say. He itched to snatch the mirror back, to examine his new look in minute detail, but he didn't want to look vain in front of Celestina. "Thank you," he added after a moment. "That's really something."

"You're welcome." She smiled brilliantly, and the last vestiges of Harry's confusion were swept away by it. "Now I have an excuse to ask you out again. We just must show off your hair."

"That'd be great," Harry said, trying not to sound too eager. It occurred to him suddenly that the night was almost over, that soon he'd have to head back to the castle and spend a lonely weekend away from the warmth and spice of Celestina's presence. The thought was disturbing and Harry hoped fervently that she would make the "again" soon.

"Oh, definitely." She reached out and ran a purple-tipped finger around the shell of his ear, smoothing back a stray tendril. She held his eyes the whole time, smiling with a sort of steady intent that made Harry's stomach flip. Without considering, as if the decision weren't even his to make, Harry turned his head and brushed his lips along her palm as she withdrew her hand. Her skin tasted like vanilla smelled, smooth and powerfully sweet. What had been originally meant as a quick, "we can ignore it if it's awkward" kiss turned into a prolonged nuzzle. Harry reached up and caught her wrist, though it didn't seem she was going anywhere. She turned her hand and traced his lips with a finger, the touch somehow soothing an ache and inflaming it at the same time.

The following moments were a blur to Harry. The next time he came back to himself, Celestina was in his lap, one slender leg on either side of him and the hem of her robes inching up her thighs as they kissed.

It had been there all along, Harry knew. It was a date after all. But he still found himself inordinately surprised, not to mention overwhelmed, by the near sizzle in the air.

Celestina pulled away from his mouth, but before Harry could protest she descended on his neck. Harry swept a hand up her back, revelling in her bared shoulder blades and the tempting nape of her neck. He was surprised yet again by the whine emanating from his own lips as Celestina's small teeth sank into his throat. She sucked lightly at the hinge of his jaw, then bent her head and lapped at the hollow of his throat. Harry's hands rose and plunged into her hair. Her pins went flying every which way as her hair tumbled free and Harry pulled her back up to his mouth. She came willingly, and before she blew his mind by sucking his tongue into her mouth, Harry caught a glimpse of the triumphant gleam in her eyes.

It was that, and the sudden realization that he felt completely and utterly out of control that made Harry freeze up. This was wild, something uncontrollable and needy inside him that Harry really didn't like. He felt like an invader in his own body, as if something or someone else had seized control. She felt fantastic in his arms, her slender body pressed tightly to his as she wound her legs around his waist and pressed their full lengths together. It was right in the way holding her hand had been, only multiplied tenfold by every place they touched.

It was so right...

And so very wrong.

Harry jerked back from the kiss, his paralysis broken.

"Wait," he gasped, pushing Celestina back and barely catching her before she fell off him entirely. "Hold on a second."

She looked startled, and Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut tight against the sight of her swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes, and her hair colored copper by the fire falling around both of them. That, too, was right and wrong, touching two different things inside of him--one that was drawn with no possibility of escape, and one that was violently repelled.

"What's wrong?" she asked, breathless as well.

"I just..." Harry floundered, completely incapable of articulating what he was feeling, even if he had wanted to. He really didn't want to explain to her, but as in the piercing parlor he found himself answering anyway. "This isn't right," he said.

"Why not?" she asked, a line appearing between her eyes. "How can something that feels so good be wrong? Unless, of course, you didn't like it?" The look on her face implied she thought that was nigh on impossible.

"No, no," Harry hastened. "I did like it. I liked it a lot. I just, that is, I don't know."

She studied him a moment, almost calculating in her regard. Finally, as if she had come to a decision, she sat back. The line between her eyes disappeared and a smile bloomed, sweet and gentle. "Alright," she said, nodding slowly. "That's fine. You do only what you're comfortable with."

Harry nodded in agreement, immeasurably relieved and bereft at the same time as she rose from his lap and smoothed down her robes. He was silent for a long moment, watching her collect her scattered hair pins before the relief won out and the urge to snatch her back to him and kiss her until she forgot her own name receded. He rose slowly and let out a deep breath.

"Let me help you," he said, bending to collect the pins.

Her thankful smile was purely genuine, he thought, and that was another sort of relief. At least he hadn't messed things up with her for good. No matter how conflicted he felt, no matter how tortuously amazing she felt, he found he was completely incapable of doing more about it than he already had.

He stayed maybe an hour more after that. The dynamic between them slowly returned to the quiet hum of comfort it had been the entire night, and they spent a pleasant time on the couch, the fire warming their backs as Celestina showed him albums full of photos from her travels. Harry got the impression, however, that she was anxious about something, or that she was thinking of another thing she needed or wanted to be doing. It was for this, and for the start he got when he saw the clock, that he finally excused himself.

"It's been wonderful," he said as she walked him out. "Really."

"Yes," she agreed, handing him his book bag. "We must do it again. I'll be in the country another few weeks--my touring plans have gotten entirely rearranged--and it would be my pleasure to come back up here to see you again."

"I'd like that," Harry agreed. "We can owl about when, exactly." That was good, for it gave him an excuse to keep her corresponding as often as possible. If he couldn't have her physical presence, at least he could have the partial solace of her words, of a parchment she had touched and leaned on as she wrote. "Er, good night," he said, a little awkwardly.

"Good night," Celestina returned, reaching for the door handle. "Are you sure you don't want me to walk back part way with you?"

"No, no," Harry said hastily. He might crave her company, but he also didn't want her knowing where and how he'd gotten into Hogsmeade. Better she assume he had some sort of Prefect privilege for the front gate, or something. She had been home schooled, after all, so how would she know the difference?

"Alright then," she said, pulling the door open. "Owl me. It's been a pleasure, Harry."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. Then, before he could think better of it, he stepped close and kissed her again. Just for good night, he told himself as she melted against him. Just because that's what you do at the end of a date. Not because he thought he might be sick if he didn't taste her again.

"Good night," she whispered against his lips.

Harry returned it, then pulled away and practically fled out the door. The thought that kissing him pleased her, that she wanted to be close to him and do...things...with him was an aching pull inside him, a near pain in its intensity. Harry hunched into the gathering wind as he turned out of her front path. He paused under the shelter of a low-hanging eve to pull out and don his invisibility cloak before he continued on his way, silent and unobserved as witches and wizards laughed up and down the streets in their eveningwear, moving in and out of lighted restaurants and dance clubs. Harry had never known Hogsmeade had such a lively night life, but he supposed it made sense. It was Friday night, after all, and this was the one and only purely wizarding settlements in Britain. He imagined it was something of a hot spot, the cool place to go for the younger professional magical set, and a convenient setting for business meetings for others. It was fun people-watching, especially when the men in their pin-striped cloaks and the women in their ruffled robes and elegant, gravity-defying hairdos couldn't look back.

It was well past midnight by Harry's reckoning, by the time he'd made his careful way through the streets of Hogsmeade and charmed his way back into Honeyduke's. He thought that should have been harder, considering robberies and all, but there wasn't so much as a peep of protest from the door as he unlocked it and made his way down to the basement. The trek back through the tunnel was just as dirty as the one out, and Harry spent a few minutes brushing dirt off the invisibility cloak when he finally emerged. It wouldn't do, after all, to have a vaguely Harry-shaped haze of grime wandering around the castle.

The Fat Lady was sound asleep when he reached the portrait, and it took a concerted thump on her frame before she even stirred.

"Who...oh, for goodness sake. Password?" she glared resignedly into thin air, her lips pursed in disapproval.

"Snuffalupagus," Harry whispered, rolling his eyes. Hermione had obviously chosen the password this week.

The portrait swung open and Harry slipped through, laughing silently at the Fat Lady's incensed mutterings about invisible students and midnight goings-on. The common room was deserted, though from the still bright fire it hadn't been long since the last student turned in. That was a bit unusual for a Friday night, but Harry figured everybody wanted to be up bright and early for the Quidditch game tomorrow. Speaking of which, he really ought to get to bed if he wanted to put Malfoy in his proper place.

Harry slipped up the stairs and into his dorm. It was warm and dark inside, the curtains on all five beds snugly closed and the moonlight barely penetrating the thick drapes over the windows. The rhythmic, and after all this time very familiar and comfortable sounds of his dormmates sleeping provoked a yawn out of Harry. He dropped his cloak into his trunk, kicked his shoes under the bed, and dropped the rest of his clothes on top of his bag. There was a pair of warm flannel pajamas near the top of his trunk, and Harry wriggled into them with pleasure. It had been a long eighteen hours since he'd roused himself for early morning practice, and he was more than ready to get to bed. Besides, he could look his fill of his new accessory in the morning.

Harry pushed the curtains aside and flopped down on the bed, letting out a contented sigh. Lethargy gripped his limbs, and Harry recognized it for what it was; a combination of pure physical exhaustion and that odd emptiness that comes after a great pleasure. The date had been a roaring success, he thought. There had been some odd moments, to be sure, but they were best forgotten for the silly meanderings they were. Harry was thinking only of Celestina, stroking his wrist as he got his earring, as he reached for the quilt to pull over himself.

"Harry?"

Harry jerked, and sent one of the pillows at the head of the bed flying. There was a thud, an "oooof" and a short burst of disgruntled mutterings from the lump Harry could now dimly see at the foot of his bed.

"Oy, Harry, take my head off why don't you?"

"Ron?" Harry barely ducked as the pillow came sailing back up the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you," Ron said a bit muzzily. "Guess I slipped off for a bit. What time is it? And by the way, where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Why were you waiting for me?" Harry asked, confused. He and Ron hadn't exchanged angry words in the past weeks, not since the minor blow-up with Malfoy and the points, but neither had they been particularly jovial. Harry had thought that with Hermione so wrapped up in her studies and Ron still quietly snitting, his little adventure would go entirely unnoticed.

"Wanted to talk to you," Ron said. "Couldn't find you anywhere in the whole tower, even after curfew. Thought something was wrong, you had to go to Dumbledore or something."

"No, no," Harry assured quickly. "Nothing bad."

"Well then?"

"Uh--"

"Oh." Ron sighed deeply and shifted about at the foot of Harry's bed. "Look, you don't have to tell me. Hermione says there are probably a whole lot of things you don't tell me. Her, either." He paused, and Harry made a small, noncommittal sound, his thoughts turning to the Sorting Hat and Hermione's dazed eyes. "And, you know, that's fine. There're things you don't know about me, either."

"Oh?" Harry asked curiously. "Like what?"

"Well, like one time I nabbed your invisibility cloak when you were off with Padma and helped Fred and George dump Salamander Eyes on Snape when he came out of his office."

"When was this?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.

"Few months ago. Remember when he was extra bastardly that one Friday?"

"Oh. Huh. Was it fun?"

"Yeah, it really was. I meant to tell you, but I thought you might be mad that I borrowed it, it being your dad's and all, and I really wanted to go."

"Well," Harry said, picking up the abused pillow and slipping it behind his back, "I hate to say this, but that's not all that, you know, deep and dark and secret."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "You're not mad, though?"

"Only because you didn't take me along," Harry shot back.

"You were with Padma," Ron defended. "And I have other things you don't know. Like...like I really hate corned beef."

"I knew that," Harry said dryly.

"Really? How'd you find that out?"

"I watched you eat for five years."

"Oh, hey, I suppose that'd do it, too."

"Ron?" Harry said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"It's okay. Really."

"You sure? Because, you know, I really didn't mean--and you know how sometimes it takes me a while to--"

"Really," Harry cut in, nodding vigorously. "Don't worry about it."

And that should have been it, normally would have been. The apology was clear enough to be sincere, but vague enough to salve both their disgust for anything too sappy. Ron should have slapped Harry on the back, perhaps made a disparaging comment about the Slytherins' chances for the game tomorrow, then slipped happily off to bed. The next morning he would be back to normal Ron, a little sarcastic, a little confused, a lot the best friend Harry could wish for.

Except Ron wasn't moving.

"Uh, Harry, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Harry said, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Do you--that is to say I don't want to come off--" Ron let out a frustrated breath and Harry heard him shifting about in the dark. "Look," he continued after a moment. "I may not be the cleverest bloke around. And sometimes I don't see things, even when they're right in front of my nose. I mean, Hermione, she's got book smarts, everybody knows that. She can find anything in the library, make sense of any magical problem. And you, you've got this thing where you really get people, even when you don't know it. Like you just...make people feel okay when you talk to them because you just know how they feel." Harry blinked, baffled. He didn't see that in himself at all. But Ron continued before he could say anything. "Now me, I don't really get either of those. I'm not all that great with books, and sometimes I just don't even think about other people. But you know, sometimes it's weird, I just blink and there's something right there, in front of me. Like it's been there all along and I just had to tilt my head the right way to see it. You know what I'm talking about, how sometimes you just...don't see? And then it's just...there, like you have this new vision or something?"

"Er, yeah," Harry said a bit dubiously. "I get that. But what does this have to do with...well...anything?"

"Are you and Hermione dating?" Ron asked, his voice steady and only a little higher pitched than normal.

The hapless pillow went flying again, squirting out from behind Harry as he jumped nearly a foot. "Dating?" he sputtered. "Me and Hermione? No! What in the world ever made you think of such a thing?" He goggled into the dark, utterly flabbergasted and not a little confused. That had been the last thing he'd been expecting--hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility. He felt a little like laughing, but he knew somehow that was the last thing he needed to do right now.

"Oh," Ron said, sounding enormously relieved and a little embarrassed. "I didn't think so, not really. I mean, come on. You and Hermione. But I heard Parvati say something sort of weird about you the other day and then I started looking for it and well...she was right."

"About what?" Harry asked, intrigued in a train wreck sort of way. This was all just so...bizarre.

"She said you look at Hermione," Ron said.

Harry blinked again. "Well, sure I do. You do too, all the time." He resisted the urge to ask Ron if he were dating Hermione, or at least wishing to.

"Well, yeah," Ron agreed. "But she said it all funnylike, the way girls do, you know? So I started wondering. Then I got it, saw you, I mean."

"You saw me looking at Hermione," Harry clarified. "Ron, not to be rude or anything, but you're completely nutters."

"Oh, shut up," Ron said absently. "It's not as silly as it sounds. You were sitting by our stairs in the common room. I was by the fire and Hermione was at our normal table. You were doing something or other, writing a letter or whatever. And you just...looked at her. Like your chin in your hand and your quill dripping everywhere and you just...stared. It was really strange, like you wanted to hurt somebody really bad and be really gentle about it the whole time. It sort of--" he shifted again, and Harry could hear him running his hands through his hair. "It sort of scared me," he admitted after a moment. "It was really intense."

"I don't remember that at all," Harry said. "And really, I'm not dating Hermione in secret or something. I don't know how you possibly got that from a look, but I promise there's nothing going on. I have to say, this is the strangest thing you've ever come up with."

"And you don't...like her like that?" Ron asked.

"No," Harry said immediately. "Not at all. This is Hermione, Ron. Come on."

"What, she's not pretty enough or something?" Ron asked, sounding suddenly defensive.

"No," Harry said, not bothering to withhold his snicker this time. "She's just Hermione. She lends me quills and gets mad when I chew on the ends. She likes French food and sugar-free sweets. Besides, remember Viktor?" Harry closed his mouth quickly, forcibly restraining the, "She's vulnerable and she doesn't even know it, and I think I just might rip Viktor's head from his shoulders, even though restraint was why I didn't tell you in the first place. She's in trouble and she needs me and I don't even know where to start."

"I know," Ron agreed. "Sorry. It's just...I know it's weird. But sometimes it's the really weird things that get you, you know?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, letting out a relieved breath. He didn't remember the incident Ron was talking about, but he certainly could understand it. And, he supposed, it was possible to misinterpret his behavior. He had been hovering a bit over the past weeks. "Can I go to bed now?" he asked after the silence had stretched long enough. "Sort of have plans for tomorrow, you know."

"Oh, yeah." Ron bounced off the bed with alacrity. "Sorry. Don't want the Seeker out of it because of me."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said, finally slipping beneath the covers. "It's Malfoy. He has as much talent as a Seeker as I do with Potions."

Ron chuckled and Harry heard his bare feet pattering lightly across the floor, followed by a whispered, "Good night."

"Ron?" Harry whispered a moment later, sticking his head out through his curtains and hoping desperately the other three boys were soundly asleep.

"Yeah?" The outline of Ron's head popped out of his curtains.

"I was in Hogsmeade tonight. With Celestina Warbeck."

There was a pause, then a very quiet whistle. "Wow. Tell me about it tomorrow, will you?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, and ducked back inside, falling back to his pillows. The relief in Ron's voice just then had been very clear, and Harry was suddenly glad he'd explained his date.

Dating Hermione, he thought sleepily. That was just...weird. It made him feel a little like he had while sitting in front of Celestina's fire, the little of that incident he could remember. Something there but not, elusive and essential. Something he knew and did not know he knew, something at once blindingly clear and painfully complicated.

Something...

***

Harry hunched down a little in his seat, embarrassed in a way he hadn't been since that formal entrance business at the Yule Ball. Breakfast before a Quidditch match was usually a rowdy affair, with the houses cheering for each of the team members as they appeared, rivals booing and hissing. Harry was used to the slaps on the back, the encouragements to "show 'em who can fly" and "teach that Snitch a thing or two." But really, this was ridiculous. He'd figured people would notice his hair cut and his new accessory, but it seemed like everybody and their yearmates had to stop by and comment on his new look. He'd been a little worried at first that somebody would realize he'd been to Hogsmeade, but it seemed like everybody just assumed one of the Gryffindor girls had helped him out, and Harry wasn't about to dispute that.

Hermione's reaction upon seeing him had been particularly enjoyable. She'd come down about five minutes after him and Ron, walking with a book open before her and a bulging bag slung over her shoulder. Harry wasn't really offended--he'd known she sometimes studied during his Quidditch matches since second year. She'd slipped into the empty seat to Harry's right, asked for the milk, poured herself some and then propped her book up against the jug. She'd read and nibbled for nearly fifteen minutes, completely ignoring the slightly manic Gryffindors all around her and the constant stream of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs detouring by their table to encourage the team. Only when Seamus snatched the milk jug away and her book fell over before her eyes did she bother to take stock of the world around her.

"Morning," she'd muttered, glancing over at Harry, then turning back to scowl at Seamus. Then she'd swung back around, her eyes narrowing and a suspicious look on her face.

"What?" Harry asked, going for wide-eyed innocence.

"There's something different about you this morning," she'd said, staring at him for a long moment. "What--oh my God! What did you do to your hair? And what is that thing in your ear?"

"An earring," Harry said, reaching for the bacon.

"Wicked, isn't it?" Ron asked from Harry's other side. "And to think, you didn't see fit to even mention it last night."

Hermione cast Ron a narrow-eyed glance, and Harry knew she hadn't missed the easy camaraderie between them. For the first time since he'd found Ron snoozing at the foot of his bed, Harry remembered one of the reasons, aside from the Weasley temper, why he'd kept Ron at a distance. Ron himself had admitted to not being particularly perceptive, but now that he was mending fences, Harry knew the trio would reform, as tightly knit and intimate as usual. He really didn't know if he could deal with that--with sitting next to Hermione every day and knowing that he was failing her, of acting like he wasn't drowning in a sea of helpless rage and guilt and fear.

But it was too late now, and Harry was man enough to admit just how much he'd missed Ron's company. Hermione's too, for he hadn't seen much of her either, recently. It had been a silent agreement between them to keep their distance until Ron cooled off. It had been a relief not to have to guard his every twitch and word for fear of giving something away, but it had also been supremely lonely. He could admit that now, when he held the promise of long, cozy evenings at their table in the common room, bickering and irritating each other and talking about chocolate frog cards and just what it meant to be alive. That was friendship, Harry thought, smiling softly. The ability to experience the trivialities and the great questions of the universe together without batting an eyelash.

"It's from Snuffles, isn't it?" Hermione asked, reaching a tentative finger to touch the shiny lion. "It's very nice. It's funny, I never would have pictured you with an earring in a hundred years, but it works for you."

"Think I'd look good in an earring?" Ron asked, leaning around Harry.

"No," Hermione said crisply. "You don't have the ears for it."

"I don't have the--"

"Anyway," Harry cut in, wondering why in Merlin's name he'd been thankful for the return of the status quo. "Do you like my hair, too?" He tilted his head and fluttered his eyelashes at her.

Hermione gave Ron a haughty sniff and turned back to him, cocking her head to the side. "Yes," she said after a moment. "I do like it. Who did it?"

"Uh," Harry floundered. He had a sudden, powerful need to keep the night's activities away from Hermione. Just the thought of what had followed the haircut made him prickle all over and squirm in his seat. Once again, Harry found himself wondering what had ever possessed him. He'd acted like a little kid, all unsure and nervous. It was a wonder Celestina actually wanted to see him again after the way he'd behaved. Harry could only be thankful that she hadn't been completely put off, and swear to ignore all random feelings like that from then on. Stupid really, and he couldn't even remember why.

"Well?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows drawing together.

"Nobody," Harry said. "I used a spell."

"Oh? Which one?"

Harry gulped and cast a panicked look at Ron, who just looked back with a "you're asking me?" flick of his eyebrow. Harry was saved from trying to make something up that Hermione would undoubtedly see right through as Ginny appeared at his shoulder.

"We should get going," she said, touching his sleeve. "If we want to warm up with the pitch to ourselves, at least."

"Yeah," Harry said, rising hastily and catching Alicia's eye. She nodded and leaned over to alert the rest of the team. "I'll see you two after the game," he called over his shoulder. Hermione smiled in that vague, "I know you like it so I'll be supportive, but I still think it's all very silly," sort of way, and Ron sent him a high sign followed by a rude gesture aimed at the Slytherin table.

Harry laughed and tossed a salute at the Gryffindor table in general, acknowledging the good wishes and encouragements. Beside him, Ginny kept her head down and her hands tucked in the front of her Quidditch robes, her cheeks turning a rosy pink under all the attention. Harry smiled reassuringly at her as they headed through the entrance hall.

"We've done this before," he reminded gently. "Same as playing Ravenclaw, and you were great then."

"This is Slytherin," Ginny retorted. "It's different."

Harry pushed open the main doors and sucked in a lungful of bitingly crisp January air. The sky was achingly clear, and everything about the day from the brisk northerly breeze to the dazzle of the sun on the snow banked up along the lawn and the edges of the path was sharp and clear. It was a glorious day for a game of Quidditch, Harry thought, and he had to exert an effort to keep from skipping his way to the pitch. Quidditch captains did not skip.

"Well, I suppose so," he said to Ginny as they forewent the cleared path and cut across the snowy lawn. "But really, don't worry. The Slytherins have nearly as many new players this year as we do. And you were at the Ravenclaw/Slytherin match--their Chasers aren't anything to write home about. And they're the only things you need to be worried about."

"Beaters," Ginny said, but the tight lines around her mouth had relaxed a bit. "And I bet Crabbe and Goyle can do some real damage with those clubs."

"If they remember which players to aim for."

They parted laughing, Ginny to the broomshed and Harry to the center of the pitch to do a little warming up. The initial rush of a quick take-off settled the last tremors of Harry's own uneasiness over the upcoming match, and he let loose an unintended yell of delight as the stands fell away below and the world opened up all around him. He did a forward loop, then turned it into a tight spiral around his horizontal axis. By the time he'd straightened out again he was gasping from the speed and clutching his broom reflexively as his head spun.

"Planning on wowing the Snitch into your hand?" a cold voice asked.

Harry barely suppressed his yelp of surprise, simply straightening up and looking over at his companion. Malfoy looked slightly chilly in his Quidditch robes, his green scarf flapping out behind him as he rose to parallel Harry. "Naw," Harry said. "Just practicing my victory rolls."

Malfoy gave him an "in your dreams" eye roll and shot off to the other end of the pitch, apparently satisfied with that short salvo. Harry sighed, Malfoy having effectively ruined his enjoyment of the first few minutes on his broom with no drills to run or Snitches to catch. He set himself on a slowly diminishing spiral that would put him down near the Gryffindor locker rooms. He could see the tiny dots of the rest of the team moving from broomshed to pitch, and that had to be the twins already in the air. He'd give them ten minutes, then call them in to get last minute instructions.

***

After the team was all decked out and ready to go, and Harry had fumbled his way through a speech, they lined up and waited in tense silence for their names to be called. It had been something of a surprise earlier in the year, though a sort of pleasant one, to discover that Malfoy wasn't the new Slytherin captain. That honor went to a seventh year whom Harry remembered hanging out with Flint. Harry could see Malfoy seething as the rather hairy Chaser, Mercer or Tercer or something, shook hands briefly with Harry. Harry wondered what Lucius Malfoy thought of the team's choice, and made a private wager that come next year, he'd be shaking hands with the blond Seeker, instead.

The game started fast and furious and continued that way for the entire eight minutes it lasted. Harry's recall of the performance of the Slytherin Chasers had been a bit overstated, for though they did lack the seasoned precision and honed skill of the Gryffindor girls, they were quick and clever. The Quaffle shuttled back and forth up the pitch, going from team to team, from Wercer or Gercer or whatever to Ginny to Alicia. The Beaters were playing a game practically separate from the Chasers, maybe three meters below the main action. From the glimpses Harry got it appeared Fred and George were having the time of their lives hitting the Bludgers back and forth in curving trajectories that neatly circled a befuddled looking Crabbe and Goyle, who swung ineffectually into midair and occasionally cracked each other on the head.

For his part, Harry took up his accustomed search pattern over the game, preternaturally aware of Malfoy pacing him a few meters back. He kept one eye on the sky, squinting against distant snow glare, and the other on the Gryffindor hoops. Ginny was a long-limbed shadow against the sky, bouncing the Quaffle off her foot, then catching it and tossing it back into play. Harry saw her slump as it whizzed right by her fingertips and sailed neatly through the leftmost hoop. He frowned and circled in that direction. She should have blocked that--had blocked shots just like it hundreds of times in practice.

Harry waited until the Quaffle was heading up the field in Angelina's capable hands before he swooped in to hover above Ginny.

"You alright?" he called.

She glanced up and Harry could see that pinched look he was becoming so familiar with on her. "Fine," she called back. "It was a stupid miss. It won't happen again."

"Potter!" Malfoy snarled, coasting in to hover close enough so that his knee brushed Harry's. "This is Quidditch, not social hour. You can fawn over the Weaslet bitch after you lose the game." He shot Ginny a truly trenchant look. "Maybe she can...comfort...your wounded ego."

Ginny spun away, her tightly braided hair whipping around and slapping her in the cheek as she retook her position before the center hoop. Harry glanced away from her tense shoulders and focused his attention on Malfoy, smirking and slowly drifting away. He had the sudden urge to punch the smug little bastard, and he wondered suddenly if allowing his anger at Viktor to so consume him had been such a good idea. He couldn't go around punching people just because he felt like it, even bloody Malfoy.

Harry hovered a moment more until Ginny had successfully blocked the three shots the Slytherins got in before Gryffindor wrested the Quaffle away and headed up the pitch again. Then he sighed and pulled back on his broom to regain some altitude. Malfoy was actually searching for the Snitch, miracle of miracles, instead of just tailing him, so Harry set himself to do the same. He started his usual methodical pattern, eyes sweeping the pitch from bottom to top and side to side as he moved from one end to the other. Then he stopped, stared, and swore as he heard the sudden movement from Malfoy.

The Snitch was flitting in plain sight across the pitch, maybe a meter above the heads of the tightly packed Chasers. They were all too wrapped up in the Quaffle to notice it, but it was incredibly easy to spot. Harry shot off at a shallow angle, whipping his head from side to side as he tried to figure out where his trajectory and the Snitch's would intersect. It sort of looked like the Snitch was shadowing the Chasers, and Harry wondered as the wind stole his breath away and stung his cheeks just how long it had been there, taunting him with its complete obviousness. He spared one, corner-of-the-eye look for Malfoy, who was coming in from a steeper angle and farther up the pitch. Another look at the Chasers, and yes, he thought he just might make it. Dimly, Harry heard Lee's excited tones echoing throughout the pitch over the shrieking from the stands. Alicia glanced up, spotted Harry coming in, grinned evilly, and leaned across the short gap of space to tap Dercer or Hercer on the shoulder.

"Hey," Harry heard her say conversationally. "Check out the Snitch."

Bercer looked up, Alicia stole the Quaffle, and the entire pack of Chasers scattered. Harry made a mental note to declare her a genius later, then set his full concentration back on the Snitch. One quick check on the Bludgers, which appeared to be firmly in the hands of Fred and George, another for the rapidly approaching Malfoy, and then he was there.

Harry leaned forward, shifted his hold on his broom to a one-handed grip, and nabbed the Snitch with a practiced flick of his wrist. There was a whoosh of air as Malfoy swerved sharply overhead, his feet just barely and probably not by accident catching Harry in the shoulder.

"You missed," Harry called cheerily after him, waving the hand holding the Snitch.

Malfoy made an enraged gurgling sound, but Harry only smiled happily and headed for the rapidly filling ground.

"Bloody hell," one of the twins said half an hour later in the changing room. "Didn't even let us work up a sweat. Next time, Harry old boy, give us a chance to actually play, will you?"

"Sorry," Harry said, with great sincerity. "Next time I'll just let the Snitch sit there."

"Damn right," the other twin put in. "We were just getting started with Slab and Boil. Would have had them crying for their mummies in another ten minutes."

They all laughed, and even Ginny looked relaxed and pleased as they headed back up to the castle, the twins commandeering Katie and Angelina to help them haul food for the party, while Alicia claimed "Head Girl things, very important you know," and headed off, probably to the private Head Girl bathroom rumored to be part of the Head pupil's suites.

The common room, when they all arrived, was as boisterous and cheery as Harry had ever seen it. Most of the Gryffindors didn't look at all put out to have a whole morning's, even a whole day's entertainment curtailed.

"Eight minutes, seven seconds," Ron crowed when he found Harry. "You beat your own record - almost the Hogwarts record. The Ravenclaw Seeker, Frank Longbottom caught the Snitch in eight minutes, one second in 1970. Say, you think he's related to Neville? Naw, couldn't be. Ravenclaw, and Seeker. That sort of implies skill on a broom."

"Dunno," Harry shrugged, trying to appear casual. The story of Neville's parents was one of those things he'd never told Ron or Hermione, one of those things that Ron had talked about the night before. He supposed it could have been Neville's dad, or maybe an uncle or much older cousin. He'd ask Neville some other time, Harry resolved, but he wouldn't share with Ron. Parents were a private thing for those who didn't have them, Harry well knew, and it wasn't his story to tell.

"Still a brilliant catch," Ron sailed on, not noticing Harry's pause. "Hermione barely had time to get bored."

"I was nothing of the sort," Hermione said, appearing behind Ron. "Good game, Harry."

"Thanks," he said, grinning at them. "You should have seen Malfoy's face. Made a really funny noise, too, sort of like a cauldron boiling over."

Ron looked interested. "Say, d'you think you could demonstrate?"

Harry's attempts to oblige, and the snorting and coughing and sputtering that followed kept him occupied for quite a while. Colin Creevey caught him for a few minutes as well, having him sign a succession of various sized Harry's, both on the ground and in the air.

"Thanks!" he said cheerfully as Harry handed back his quill. "These oughta fetch a few Knuts a piece, at least."

"A few--" Harry gawked after him, completely flabbergasted. "He's selling them?"

"Smart lad," a twin commented as he passed with a tray of drinks. "Always nice to see a young man with good business sense."

"He doesn't sell all of them," Dennis said from the sofa behind Harry. "He keeps most of them, actually. Says someday they'll be worth a fortune when you're a famous Quidditch star. He has just piles of them at home. And you've always been so nice about signing them after matches, he figured you wouldn't mind." He paused, looking worried. "You don't, do you?"

"I suppose not," Harry said, shrugging. "It's just sort of weird."

"Should ask for a cut," the second twin commented, passing in the wake of the first.

Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, and escaped the peanut gallery.

He looked about for some company, grinning as he spotted most of the sixth and seventh years clearing away furniture and setting up a wireless for dancing. Most of the younger students were still excitedly rehashing the match, clustered around the sweets and drinks the twins had procured. Harry hovered between the groups a bit indecisively. Ron was holding court to a group of enthralled third and fourth years, reliving Harry's first Quidditch match and explaining how he, Ronald Weasley, had been the first to tell Harry about Quidditch. He really didn't want to listen to a litany of his own accomplishments. He knew most of the sixth and seventh years passing well, particularly the prefects, but he didn't really feel like dancing, either.

"Harry?"

He turned, smiling in relief at Hermione. He'd completely missed her tucked away at their table in the curve of the room out of his direct line of sight.

"Not celebrating?" he asked, sliding into the seat opposite her.

She winced and looked down. "I'm really sorry, Harry, but I really need to get a handle on these magi-derivative graphical analyses, so I figured no one would mind if I--"

"Hey, it's okay." Harry reached across the table and patted her hand. "I was just teasing." He paused and glanced down at the very complicated looking graph, with lots of curves and humps and labels. "That looks really..."

"Fascinating?" Hermione supplied.

Harry eyed her a moment, feeling his frown growing. "You make that sound like a question. Is Arithmancy getting boring or something?"

"Oh, no," she said hastily. "Just the opposite, actually. We're really getting into the applications of all the theory we've been learning, so actually it's been getting more and more interesting. Did you know you can calculate the exact time a transfiguration spell will last, given the measurements of both objects, the specifications of the wand, and the numerical standardization of the wizard's force of will? Why, if you extrapolate--"

"I'll take your word for it," Harry said, giving her hand a squeeze. "I don't want to keep you from it."

Hermione glanced from him to her graph, to his hand lying on the table next to hers. Her perpetually ink-stained fingers had left faint shadows on his knuckles, and she seemed almost fascinated by them. "You looked a little lost there," she said, tilting her chin towards the common room proper. "You alright?"

"Sure," Harry said. "Just, you know, found myself at loose ends for a moment. I'm not all that great at parties, you know that."

"Yeah," Hermione nodded. "Me either. It's fun for a while, but then..." she shrugged, and looked down.

"I know exactly what you're talking about," Harry agreed. "Remember back in first year, the first party we ever had? I felt like hiding under the sofa after just five minutes."

Hermione giggled and flicked her quill at him. "You'd have to had pushed me out first."

"Ron seems to be having fun," Harry noted.

Hermione glanced over, then away. "Yeah," she said, then bent back to her graph.

Harry watched her for a moment, observing the methodical way her eyes tracked the snarl of lines, the deliberate strokes of her quill as she highlighted some portions of the picture and made notations by others. Her hair was up in a half-tail, the top pulled neatly out of her eyes and clipped with a darkly glossy wooden bar that looked very nice against her lighter hair. The heavy mass of it spilled down her neck and over one shoulder, puddling on the table by her elbow as she tilted her head down for a closer look at her work. Harry smiled warmly, even though he knew she had practically forgotten he was there. That was pure Hermione, able to absorb herself in a task with the nearly audible snap of her shifting attention. He'd seen her do similar tasks hundreds of times, been peripherally aware of her practically every evening for five years. He'd seen her read books, take notes, write essays. As he thought about it, Harry realized that he could picture her exact movements, the odd way she stuck out her thumb when she turned a page, the way she'd suck her bottom lip into her mouth and chew lightly on it when she was in the thick of a thorny problem. It was comforting, he realized, knowing that he knew her. And knowing, as well, that if he knew her like that, just from long familiarity, then she probably knew him just as well, just as intimately. She could probably picture little quirks of his that he wasn't even aware of. She could probably home in on him in a crowd as easily as he could her or Ron, nearly sniffing the other out with precision and careless skill.

Harry's smile softened as he remembered that evening, months ago now, they'd spent by the fire in this very room. He'd been unsettled and ill, afraid to speak and not even able to admit to himself that something was wrong. Thinking of it now, Harry nearly laughed. All the adults, Sirius and Dumbledore and his other professors had been so bloody worried about him. And the problem, whatever it had been, had just melted away like so much snow beneath the spring sunshine. He hadn't been sick since Christmas, and even then it had been entirely Voldemort's fault.

Harry leaned forward, a thought surfacing. Hermione had been upset that night, too, uneasy as he was and uncomfortable in the usually comforting familiarity of the tower. She'd been plagued by troubling and vague dreams, and Harry well remembered the shadowed fear in her eyes as they'd spoken that night.

"Hermione?" he asked, reaching automatically to pass a hand between her eyes and the page to break her concentration.

"What?" she asked, glancing up and giving him a slightly miffed look.

"You still having those funny dreams?"

"What dreams?" she twirled her quill, one eyebrow arching.

"The ones you told me about, that one time we were down here at night. With the mask and the woman and the sofa..." Harry trailed off, waiting for the spark of recognition.

There was nothing.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Hermione said, giving him a strange look. "I haven't had any dreams like that--I hardly ever remember my dreams, anyway."

"You said they upset you," Harry pressed. "You weren't sleeping well for a few weeks, you said."

She shook her head slowly. "Really, Harry, I don't remember this at all. Are you sure you're not talking about yourself?" She gave him a half teasing, half worried glance.

"...I don't remember this at all..."

"Uh, that must be it," Harry said, his hands convulsing on the edge of the table. "I'm, uh, sorry to have interrupted you."

Hermione shrugged and turned back to her graph. Harry sat perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

"...I don't remember this at all..."

There it was, the answer to his question appearing before him like the Snitch against a clear blue sky. Her dreams, those unsettling phantasms of subconscious wishes and elaborations and recollections. A theory began to take shape in Harry's mind, a theory about memory charms and force of will. If he was right, and it just made too much sense to be wrong, he could have the answers to all his questions with a single spell.

"I've gotta go," he said hastily, rising.

Hermione waved vaguely after him, not even looking up. Harry crossed the common room, weaving through dancing couples and stepping over a few card games. He needed the quiet and solitude of the dorms to think, to plan. This needed to be handled with supreme care and caution. If the books and Snape were to be believed, Hermione's sanity rested in the balance.

He briefly considered going straight to Snape, but just as quickly discarded the idea. He needed something more concrete than suspicions. He needed Hermione's memories before Snape would be able to do anything more than Harry could. Besides, with Snape, there was the constant possibility of Dumbledore getting involved, and though that was becoming less and less troublesome as time passed, at least in Harry's mind, he still felt it was essential that he do this alone.

Harry stood still in the middle of the boys' dorm, hands clasped tightly and his eyes squeezed shut. The agony of waiting was over, and it was time to act. Time to strip away the layers of falsity Krum had planted in Hermione's mind, time to help her remember her dreams, and then help her remember what those dreams meant. For Harry was sure, with the absolute clarity of unchallengeable truth, that those dreams were the results of another, earlier memory block. It was a twisted sort of luck that had botched Krum's attempts and had allowed Harry to discover it in the first place. If Krum had been better at it Hermione never would have shown signs, never would have had dreams for the Bulgarian to need to erase.

Harry strode over to his trunk and dug out quill and parchment. As he settled on his bed and began crafting his note, he felt a growing sense of triumph and relief. It would be okay, Hermione would be okay. The answer had come, as he'd yearned and pleaded and begged it to do.

Harry ignored, with the ease of a person well and truly focused, the niggling doubts that still clung to him, the faint notion of something...else, something more that he had to see, was not seeing. For a moment the flames of Celestina's parlor fire danced across his mind, super-imposed over a series of flashes of familiar faces. Hermione smiling a little sadly, Ginny looking afraid and tired, Malfoy with his characteristic smirk, Celestina smiling sweetly. He didn't have time for these vague stirrings. He had something to do now, and the relief of that was enough to wash away his lingering concerns.

Except for one tiny voice, one persistent little part of him that continued whispering as Harry wrote and discarded, then wrote again. Whispering just below hearing range, indistinct but maddeningly there. Whispering of something bigger...something more...