Harry Potter and the Sixth Year

And ten hours of sleep is a wonderful restorative. Harry woke in the morning with a feeling that a weight had been lifted from him: he hadn’t realised how much the trial had been looming over him for the past few weeks. Well, it was over now, for better or for worse.

There were still other ordeals to face, though. The noise as he walked into Hall for breakfast was louder than he’d ever heard it, and the volume actually rose as he made his way over to the Gryffindor table. He ignored it as best he could, sat down next to Hermione, and helped himself to bacon and eggs.

“Luna was right,” Hermione remarked. She had her copy of the Prophet in from of her. They must have been selling a lot of copies today.

“Oh?”

“The headline.” She held the paper up.

‘The Boy Who Lived Twice!’ shrieked from the front page.

He gave a groan. “OK. What else?”

“She was right about Fudge too.”

“Go on.”

Hermione began reading: “How about this? ‘Cornelius Fudge told our reporter how Harry Potter had pledged to give the Ministry all the help it needed in tracking down and defeating You Know Who. We are both working towards the same end, the Minister said …’ and it goes on.”

“Now there’s a surprise.”

“More on pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 9 and 11. And then a special supplement. The full transcript of Harry Potter’s evidence.”

“You’re joking!”

“Nope.” And she waved the offending piece of the paper at him.

“I only hope …”

“What?”

“That I didn’t say too much.”

“Looks alright to me,” said Neville.

Ron was still deep in his copy. He looked up. “Thanks for one thing, Harry.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, because of you, we didn’t have to give evidence. I was really dreading that.”

Hermione gave him a reproving look. “So Harry had to do all the work for you?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” protested Ron.

“It’s OK – I know you didn’t,” said Harry. He gave an automatic look across to the Slytherin table. No Malfoy. No Crabbe, nor Goyle either. “Interesting,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked Ron.

“Look who’s missing from the Slytherin table.”

“Huh. They’re probably too ashamed to show their faces.”

“Malfoy? Ashamed?”

Ron shrugged. “Whatever.”

Luna came drifting over from the Ravenclaw table. “What did I say?”

“Well done, Luna,” said Hermione.

“Fudge!” she said, in a tone of deep disgust. “He wiggles his way out of anything!”

“A good politician,” said Hermione diplomatically.

Luna snorted and reached for a piece of toast. “If you ask me …” she began darkly. But Hermione was looking at her watch.

“Ten minutes to first lesson. Come on.”

Despite everything, they still had lessons to attend. And first lesson was Professor Wynne – Intelligent Magical Creatures. He had started on the complicated relationship between goblins and wizards, and covered five hundred years in half an hour. Harry was fascinated. For the first time, he wished he’d paid more attention to Professor Binns in History of Magic. All these goblin rebellions began to fall into place.

“And then in 1780, Gringotts opened. A truce was finally declared between goblins and wizards. Since then we’ve lived together in what has been called peaceful co-existence. But don’t underestimate goblins. Apart from anything else, they look after all our gold. It would be rather embarrassing if one day they made off with it all.”

Harry suddenly had a vision of all his Knuts and Sickles and Galleons from his vault being carried away by rebellious goblins.

“Whilst it’s true that goblins would get the worst of it if we ever fell out, we need them as much as they need us. So remember that.”

Harry put up his hand. “Sir?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“What if Voldemort offered them just that – the contents of Gringotts, in exchange for their help?”

“Then we’d be in a pretty pickle,” said Wynne. “Why do you keep your money there?”

“Err…”

“Because there’s nowhere else. We’ve become dependent on them. And I hope the Ministry realises that.

“Well, that’s it for today. Homework: do we need goblins more than we need them? Discuss.”

There were some thoughtful faces in the class as they filed out.

“Well,” said Hermione, “there’re advantages to being Muggle born sometimes. All our money’s with Barclays.”

“Barclays?” said Ron blankly.

“A Muggle bank,” Hermione explained.

“Wouldn’t make any difference to us, even if the goblins did empty all the vaults. There’s nothing in ours anyway.”

Harry and Hermione kept a tactful silence.

Saturday dawned bright and calm. Harry woke early: this was the day of their match against Slytherin. He lay in bed for a little longer, then realised he wasn’t going to get back to sleep no matter how hard he tried. He reached for his glasses, pulled the covers aside, and headed off for the bathroom. He showered quickly, then made his way back to the dormitory to dress. Ron was stirring too.

Looking out of the window at the rising sun, he realised that it was a perfect day for a Quidditch match. And given the way Katie had been maintaining a frenetic training schedule, they were as ready as they were ever going to be.

Ron gave a grunt as he re-appeared.

“Good morning to you too.”

The only reply was another grunt.

It was too early for breakfast, so Harry sat on the stairs outside, feeling the first rays of the sun. But soon he heard voices from inside, and went in for some breakfast. The Gryffindor table was half full, and he sat down opposite Ron and Katie. Both of them were monosyllabic. The strain was telling on them as much as it was on him. To kill time, he dawdled over his breakfast, then ambled upstairs to find his Quidditch robes.

By ten o’clock, the stands were filling up. In the Gryffindor changing room, Katie turned round and announced. “No big speeches. We’ve practiced it. Now go and do it.”

They lined up with their brooms, then zoomed out onto the pitch. A second or so later, the Slytherin team appeared. The two teams circled each other warily, and took up their positions. Madam Hooch made the two captains shake hands, and they too rose up into the air. Madam Hooch released the Quaffle.

From the outset, it was clear that this was a game where no quarter was to be given. Crabbe and Goyle were smashing the Bludgers as hard as they could. Their reflexes were good, but their sense of play meant that the Bludgers were often aimed at the wrong targets.

Harry rose up above the stadium, scanning the area for any sign of the Snitch. From the corner of his eye, he was aware of Malfoy doing the same. As he turned and jinked, he was only vaguely listening to the commentary. But the Snitch was proving elusive today: after an hour’s play, when the score was 120 to 100 to Gryffindor, there had still been no sign of it.

It was hard keeping up concentration for this length of time. Going round and round in circles looking for something that stubbornly refused to show itself could be very tedious. Fortunately, the Slytherin captain requested time out after Crabbe managed to hit Goyle with his club instead of the Bludger.

“A close game,” said Katie, while the players got their breath. “And you know what that means,” casting a significant look at Harry. Harry knew all too well what she meant: there was no way that the Gryffindor team was going to get a lead large enough to win even if he didn’t catch the Snitch. The thought of being beaten to it by Malfoy, of all people, just made it worse.

Madam Hooch’s whistle blew, and they took up their positions again. Then as Harry was slowly circling up, he saw a glint. He wasn’t sure it was the Snitch, but he dived down all the same. He caught another brief glimpse of it before it faded away again. Frustrated, he hung in the air a few feet above the ground. Looking round, he saw Malfoy a little way behind him.

The grey eyes glittered at him malevolently. “Just waiting for it to appear behind your head, Potter,” the Slytherin sneered.

Harry couldn’t restrain his tongue. “Just like your father. A follower, not a leader.”

Malfoy went incandescent. He shot forward on his broom, his fists clenched. The two players collided in mid air, and Malfoy, not holding on to his broom, toppled to the ground. Harry drew back a foot or two.

“Temper, temper, Malfoy.”

But at that moment the Snitch re-appeared, hovering midway between them, a few feet above the ground. Malfoy ran forward and reached out a hand to seize the small golden ball. Harry had a moment of utter panic at the sight of the fluttering wings trapped by Malloy’s hand. Madam Hooch’s whistle blew and she came swooping down. The Slytherin stand was going berserk. Malfoy was jumping up and down with glee, shouting and yelling with glee.

Then Madam Hooch scooped the Snitch from Malfoy’s hand.

“Gryffindor win 140 to 120,” she announced in a voice that rang all over the stadium.

An immense hush fell.

“But, but … Madam Hooch – the Snitch …” Malfoy stammered.

“Rule 404, Mr. Malfoy. ‘The Seeker who catches the Snitch must be on his broom at the time and have no more than one foot on the ground.’ You were not on your broom at the time. You had both feet on the ground. Hence your catch does not count. However, the Snitch having been caught, the game is now at an end. Score 140 to 120. Gryffindor wins.”

At the sight of Malfoy’s face, usually so pale, now bright red with anger and frustration, Harry began to laugh and to laugh. Gradually the whole of the Gryffindor took up his laughter. The Gryffindor team lined up behind Harry to thank Madam Hooch for umpiring the game. Then Katie led them in a victory circuit of the stadium.

Harry didn’t mind not having caught the Snitch. It didn’t matter now. They’d beaten Slytherin. And won the House Quidditch cup. That was enough.

It was just as well that they didn’t have to get up early on Sunday. The party had gone on until late in the evening, and Harry was tired enough after a long term, the trial, and playing in the match. He spent a long lazy day in the spring sunshine with Ron, Hermione, Neville and Ginny. There were no exams until the end of the summer term, so even Hermione was relaxed. Despite everything, he’d kept up with his homework, and he was determined to do nothing that day that smacked of work.

One more week of lessons, and it was the end of term. Although Harry was going back to the Dursleys, it wouldn’t necessarily be the ordeal it had been in the past. Now he could stay with the Weasleys or go and visit Remus anytime he wanted.

And at King’s Cross he decided he might as well splash out. The last time he’d been to Gringott’s he had changed a load of Galleons for Muggle money. So he was able to wheel his trolley up to the taxi rank, and announce: “Little Whinging!”. He was quoted an outrageous price, but was able to beat the driver down to something more reasonable (although he still suspected he was being ripped off) before loading in his trunk and other bits and pieces.

And it was worth it all just to see the expressions on the faces of the people in Privet Drive. Slowly he unloaded his luggage from the taxi, whilst all around net curtains twitched and neighbours peered at what was going on. He gave the driver a handsome tip (‘Thanks, squire!’) and sauntered down the drive to ring the front doorbell. Uncle Vernon appeared almost instantly.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?”

Harry faked an expression of complete innocence. “What do you mean, Uncle Vernon?”

“What do I mean? What do I mean? Arriving like that – in a taxi!”

“But you didn’t come to pick me up from King’s Cross,” said Harry in an injured tone.

Uncle Vernon’s low hairline and raised eyebrows almost met. “You mean – you came all the way from King’s Cross in a … in a taxi?” Harry nodded. “But,” he spluttered, “it must have cost a fortune!”

“Oh, I beat him down a bit,” said Harry. “Anyway, can I bring my things in now? The neighbours will be wondering what they all are.”

Since his luggage included a broomstick and an owl in a cage, he had a point. Uncle Vernon hurried down the drive and helped Harry carry his things in. Harry grinned inwardly – normally he’d have to lug everything in himself.

Unpacking his trunk, and stowing things away in his room helped keep his spirits up. Most of Dudley’s broken toys had disappeared by now, since Harry had taken them surreptitiously one by one to the dustbin. He even felt he could put a Quidditch poster up on the wall to make the room seem more like home.

Suppertime that evening brought him back to earth with a bump, however. Uncle Vernon was obviously still furious over the incident with the taxi. Dudley was as scared of him as ever, and Aunt Petunia ate her supper in a frigid silence. Ah well. As soon as he got back up to his room, he penned a note to Remus, and sent it off with Hedwig. A few days at Privet Drive, a few days at Grimmauld Place, a few days at the Burrow: he’d get through the holidays one way or another.

He gave Privet Drive four days before deciding he’d had enough, and announcing to the Dursleys that he was going away for a day or two. That brought a grunt of acknowledgement from Uncle Vernon, and a distinct look of relief from Dudley. Aunt Petunia, as usual nowadays, said nothing. So after breakfast the next morning, he put some things in a bag, closed his eyes, and with a faint ‘pop’ appeared in Grimmauld Place.

“Getting quieter,” said Remus, as he appeared.

“Working on it,” said Harry with a grin.

Remus was sitting at the kitchen table, which had been taken over by the miniature Quidditch pitch. Various players were zooming around, passing a Quaffle to each other.

“Desino,” muttered Remus, and the minute players and their brooms froze in midair. He leaned back and sighed with relief.

“How’s it going,” asked Harry.

“Not too bad at all,” Remus told him. “It’s all the details that are taking up the time now. Want to give it a go?”

“Sure,” said Harry enthusiastically.

They played for half an hour or so: Harry was impressed with the progress Remus had made. It wasn’t like the real thing of course, but it was certainly entertaining enough.

Eventually Remus sat back with another murmur of “Desino”.

“The only real thing left to sort out is the Snitch. You can’t scale it down to the same extent as the other balls or it’d be too small to see. Make it too big and it’d be too easy to see. I’m still working on that.”

“Even so,” said Harry enthusiastically, “it’s quite a feat.”

“Thank you, Harry,” said Remus, looking across to him with a slight smile. “By the way, Fred and George are coming round tomorrow afternoon to see how it’s going on.”

“We’ll take ’em on and beat them!”

This time Remus did laugh. “We’ll see. Mind you, I do have an advantage. I know it inside out by now. And all the cheats.”

“So that’s why you beat me!”

The score had been 90 – 40 to Remus when they knocked off.

“No, I played that one straight. But I’ve had a lot of practice.” He stood up. “Do you want to go along to your room?”

“Sure,” said Harry, picking up his bag.

This time it really did feel like another home. Last time he’d stayed there, he’d put some decorations up on the wall, and there were books on the shelves, clothes in the drawers.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Remus, and disappeared.

Harry stretched out on his bed, relaxing in the security of somewhere he could begin to call home. It seemed to be only a few minutes later that Remus called him down for supper. And when they had washed up, Harry dug out his Defence Against the Dark Arts books, and the two of them sat down to work their way through more spells and charms.

Remus was impressed with Harry’s progress.

“Kingsley’s a good teacher,” said Harry.

“There’s more to it than that,” Remus told him. “I think it’s those lessons you’re giving: they’ve really made you think about what these spells do.”

“Could be,” admitted Harry. He was silent for a moment, staring down at the scrubbed wooden table. “You know, if I didn’t become an Auror, I wouldn’t mind going back to Hogwarts – to teach, that is.”

“And end up headmaster, like Dumbledore.”

“Headmaster? Me? I don’t think so,” said Harry.

“In ten or twenty years, though.”

Ten or twenty years. Would he still be alive then? He didn’t want to think about that. In fact, he didn’t want to think about the future at all. Suddenly, he felt he’d had enough for the evening. He shut the books. “Time for bed,” he announced.

Slightly surprised, Remus stood up. “Of course.”

“Sorry,” apologised Harry.

“For what?”

“Being so abrupt. It’s just that, well, when people talk about the future …”

“Of course. Sorry. It was tactless of me.”

“Never mind,” said Harry, attempting a smile. “It’s late anyway, so I’d better be off.”

“Sure.”

He walked up the stairs still feeling somewhat guilty about his behaviour, and still slightly gloomy. Future? Did he have a future? He sighed as he slowly changed for bed. There was still another year to go at Hogwarts, anyway.

He got up late in the morning, and when he went downstairs to the kitchen, Remus was nowhere to be seen. The miniature Quidditch players were zooming round the pitch in circles. It made him slightly dizzy to watch them.

He made some breakfast, and took his time clearing up. There was still no sign of Remus, so he went back upstairs. Apart from anything else, he had to write two feet of parchment for Snape on the uses of powdered dragon’s teeth in potions.

Mid afternoon there was a yell from downstairs. “Harry!” It wasn’t Remus. Looking down the stairs he saw one of the twins. “We’ve come to have a look at the progress on the Quidditch game. And we’ve some news for you, as well,” he added mysteriously.

Harry wasn’t quite sure which twin it was – it might have been George, but he wasn’t quite sure.

“Coming,” he told him, and bounced down the stairs.

“You can partner Fred …” - so it was George – “and I’ll play with Remus.”

“Okay.”

They played a fast and furious game of miniature Quidditch for a half hour, and broke off with the score even.

“Not bad at all,” said George. “You’ve added a lot since last time.”

“The worst thing has been teaching the referee all the rules. It takes for ever,” Remus told him.

“Got the Snitch sorted yet?”

Remus shrugged. “Still working on it.”

Harry watched the players still circling the pitch while the twins quizzed Remus. It was making him dizzy again, so he whispered: “Desino!”.

The twins broke off their conversation, and looked across to him.

“Now you’re here too, Harry, you can hear our news,” George told him.

“What’s that?”

George passed him a card, which read: ‘Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. 121 Diagon Alley.’

It didn’t register for a moment, then Harry looked up at him.

“New premises?”

“Ta da!” cried George. “Yes, indeed.”

Remus took the card from Harry and gazed at it. “Congratulations.” He stood up and went over to a cupboard and rummaged inside. He emerged clutching a bottle.

“No champagne, I’m afraid,” he apologised, “but I did discover rather a lot of some very good wine in the Black cellar. Strictly speaking, it’s Harry’s …”

“Get out the corkscrew!”

“I was rather hoping you’d say that,” smiled Remus.

With a ‘pop!’ the cork was extracted. Remus poured four glasses of dark red liquid and passed them round.

“Here’s to Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes!” he cried.

“Hear, hear!” cried Harry, and took a sip of the wine. It tasted – well, difficult to describe really, but rich and yet … he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The twins sipped it appreciatively, however, sniffing it, holding it up to the light.

“I would say …”

“… this is good stuff,” completed Fred.

“Tell us more,” said Remus, joining them at the table again.

“Well,” started Fred ...

“The old premises were getting a bit small, and they were off the beaten track …”

“… then this apothecary’s in Diagon Alley closed down …”

“… and we managed to get the lease.”

“We’re keeping the old place on …”

“… for use as a workshop.”

“You must be doing really well,” said Harry.

“Not bad,” remarked George.

“Which reminds us …”

“… those thousand Galleons …”

“No!” said Harry vehemently. The twins blinked. Remus looked baffled. George explained to him: “Harry gave us his prize money from the Triward Tournament to set up in business.”

“Oh, right,” said Remus, his face clearing.

“It wasn’t my prize money,” insisted Harry.

“What do you mean?” asked Remus.

Harry sighed. “First of all, I didn’t win it properly. Bartimeus Crouch made sure I’d get through the competition – so I’d get carried off to Voldemort. And it should have been Cedric who won, anyway. We both got noble and insisted they other have it. Then we decided we’d go for it together. So only half would have been mine anyway – if Cedric had lived. Which he didn’t.” He paused “‘Kill the spare’. That’s what Voldemort told Pettigrew. ‘Kill the spare’.

“I shouldn’t have won. And I didn’t deserve the money.”

“But if one of the others had got to the Cup first,” Remus pointed out, “Voldemort would have killed them anyway.”

“I know,” sighed Harry. “That’s why it’s such a mess.”

He looked at Fred and George. “If you really want to be rid of the money, spend it on Ron and Ginny. Ron’s too proud to take anything from me. Buy them presents. Get Ginny an owl. Get Ron a coat like the one you got me for Christmas. It won’t save my conscience, but it’ll help.”

The twins were looking completely flabbergasted, and Remus wasn’t far behind them.

“I don’t want the money,” Harry went on. “I don’t need it. But you can afford to be generous to Ron and Ginny.”

Fred and George looked at each other. Remus had the sense to keep quiet.

“We didn’t know you felt like that about it,” said a much subdued George.

“But if that’s what you want …” added Fred.

“That’s what you’ll get.”

Harry gave a slight smile. “Well, now you know.”

But he knew he had spoiled the afternoon. It wasn’t long before the twins were standing up and making their apologies.

After the twins had gone, Harry looked across the table at Remus.

“Sorry. I’ve done it again.”

Remus gave a slight smile. “No need to be sorry. Though you were a little – vehement.”

“That’s what I’m sorry about.”

“Fair enough.” Harry reached over and poured the rest of the wine into Remus’s glass. “Thank you.” Remus was silent again for a few moments. Then: “I’m afraid to say I’m going to have to ask you to go back to Privet Drive this evening.”

Harry had a horrible feeling that he’d offended Remus enough that he was to be sent packing. “Of course.”

“Not what you think.” Remus pointed up to the ceiling. “The lunar cycle.”

“Oh.” Harry suddenly understood. Then that made it feel worse. Here he was, complaining about winning money, when Remus was sentenced for life to his transformations. “Have you got the potion?” he asked awkwardly.

“Yeah.” Remus leaned back in his chair. “I prevailed on Snape to take me through the recipe. I’m still not very good at it, but I can usually manage to get it right.”

“Oh.” Harry still didn’t know what to say.

“So I’m sorry to say that you might be better off in Privet Drive tonight.”

Harry thought that perhaps even a werewolf might be better company than Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley. But he did his best to put on a smile, and said: “I’ll just pop upstairs then, and get my things.” Remus nodded.

Harry’s feet dragged as he walked up the steps. The last thing he wanted to do was to go back to Privet Drive. And he was still annoyed with himself for driving away Fred and George with his boorish behaviour. Still. There it was. He flung some things into a bag and took it back down with him.

Back in the kitchen he shook hands with Remus. “Hope it won’t be too bad tonight.”

“Not if I do the potion properly.”

“Right then. See you soon.”

And with a ‘pop’ he took himself back to his bedroom in Surrey.

His presence at breakfast the next morning produced no reaction at all from the Dursleys, and as soon as he’d finished, he sent Hedwig off with a note to Ron. He could wangle a stay there which would take up most of the rest of the holidays.