His Majesty's Secret Service

Chapter Five: Transfusion

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses. He was sorted into Slytherin so that he could spy on Draco Malfoy for the race of the Elves, and to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, our hero played Quidditch really badly, answered some personal questions about his view of Muggles, and placed a hex on Hermione Granger. This last prank landed him exactly where he wanted to be: Dumbledore's office....

Dumbledore wiped his eyes free of tears as he poured two stout drinks. "I must say, Ryan, you do have a way of making our meeting appear legitimate. That was quite a hex you placed on Miss Granger."

"Watching, were you?" Ryan grinned, accepting the snifter.

By way of answer, the wizard picked up an object on his desk. It was a hand mirror, ornately carved out of silver, with a polished ivory handle. "I've found that many of the little trinkets I bewitched in school continue to be very useful as Headmaster."

"Is that—" Ryan began, reaching out in wonder.

"Yes," Dumbledore's eyes danced as he chuckled. "The Mirror of Knowing. I trust you remember."

Ryan swallowed quickly. "How can I forget? It only took you about three months to enchant it. Came in useful back then, too, as I recall. Do you know, I was just thinking about this the other day."

"Really? How very interesting." His eyes danced and he leaped up to open a cupboard. "Do you mind if I show off this as well?"

Ryan came over to look. Inside, a miniature model of the school took up more than half the space. Tiny figures moved through it. "Your pocket Hogwarts! You were still assembling the spells for it when Cygnus and I graduated. You actually got this to work?"

"Not really." Dumbledore sighed. "It's still not quite right; it fails far too often, but it has been overall a nice distraction. In retrospect, a map would have been easier...." Dumbledore brought the brandy bottle back to his desk. He sank into his chair. "Yes, I've been thinking about our boyhood, too, though not half so much as you, I expect." He took a sip of his brandy and smacked his lips. "But I suspect you have not risked Minerva's wrath just to reminisce with an old friend. How are you getting along in Slytherin house?"

Ryan swirled his brandy in his glass. "The Malfoys never change, do they?" He sipped his drink and set down the snifter, leaning forward. "Something's definitely coming, Albus. I don't know what, yet, but I think it's big. And I'll be inside. That little prank just now, I think, will make sure of that."

Albus nodded. Not one to waste time with unnecessary questions, he let his friend and spy unfold events in his own way, providing refills of brandy when appropriate. Ryan told the Headmaster about his infiltration of the house, particularly becoming friends with Malfoy, and of the conversation with Malfoy and Avery, practically daring him to pull the stunt of that evening.

"So, you think the students are receiving instructions from their parents," Albus surmised when Ryan finished his remarks.

"I'm certain. It will probably mean more hijinks like tonight, but I seriously doubt they'll plan anything more...dangerous. At least, I'll do what I can to make sure their actions involve nothing irreversible."

"Yes." Dumbledore stared into space for a moment, piecing things together. He crossed his ankles on a footstool by his desk, leaning back in his chair. "Have you had a chance to read the Prophet?" he asked next.

"A little. There's always a copy in the common room, but sometimes it's rather picked over by the time I get to it. There's really only some subtle clues. Rita Skeeter's not written anything in a long time—I wonder why? And there was that obituary on Hester Wattleby. Accidental death, the paper said. It appeared around the time Snape was absent. I noticed Malfoy's letter came right after Snape returned—I assume it's linked?"

"Yes. Severus tells me that the Dark Lord is moving very slowly, and very carefully indeed. Getting his strength back, I think. And feeling his supporters out for any sign of weakness. He doesn't want any hint of his reappearance to reach official channels. Some of the Death Eaters at the Ministry must have told him that Fudge refused to believe the news. That's to his advantage. On the other hand, he called Severus and some others at a most inconvenient time, just to test them." He topped off his snifter again, and studied the rich colour against the lights of the office for a moment before continuing. "I owe you an apology, Ryan, for all that trouble I gave you over your plan. It seems Severus agrees with you—no, I haven't told him who you are; he has no idea, as far as I know. But Voldemort suspects him, clearly. He can't learn anything useful, and he's not sure what he may have to do to secure Voldemort's trust. I'm working on getting him a pardon, just in case. In the meantime, it looks as if we do need you, after all."

"Is it getting too dangerous for him to be the mole?"

"No, I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. But if you could fool them, be what he was, all those years ago...we might learn much."

Ryan nodded curtly. "I'm working on it." He picked up his drink for another swallow, wondering about his next topic.

"What?" Albus asked with a little smile.

"Hermione Granger."

"Ah."

"I think she may be on to me, Albus. She's scarily clever, you know."

"Indeed," Dumbledore chuckled. "She had read more books before starting here than I had done."

"That is scary. Anyway, she—" Ryan stopped, remembering something else. He looked at the door, as if to gaze through it.

"What is it?" Dumbledore sat up.

"I just realized. That's the second time your Professor McGonagall has mentioned my family. Do you think—"

"Nonsense, Ryan. She is Head of Gryffindor house and has access to all the records. She would know about the family's history. But I don't think anything specifies that the Pelerands were Anvasse. Back then, it was taken for granted, largely. No one thought about writing it down."

"Right. Sorry. Well, she's another one, though. One slip in front of her...."

"Yes, I thought you might notice. Minerva is one of the most level-headed witches I know. Cool under fire, if you take my meaning."

"Yes. Though she seems awfully heated with me," he grumbled.

Albus brought him back to his earlier topic, refilling their glasses another time. "Now, about Miss Granger?"

"Well, I'm not sure. It could just be the house rivalry at work. At least I hope so. But she seems to hold something else against me...."

Dumbledore laughed. "I know why those two ladies bother you so much," he observed slyly. "They don't automatically respond to your natural charms!" He cackled at the joke. "You're just flummoxed, Ryan, admit it!"

Ryan grinned. "How much brandy have you had, Albus?" he asked, and they both got to laughing.

 

 

Hours later, and slightly tipsier, Ryan emerged from the hidden stairwell by the gargoyle statue. He padded through the empty hallways, avoiding Filch, Mrs. Norris, and the ever-present assortment of ghosts, down to the bare dungeon wall that concealed Slytherin's common room.

Malfoy and Avery were still up, waiting for him. "What happened?" asked Avery immediately.

"We were getting concerned. They didn't expel you, did they?"

"Hmm?" Ryan blinked to focus on Malfoy. "No, I'm not expelled," he answered, sobering up by the sheer force of will.

"If you're not expelled, then what happened?"

"Oh. Well...detention, same as you." Ryan furrowed his brow. He and Dumbledore hadn't really decided on a "punishment" for his actions. No matter; he was certain McGonagall would ask what was done. He'd have to hope the old wizard would arrange something in the morning. He also hoped it wouldn't be too arduous, but it didn't really matter.

"What on earth were you doing, anyway, admitting it?" Avery asked.

Ryan widened his eyes. "I still had their wands, idiot," he sneered. "They had us dead to rights; no point denying it. Besides, what's the point of pulling a jape like that without claiming the credit? Haven't you heard of honour among thieves?"

Avery scowled, looking uncomfortable. "Well, you landed us all in detention, thanks to your sense of honour."

"Hey, I got detention, too, Malcolm," Ryan retorted hotly, tapping into a reserve of childishness.

"You were up there for a long time, for just a detention." Malfoy observed, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.

Ryan flopped onto a couch by the fire. He rolled his eyes and did his best to sound unimpressed. "Yeah. Well, I had to talk my way out of anything more serious. Explained that dueling is encouraged at my old school. Develops...I don't know, sharp reflexes or something. Well, the old geezer bought it, but evidently, he felt he had to keep me in there, didn't he, lecturing me. Not the way we do things round here; ought to show more respect, after he stuck his neck out; reputation of the school; disgrace to my family; blah, blah, blah." He swept his arms out, and pumped one fist lewdly to illustrate what he thought of the matter. Then he sat up suddenly, menacing again. "So, next time, we'll have to be more careful. I can't feed him that same line again, how it was a misunderstanding." He held their gaze in the dying firelight, just enough to feel them getting unnerved. Then, he changed moods again, bright and alert. "Speaking of which, lads, what's next?"

The abrupt subject change worked. Malfoy just smiled enigmatically, and Avery promised, "Soon."

"Whatever," Ryan shrugged. "I'm off to bed. You know, keeping a straight face that long is really very tiring."

 

 

Saturday morning at breakfast, the aftershocks of the pranksters' act rippled through the school. To selected Slytherins, they became temporary heroes; to the rest of the school, especially Gryffindor house, they personified evil. Filch came round to their table and informed Malfoy and Avery, with a nasty smile, that they would be assigned to cleaning out the fourth floor storage cupboard that afternoon. "And as for you," he continued, jabbing a finger at Ryan's chest, "you will report to my office tomorrow at 9:00."

Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick all glared at the three Slytherins from the teachers' table, Snape in particular with a look of pure disgust. All three did their best to ignore the silent reprimands.

"Look at them," Hermione observed from the Gryffindor table. "Sitting there like they didn't do anything wrong. Can you believe he actually admitted it? It was as if he didn't care—like he didn't think there was any harm. Root through the mud, indeed! If Professor Flitwick hadn't been there, I should have cursed him so hard—"

"Quite right, Hermione," George said as he reached down their way for the butter. "Anyone who'd act like a Gryffindor, only to turn round and do something like that."

"No one hexes our brother and gets away with it."

Just then, Filch came by. "No one sneaks contraband into Mrs. Norris' box and gets away with that, either," he remarked. "Fred and George Weasley! You're to report to my office at 9:00 tomorrow morning for detention."

"Yes, Mr. Filch," they muttered.

"What'd you do?" Ron began, but then said, "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Hermione peered across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table, where Ryan was eating his breakfast. "Say, Fred?" she asked cautiously.

"How's that, Hermione?" came the response.

"If you were caught—even red-handed—by a teacher, would you admit you did whatever it was they think you did?"

"Come again?" Fred peered at her as if she were an alien.

"If you played a prank, and after you did it, a teacher caught you, would you own up, or would you try to talk your way out of it?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought you said. I heard you, Hermione, I just didn't understand why anyone would do that."

Hermione sucked her lips between her teeth. "That's what I thought. He's definitely no normal boy. I don't think he's a student at all."

 

 

Ryan enjoyed his freedom that afternoon by going out and testing the acquisition that the owl and falcon had brought him: not a "staff," but a longbow. He retrieved it, a quiver of arrows, a coloured target, and his vambrace and glove from his trunk, then wandered off to see if the old archery range still existed. It was gone. Hagrid must have converted it into an arbor, or one of the other groundskeepers before him. A covered latticework of climbing plants stretched along the northern slope, between the Quidditch pitch and the forest, creating a canopied avenue leading across the back of the hill. It extended some length and ended in a reflecting pool. Ryan strolled past it, musing at the number of students who must have used this at one time or another for trysts.

As he came around the lattice-work, he decided he could set up a range of sorts by using the area behind the covered arbor, where the hill flattened out considerably. He stood at the back of the pool and carefully paced northeast in a straight line. When he counted forty yards, he turned. Not perfect, but it would serve. He took out an arrow from his quiver and knelt, jamming the point into the earth to mark the spot. Then he walked back to the wooden frame which formed a backdrop for the pool, pausing twice more to mark thirty and twenty with two more arrows. He held the target up against the wood, fished out his wand, and with a simple spell, glued the target in place. Then he walked back to his furthest arrow and, for the first time, strung the new bow.

He ran an appreciative hand over the wood, its gentle curve pleasant and tense under his fingers. The smooth contours and slender grip confirmed the name of the bowyer even more clearly than her maker's mark near the leather wrapping could have done. Maloriel had made this for him to replace a bow which split a short while before he left for the human world. Ryan sighed, thinking about Maloriel, the scent of her which clung to her letters and the falcon which delivered them. Reluctantly, he set thoughts of her aside and concentrated on examining her handiwork.

Resting the bow against his leg, he buckled the vambrace over his left forearm. He wriggled his right hand into his glove and bent to pick up the bow, then pulled and slowly released the bowstring experimentally a few times, checking the wood for any flaws. Finding none, he took a fresh arrow from the quiver and nocked it. With a very controlled breath, he positioned himself in front of the target, drew, and fired.

The arrow flew beyond the target, sailing over the bower and landing somewhere on its vine-covered roof. With a frown and a grunt, Ryan nocked another arrow and aimed somewhat lower. The arrow stuck with a satisfying "thock," still above the target itself, but more in range.

Ryan lost track of how many times he walked back and forth, retrieving arrows, changing the tension of the string on the bow, adjusting the nock point, even walking to one hundred yards to shoot one round from the edge of the forest; several times during the day, he could see players gliding over the Quidditch pitch, practising, but none noticed him. When the sun began to dip toward the horizon, and his muscles complained from the length of time since being used in such a fashion, he felt satisfied with the bow's performance. He stripped the glove and hooked it over his belt, then unstrung the bow. As he walked up to the target, he pulled his marker arrows out of the ground, swiping the points clean with two fingers, and stuck them back in his quiver. A simple restorative charm mended the holes caused by his arrow points; another charm reversed the gluing spell. He rolled the target and slid it into the quiver, then walked back up to the school, removing his vambrace on the way.

 

 

Dinner that evening went much the same as breakfast had done. Only a few Slytherins appreciated his conduct of yesternight, and the rest of the school found him completely reprehensible. Luckily, Malfoy and Avery occupied most of the conversation, reciting a litany of the ills forced upon them by Filch.

"He actually expected us to clean it—not just clear away the junk, mind you, but sweep out and mop up the whole cupboard." Malfoy complained.

"And he just watched us the whole time, giving orders." Avery reported.

"Miserable old custodian—do you know, my father told me he's a Squib?" Malfoy looked around for reactions, but was disappointed. Even Goyle, who usually hung on Malfoy's every word, was staring across the hall absently.

"Goyle!" Draco called sharply. The gorilla-like young man started and upset his soup spoon. A fresh spoon appeared on the table.

"Whot?" Goyle asked, blinking himself out of reverie.

"I said: did you know Filch is a Squib?"

"Yeah. Squib. Good one, Draco." But he soon ignored him again.

"What did you do all day, Ryan?" Emma asked at dinner. "You weren't around anywhere."

"No; I went outside," he answered.

Malfoy scoffed. "To do what?"

"To test my bow." Ryan delivered deadpan. This caused another ripple around the table.

"Oh, for bloody—first a sword; now a bow?" Avery commented bitterly. "What's next, Pelerand? Going to slay a dragon for us all?"

Ryan smiled, appearing to consider it. "No, I don't think so," he answered finally. "I'd really rather keep my skin intact. Anyway, it's just a hobby," he continued with a shrug.

"Oh—that's what your girlfriend sent you, then?" Pansy said as if she had solved a great mystery.

"That's right," Ryan nodded and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth.

Emma scowled, but Pansy went right on. "Seems an awfully expensive gift for someone our age. She must be very well off."

"Er..." Ryan swallowed. "Well, I suppose you could say so." He looked back at Malfoy. "Anyway, I guess my detention's probably worse than yours; else why have me do something different?"

There followed a more philosophical discussion on the merits of various types of detention. At least it shifted the focus off of him again, Ryan thought as they finished their supper.

Ryan stayed with the small knot of Slytherins to get back to the dungeons, but it still didn't save him a few nasty looks and comments from passing Ravenclaws. One third-year even tried to throw a hex at him, but was halted by a familiar-looking Ravenclaw Prefect. It was a relief to go back to the common room and up to his dormitory that night. He stretched to relieve his aching muscles, then wearily got ready for bed, wondering what Filch had planned. It would be worth the detention, though, if it meant he could gather conclusive evidence that he or Dumbledore could use against the Death Eaters. In the morning, he reflected, he'd get up to Filch's office and find out what was in store for him there.

 

But what he found was Fred and George Weasley.

"What are you doing here?" all three asked at once.

"Detention," all three answered.

"Oh, no," George said. "We're not serving our detention with you."

"Too late," Filch answered him, opening his office door. "That decision's already been made. Come with me."

Filch led them down through the dungeons. They passed the potions classroom, the Slytherin common room wall, and descended into the depths of the castle cellar. He brought them to a room filled with old furniture and musty textbooks long out of date. A thin layer of water covered the floor with slime and silt.

"Yecch," observed the Weasley twins.

Filch snarled. "This is the oldest part of the castle, by the lake. The mortar's going. I need your help to drain the flooding and reinforce the caulk job."

"Without magic?" George asked, clapping a hand to his mouth as soon as he said it.

"Of course, without magic, boy!" Filch growled. "It wouldn't be a detention if it were a five minute job, would it?" The caretaker shook his fist, as if trying to control his rage. "That's what you get for trying to replace Mrs. Norris's litter with..." he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, opened it, and read, "'Gravy Gravel. Turns instantly to tasty gravy with any application of liquid.'"

Ryan recognized the name from the Weasley's list of joke inventions. Filch continued, waving the inventory under the boys' noses. "Mrs. Norris hates baths. I should have had you do that for your detention, if it weren't that I wouldn't trust you within ten feet of her!" With supreme effort, he calmed himself down. "Now, wait here. I've got some tools in the next chamber.... You can make yourselves useful by moving all that junk to the other side of the room," he ordered on his way out.

But the twins just glared at Ryan.

"I...suppose you want some revenge, for that joke on Ron," Ryan offered.

"Joke?!" cried George. And,

"What did you think, you'd get away with it?" exploded Fred.

"It was just a bit of fun," Ryan said crassly. "Look, if it'll make you feel better, go on and take a hit a piece. I figure I owe you that for your brother."

"Harry and Hermione are our friends, too," Fred reminded him. "How about three hits each?"

Ryan smiled coldly. "Sorry, can't do it. People will think I've gone soft. Look, if you want to, we can just fight over it—"

"No, we'll hit you," George assured him. And with that, he punched Ryan in the stomach, hard.

Ryan caved in his stomach a little so the punch didn't knock the wind out of him, but the boy was quick and strong, and it did hurt. What he didn't expect was for Fred to pick up so quickly and swing high while Ryan was doubled over. In an effective team maneuver, Fred socked him squarely in the left eye.

"There, see?" Ryan said when he'd caught his breath. "All better now."

"Not hardly," said Fred. But just then Filch returned with the heavy toolbox. Fred and George were holding a rotting chaise between them, wrestling it into the corner furthest from the flooding wall.

"What happened to you?" Filch asked unkindly.

"Nothing," Ryan said, grabbing a chair and moving it.

Filch didn't ask any more questions. The four of them worked with minimal conversation for the next five hours. When they had done, the wall seemed much stronger, but it was clear that the fix-up would never be exactly permanent. "That will do for winter," Filch said by way of calling them to a halt. "Now, help me carry all this stuff back up to my office, and you can go." He seemed disappointed that he had nothing else for them to do, but grudgingly acknowledged that the work was adequate. "I'll still have to get the Free-Masons in this summer," he grumbled as they trooped back upstairs.

Before they separated outside Filch's office, Fred picked up where he'd left off. "By the way, Pelerand, don't even think of trying to buy any Wizard Wheezes from us," he warned.

"Yeah," agreed George. "As if we'd sell to the likes of you." And they turned their backs on him.

 

"Oh, my goodness!" Pansy exclaimed as Ryan stepped inside the sliding door to the Slytherin common room. "Your eye!"

"It's nothing," Ryan said brusquely and pushed past her. It did hurt, and it would for several days, but all he had on his mind at the moment was a shower, and a change of clothes.

"Hey!" Goyle called from the opened curtains of his bed, where he'd been reading when Ryan came in. "Who popped you?"

"Weasley."

"Ron?"

"No: Fred. Payback, I guess, for our hex the other night." Ryan stripped his sodden, mortar streaked robe off and let down the wards so he could sit on his bed to take off his boots. They were soaked as well, muddy and caulk-covered. It would take them at least a day to dry, and then he would have to clean them up. Frowning, he finished undressing and shrugged into his bathrobe. "I'm having a shower," he said unnecessarily.

When he returned, feeling much cleaner, Goyle was joined by Malfoy and Avery both. "We hear the Weasley's jumped you," Malfoy said with minimal concern.

"Sort of," Ryan said, feeling a twinge of guilt at misrepresenting the twins. "They were serving their detention at the same time. Filch left the room for a minute; they each took a swing." He grinned at Avery. "I guess I took some of your knocks for you, Malcolm. Something about how no one treats their brother that way...."

Malfoy grimaced with pure loathing. "No one treats one of us that way, either," he promised. "Oh, they'll be sorry," he promised. "That simply decides it."

 

 

"There you are!" Emma said one evening, about a week later, following him up to the library. "I'd never have thought to look for you in there. Actually studying? Come on, down to the common room—Malfoy wants to see you."

Ryan pulled up and Emma stopped. "See me? What, do I have to report to him, now?"

"Oh, not you, specifically, silly—well, you and some others. Come on, it ought to be interesting." She laced her hands around his arm in her annoying, possessive way. "I think we're starting soon."

"Starting what?" Ryan asked as he allowed her to lead him down the stairs.

"You'll see." She moved one arm to his waist and herded him along.

As they approached the stone wall which stood in front of Slytherin's common room, Ryan could see Warrington and Bole outside. "Forget the password, gents?" he asked jovially.

"Standing guard," Bole told him shortly.

"Oh." Suddenly Ryan took more interest in the proceedings.

They opened the door with the password ("Parselmouth") and entered the dungeon-like chamber. All the high-backed chairs were filled, and several chairs which had been brought in were also occupied. The tables were pushed up against one wall; the fire crackled and greenish light bathed everyone in an eerie glow. About a third of the house was gathered.

"Are we ready?" Draco asked.

Avery answered. "Emma rounded up the last. Warrington and Bole are outside, and the undesirables are off studying elsewhere."

"Good." Draco surveyed the room with a long, appraising stare before he drew breath to begin. "You're all here because you've got some things in common. You're all pure-bloods. As you know, we can't stop the Hat from Sorting an occasional Mudblood into the House, but they're all somewhere else tonight, as you just heard.

"You're also all third-years or above," he continued. "That means you've learned enough to be some use, but there's still a lot more preparation some of you need before you become really effective wizards—or witches," he said, nodding to Felicia Avery and some of the other girls near her. "And finally, you're all here because you feel as we do about the current state of our school.

"Over the next few months, we'll be watching you for signs of weakness. Slytherin is a house with a noble heritage, and one whose alumni have gone on to greatness. The greatest of these met his downfall because of a half-blood upstart. But that doesn't mean it's too late for us to change things around. From now on, the Muggle-lovers will learn to regret their associations. And the Mudbloods..." he gazed around, making eye contact with each student in turn. "We'll get rid of them, one way or another. And as for all of you," he circled the room, "you'd better decide where you stand, if you haven't already.

"Now, we expect you to cooperate, or at least stay out of the way. As I said, we'll be watching you. If any of you tries to talk about this with someone not in this room—Warrington and Bole excepted—we'll hear about it. If any of you tells a teacher, we'll know. For those of you who help us, the rewards could be great. You all heard what Dumbledore said last term, about the Dark Lord. Well, it's time you all learned the truth: he will return, but he needs our help to do it. So begins Operation Transfusion."

Ryan allowed himself a smile as he listened to the Death Eaters' children lay out their plans. So that's how it would be. A similar resistance cropped up during his tutelage in the 1850's, when Muggle-born children were first admitted to school. His own roommate, Geoffrey Bramdon, had faced some prejudice from other students because of his Muggle heritage. But back then, it wasn't just Slytherins who were the problem....

 

 

"You can't sit there," a Gryffindor Prefect told them as they came to the table for dinner one night in 1854, their second year.

"Why not?" Cygnus asked immediately.

A fourth-year boy sneered at them. "Because a Prefect told you it's reserved. Go sit down there, with the other Muggle-lovers."

Neither Ryan nor Geoffrey caught the significance of the boy's comment, but the other three—notably Cygnus—clenched their fists and grew angry. "You can't—" Cygnus began.

The fourteen-year-old, who was thin and had unruly black hair, stood up from the table and loomed over the twelve-year-old boy. "We're upper forms, Black. We can do what we like, as long as it isn't against school rules. And there's nothing in the rules that says we can't designate this end of the table for pure-bloods, and that end for everyone else." Another Prefect stood to back him up.

"Problem, Potter?" the second Prefect asked.

"No problem, Mullet," he answered, his eyes still locked with Cygnus'. "I was just explaining to these ponces why they can't bring their tainted little friend to sup with us. But we're all done now, aren't we, Black?"

Despite himself, Cygnus backed down. "Yeah. We're all done. Come on, chaps, let's sit over here, where the air is clearer." He led them to the opposite end of the table.

"What was that about?" Geoffrey asked.

"It was about you," Perseus explained, noting that Cygnus was still too upset to be coherent. He was muttering about the things he'd like to do to Herodotus Potter and his Prefect buddies.

"Me?" Geoffrey said, blushing.

"Well, not you specifically," Meningus countered. "But because you're Muggle-born. Not from a family of wizards."

"It's only been a few years since they began letting truly Muggle-borns like yourself into Hogwarts," Perseus continued. "Some of the older students are still shirty about it."

"Wait," Ryan said. "You mean to say that wizard humans think it's wrong to mix with non-wizards?"

"Well, no—not really," Meningus said, handing Cygnus a small beer. "We've been marrying Muggles for ages. Half-bloods have been admitted for hundreds of years. Though some wizards still think it's wrong. What he means is wizards like Geoff, here, whose parents are both Muggles."

"Why should that make a difference?" Ryan asked, truly confused. Humans differentiating themselves?

"He hasn't any wizarding background, do you see," Perseus said. "So they think he—and other Muggle-borns like him—aren't 'good' enough to be here. Sorry, Geoff."

"Perfectly all right, old chap," Geoffrey replied amiably, but with a glint in his eye. "So, what are we going to do to get Potter?"

"Wait—I still don't understand," Ryan said, and he got up from his chair to approach the Prefects.

"Ryan!" Cygnus warned, but the Anvasse student waved him off.

"Hey, Potter!" Ryan interrupted the older students' conversation.

"What do you want?" the teen asked, not bothering to look up.

"I was just wondering," Ryan continued, "if you'd clear something up for me. You're all humans, right?" They nodded, confused. "And, so are they?" He pointed to where his friends were sitting. Again, they nodded with furrowed brows. "Then, would you all mind moving down toward that end of the table?" he asked, pointing once more to his friends. "You see, I agree with you, about the whole issue of purity of blood. So I'm reserving this section—at the head—for the race with the only pure blood there is. Anvasse."

Potter's face turned red, then purple, then white. He scraped his chair back from the table and rose slowly.

"Thanks," said Ryan, slipping into his seat. "I knew you'd understand."

Potter and two Prefects all grabbed Ryan at the same time. Unfortunately for them, the teachers had just arrived at the high table and immediately, Talus Bartholomew, head of Gryffindor house, was on hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" he fumed. "Mullet! Explain this."

Mullet dropped Ryan's leg, looking guilty. "Nothing, Professor. We were—"

"You were what?"

"He made a racial slur, Sir," Potter volunteered. "Said that Anvasse were of purer blood than Wizards."

"What of it?" Bartholomew glared. "Haven't you studied your magical races history yet? Anvasse are older, more magical, and more highly attuned than humans to magic. In fact, their blood is a component in certain spells, because of its very purity. Still, Pelerand, best not to lord it over the others like that. Now, Mullet, let the boy go and we'll forget about this now."

Cowed, the older students complied, muttering insincere apologies. But Potter and Mullet exchanged a look as if to promise each other, they'd find out exactly what spells called for Elf blood...and then they'd see about acquiring some....

 

 

"....So we'll make our first move at Hallowe'en," Draco was saying, pulling Ryan back to the present. "We'll let you know privately what parts you're all to play."

The meeting broke up, various students settling themselves in the common room to get back to their homework. Classes preparing them for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.'s were getting more and more practical, and less and less lecturing. Success or failure depended heavily on getting the reading done ahead, which had most of the fifth-year students up late each night, trying to cover the basics.

 

 

For example, the next day in Potions, Snape began:

"Today's lesson will be spent preparing a simple regeneration curative. From your supplies and the store of ingredients around the room, you have access to the following: Absinthe, aconite, bats' wings, black widow venom, bloodworms, dandelion root, dragons' livers, echinacea, gillyweed, ginger, Goblins' teeth, hawthorn buds, hyssop leaves, mandrake root, mercurium, myrrh, scullcap, sheep's marrow, powdered unicorn horn, valerian, witch hazel, wormswort, and of course water. You have the next ninety minutes to prepare your potion, using only these materials. Not all of them are required; and you may combine them in any amounts, but do please remember, Longbottom, the effects of certain combinations, and try, Weasley, to record accurately your measurements and the steps you take to create your potion. You may start...now."

Snape sat at his desk and arranged scrolls from another class to mark. His hooded eyes slid around the classroom wearily as all the students began organizing their ingredients and jotting down possible formulae. His attention flicked from the third-year essays to the students in front of him, particularly when movement attracted his eye. The first time someone left the desks was when Ryan took his cauldron to the tap to fill it. Snape's mouth twitched, as if holding back a smile. The boy knew how to save time. The water, which spouted from a gargoyle's mouth at the tap, was ice-cold all year round, and it would take time to boil it. Ryan could use that time putting together his formula and assembling his ingredients. It was a good plan, one worthy of an older, more experienced student. But Snape's good mood faded when he noticed that Hermione Granger, seeing Ryan return with his cauldron of water, decided to fill her own pot. No sooner had she returned, than Vincent Crabbe, Theodore Nott, Seamus Finnegan, and Emma Naigle also followed suit. While he couldn't accuse them of copying—yet—it was clear that they were following Ryan's lead. He should never have praised him so openly, he thought. But he said nothing.

The silence was punctuated by small sounds of students working. A chopping sound at one desk merged into the smooth scrape of a mortar and pestle at another. Snape marked off a section of a third-year's essay that was patently redundant, only there to fill the required space on the parchment, and moved on to the next roll. He noticed as he looked up that Ryan was combining several ingredients dry, except the dragon's liver, which he had already put into the cauldron. With mild annoyance, he noticed that Crabbe, Frome, Finnegan, and Naigle had all set their dragon's livers to parboil in their cauldrons as well. Snape's eyes narrowed, but he went back to grading the underclassmen's papers.

When he next looked up at the class, Longbottom had finally picked up his cauldron and was taking it to the tap. Ryan was just tipping a mortar-full of powdered ingredients into his cauldron....and right on schedule, Crabbe and Frome did the same. Finnegan, however, stopped to read his formula again, and Naigle was still grinding her Goblins' teeth.

BANG! The solution in Ryan's cauldron erupted and splattered him with scalding water. Ryan swore. Loudly. Snape was on his feet. "Crabbe! Nott! Take your cauldrons off the heat before—"

BANG! BANG! The other two cauldrons went up as well. The whole class stopped dead as Ryan, still muttering, fetched his wand and began healing his burns. Ignoring the other's cries for the moment, Snape examined Ryan's cauldron. "What happened, Pelerand?" he asked with deceptive calm.

"Forgot...to add...the hyssop leaves first," Ryan said between gasps as he touched his wand to each of his blisters and healed them. "D—"

"Watch your language," Snape snarled under his breath. "You've automatically failed this assignment, all three of you. And as for you two," he rounded on them with a pained expression, "Ten points each from Slytherin. I should think you'd know by now that cheating may be grounds for expulsion." He fixed his eyes on Finnegan and Naigle long enough to make it clear to them that they were only moments away from getting caught, though he could never prove it now.

"If you can't heal those burns yourselves, you'd better get up to the hospital wing," was Snape's grudging permission to Frome and Crabbe to clear out of his classroom. With a final look around at the rest of his students, he reminded them, "The clock is still running: you have fifty minutes left."

He surveyed Ryan once more before returning to his desk. "Pelerand, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, professor," Ryan said, cleaning up. "Just a stupid error." As Snape moved away, Ryan caught sight of Malfoy, grinning widely. He chanced a look over in the Gryffindors' direction, and once again saw Hermione Granger look away just as he turned toward her. Something was definitely not right there.

 

 

Students were gathered around the entrance to the great hall as they came up the dungeon stairs for lunch. "What's going on?" Malfoy demanded of a young Ravenclaw.

"Hogsmeade week-end: October 28. Just before Hallowe'en."

Malfoy smiled. "Perfect timing, as usual," he said to Goyle.

"Yeah," Goyle answered, pushing past the crowds and into the great hall. But once inside, he didn't move. He just stood watching the students who were already seated.

"What's wrong with you?" Malfoy asked. "Looking for someone? Crabbe and Nott won't be back yet from the hospital wing."

"Oh. Right," Goyle said, and followed Malfoy meekly to the Slytherin tables across the hall.

Ryan followed also, Emma at his heels.

"That was a pretty low trick," she observed. "Fixing your potion like that. Did you know that Finnegan from Gryffindor was copying you?"

"Hadn't noticed," Ryan said truthfully. "I didn't know any of you were watching. Not very smart, Emma." Annoyed with himself for making such a juvenile error, his chiding came out too harshly.

"I should think you'd want to help the people in your own house," quipped Millicent Bulstrode, cross because her potion had turned out completely ineffective. At least it hadn't exploded.

"What I do or do not do for my house is my business," Ryan scowled at her. He looked at Malfoy. "I think we need to get out of here," he suggested.

"What about this afternoon's classes?" Crabbe asked.

"What about them? Who cares?"

"I care," Malfoy insisted. "We can't afford you to get in any more trouble, can we, Pelerand? Besides, we need you for Hallowe'en."

"And Hogsmeade will come very soon, really," Pansy offered by way of reconciliation.

Emma waited until Ryan grudgingly agreed to go to class that afternoon and offered to walk up with him. On the way up to the Arithmancy classroom, she said, "I'm sorry about what I said. I thought you'd done it on purpose to trip him up, and didn't know we were following you, too. I guess I didn't realize you really didn't mean it."

Ryan shrugged. His impulse was to reassure her that he was more angry with himself than anyone else, though the Gryffindor in him insisted that cheating was no way for her to learn. But to say any of that wouldn't look right to the Slytherins, so he accepted her apology with a simple, "Whatever."

Hermione was already in the classroom, scribbling furiously on her parchment. When the trickle of students, including Emma and Ryan, filed in, she furtively pushed the partial roll into her bag, and made a show of looking for her textbooks.

 

 

The Hogsmeade week-end did come quickly, as Pansy promised. Third-year students and older were allowed to leave the castle and walk down the hillside to the little village, the only all-wizarding community in Britain. Along with the pub, the rail station, and the post office, the village boasted a collection of fine shopping establishments geared toward its juvenile population. Zonko's and Honeyduke's had the finest selection of joke products and candies, respectively, a young witch or wizard could hope to find.

As they left the castle gates, Draco Malfoy, Malcolm Avery, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, and Stelmaria Nott held back a bit. "Is everyone ready?" Malfoy asked.

"All set," came Stelmaria's answer.

"I've gone over it with everyone," Avery said with a clipped nod.

"Excellent. We'd better keep Ryan away from any of the incidents, though," Draco said in his slow, contemplative drawl, "hold him in reserve, so to speak."

Up ahead, Emma was sticking close to Ryan. "What are you going to buy in Hogsmeade?" she asked.

Ryan pursed his lips. "Hadn't planned on buying anything. I was thinking about a drink, though."

"Butterbeer? At the Three Broomsticks?" Emma asked with no little amount of pleasure.

"That's where all the teachers go, though, isn't it?" Ryan commented. "Isn't there another pub in town?" he asked, pretending he didn't know the village at all.

"Well...there's the Hog's Head, but you don't really want to go in there," Emma said nervously. "Students...don't usually go there."

Ryan scoffed. "Sounds like the right place, then," he said, pulling away.

Emma glanced behind her at the little group of Slytherin activists. She doubled back to cut some of the distance between them, but let them do most of the walking as it was downhill for them.

When they were in easy speaking distance, Emma said, "Draco! He's going to the Hog's Head."

Malfoy and Avery exchanged worried looks. The Hog's Head was not nearly so friendly as the Three Broomsticks. They didn't serve anything but hard liquor, and it could get rough if one didn't know how to handle things.

"I'd better stop him," Malfoy said. "You oversee things with the Mudbloods. Crabbe! Goyle! Back me up." He looked at Pansy. "Better stay with Emma and Stelmaria, Pansy. The Hog's Head is no place for ladies."

Pansy was so busy simpering over Draco calling her a lady that she didn't protest at all.

 

"Pelerand!" Malfoy called as they came around the bend toward the High Street. He lifted one hand in a combination of salutation and a signal to wait.

Flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoy caught up. "Emma says you're interested in the Hog's Head."

"Well, yes, I was thinking about it," Ryan said breezily.

"It's not a good idea, Pelerand," Malfoy advised with a wrinkled nose. "That place is for riff-raff, mostly. You'd only get in trouble. Stick with us, why don't you?"

Ryan smiled coldly. "I know you've done your best to keep me out of whatever you've got planned for today. What's going on?"

Malfoy grinned. "Just a little preview of our mobilization on Hallowe'en," he said cryptically. "About half the Operation plans to hex some of the Mudbloods while we're off school property."

"Oh." Ryan said, impressed. "Very organised."

"Yes. That reminds me: your bow and arrows."

"What about them?"

"Well, when we make our move, we'll have to have somewhere to go. I've found out that there's a tunnel under the Whomping Willow. I know how to stop the Willow from thrashing about, but we need someone to freeze it for us. Do you think you could hit a knot about so big—" he made a small circle with both hands— "without having to get close enough to be in danger?"

"Sure," Ryan said, shrugging. "A tunnel under that enchanted tree? Is that why it was planted?" he asked.

Malfoy was too caught up to notice Ryan's implication. They started walking downhill again as he told the story. "Yes. Two years ago, Dumbledore actually hired a werewolf! The tree was planted here when the werewolf was a student—a student! Can you imagine?—and the tunnel connects to the place where he underwent his transformations. Until, of course, the night he got loose on the grounds in wolf form. He was helping Sirius Black to escape." He pointed to the dilapidated silhouette of the Shrieking Shack. "Leads into that shack, I'm told. We should be able to smuggle them there for safekeeping."

"Right." Ryan answered, wholly intrigued. First take on as a student, and then hire as a teacher, a werewolf? He'd have to ask Albus for the real story someday.

 

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were also in Hogsmeade. They were just coming out of Honeyduke's when Harry heard a voice call his name. He turned, but all he could see was a line of teenage boys, from Ravenclaw. Just as he was about to turn back to Ron and Hermione, he heard his name again, and recognized the voice. It belonged to Cho Chang.

Cho emerged from the cluster of young men around her and took a step toward Harry. All the boys stepped forward as well. With a sigh, she turned on her toes to look up at them all.

"Look," she said, as if having delivered this speech several times before. "I know you're all trying to look out for me, but really, I can take care of myself. Please, do me a favour, clear off for a while. It's all right."

Reluctantly, her self-appointed guards shuffled into the candy store.

Meanwhile, Harry, his insides jumping up and down wildly, had much the same conversation with Ron. "You and Hermione go on; I'll catch you up," he told the red-head hurriedly.

"Right," Ron said with a knowing grin. Harry punched him on the arm playfully. "But remember, Hermione said it was important. Don't be too long, Harry," he said loudly, with teasing brightness. But then under his breath he added, "Not that I'd blame you, mind."

"Go on," Harry said almost desperately, and Ron complied, just as Cho escaped from her escorts.

"Hi," she said shyly.

"Um...Hi," said Harry.

"So. I've been wanting to talk to you, you know, since...." They hadn't seen each other since Cedric's memorial service. The Diggorys had arranged a very private funeral, but allowed a memorial to be held over the summer. Harry stayed with the Weasleys for the trip, since the Diggorys also lived in Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Yeah. Listen, about...the Tournament," Harry began. He couldn't quite bring himself to say "Cedric" in front of Cho.

"Look, would you care to have a pint of butterbeer?" Cho asked suddenly. "My treat."

"Huh? Oh—yeah. Sure." Harry walked beside her down the High Street toward the Three Broomsticks in a daze. He wasn't sure he'd be able to drink even butterbeer, the way his stomach kept flopping in on itself. He vacillated the whole way between thinking her offer was a good sign, and a bad one.

"So..." Cho said when they found an empty table and had ordered. "Harry. The thing is..." she laughed nervously. "It feels good to get away from them," she said cryptically. "I mean, they all mean well, I know that, but do you know what it's like to have people watching over you all the time?"

"Yeah, I do." Harry agreed quickly. "That whole year, when everyone thought Sirius was out to get me, I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without—"

"Sirius?" Cho asked, clearly confused with Harry's familiarity.

"You know—Sirius Black." Harry recovered quickly, making the name sound more ominous than he felt about his godfather. "Anyway, this past summer, too. I'm always being watched."

"From a foot away?" Cho countered. "Never mind them, though. This is nice," she accepted the butterbeer from Madam Rosmerta and took a sip. "Mm." A bit of foam stuck to her upper lip, and Harry thought he might faint.

"You—you have—"

"Oh!" She licked her lips, and Harry felt worse for some reason. "Well, the point is, Harry, I guess—I just don't know how I feel, yet. About anything."

"Oh."

"You understand, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah." But he didn't understand anything, and it showed.

"I like you, Harry—I really do. But...I guess...I'd like to say that if Cedric hadn't...if it were just a case of knowing you both...I mean," she took another sip of butterbeer quickly, wiping her lips this time. "I need some time."

"Oh. I know," Harry assured her. "I wasn't—I don't want to rush you...."

"It's not you. Half those boys out there want to be the one I turn to when I can't take what happened. I'd rather it be you, Harry. I think...you're the only one who'd really understand. But that's not fair, is it? I can't see you until I know I'm past Cedric."

Harry drank his butterbeer, afraid to say anything. The awkward silence stretched between them.

"But," Cho said finally, flashing a smile that sent Harry's stomach somewhere below his feet, "I'd really like it if we could be friends."

"Sure," Harry said softly. Even though he'd never dated anyone, at fifteen he knew the death knell when he heard it. "I've always wanted that, Cho," he heard himself saying.

"Good." She seemed genuinely relieved. "What do you say we ditch the others and go to Dervish and Banges?"

"Um... No. I can't. I promised Hermione and Ron I'd meet them." Harry stood, hoping he could make it out of the pub before throwing up. "Thanks for the butterbeer," he mumbled, and walked away.

The cold air felt good as he walked back up the street to Gladrag's, where Ron stood waiting for him. "Hermione's inside. She said she had to pick something up. Then she has her surprise for us."

"Yeah," Harry grunted sadly.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Ron asked.

"Nothing."

Hermione came out before Ron could press for anything. "Oh, good, you're back. Come on." Hermione led them toward the stile at the end of the road.

"Are we going to the cave?" Ron asked.

"Oh, you guessed," Hermione said, disappointed.

"Well, it's not too hard to figure out," Ron said. "Does that mean—Snuffles!" he called suddenly. Sure enough, a huge black dog was making its way down the rocky hill to meet them, its tail wagging.

The dog barked once or twice in greeting, pausing to sniff their hands and jump playfully to place his paws on their chests. Then he turned and led the way back up to a cave hidden behind a curve in the rocks. They had been here to see him once before, and as then, once they reached the sheltered outcropping, he changed. Instead of a dog, the falsely accused criminal, Sirius Black, stood before them.

He was tall, and still too thin from his years in Azkaban, the wizards' prison, but he looked much healthier than even the end of their fourth term. His eyes were still a bit haunted, but his hair was short again, he was clean-shaven, and apart from the grey, worn robes, he looked quite respectable.

"I brought some food," Hermione said after they exchanged greetings and sat on the floor of the cave. She reached into her bag and pulled out a few sandwiches and her Gladrags parcel. "Where's Buckbeak?"

"He's safe," said Sirius. The gravel was almost gone from his voice, now. "He's at Moony's. Oh, good, you brought it," he said by way of a thank-you, taking the package and the food from her, and tore into a sandwich.

"How is Professor Lupin?" Ron asked.

"Fine." Sirius said with a smile. "So," he said to Hermione. "You wrote; I came. What's the trouble?"

"You wrote to Sirius?" Harry asked Hermione suddenly, in a proprietary manner.

"Well—"

"It's all right, Harry," Sirius said softly. "I actually had to report to Professor Dumbledore, anyway. And I get to see you, in the bargain. The timing works out nicely." He turned back to Hermione. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Hermione told him everything she'd learned about the "transfer" student in Slytherin. "I wrote you about the hex, when he just stood there and admitted it in front of both Professors Flitwick and McGonagall." Sirius nodded. "Well, after that, I tried to find out more about him. I wrote to Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and even the Svetskani School in Moscow. None of them have ever had a student named Pelerand; certainly not in the last five years. I looked up the name in Wizarding Who's Who, and all I found was a note saying that the Pelerands 'were the first among the Seven Houses to send selected children to Hogwarts,' whatever that means, and that they have enjoyed..." she reached into her bag and pulled out a parchment full of notes, "...here it is, 'they enjoyed positive relations with the British Ministry up until the turn of the 20^th century.' Then it talks about how changes in Ministry regulations and Muggle society led to their withdrawal from wizarding."

"Seven Houses of what?" Sirius asked.

"I don't know. I couldn't find anything about that." Hermione seemed chagrined that any information might not be found, as if the facts themselves were hiding from her.

"But if they haven't been sending their children to school, how can he be a transfer?" Ron said, scratching his head.

"Exactly, Ron," beamed Hermione. "You're really getting the hang of this."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Spare us."

But Sirius seemed quite interested. "So you think he's a Death-Eater?"

"Yes. I thought...maybe you'd heard the name before."

Sirius shook his head slowly. "No. Still, this business of transferring.... And he's hanging around Malfoy, you say?"

"He's worse than Malfoy," Ron snorted. "I bet that ambush was his idea, even. He's always with one of them—Avery, Malfoy, all the kids we know have Death Eaters for parents."

"He never seems to study," Hermione said. "I've only ever seen him in the library that one time. But he keeps passing his classes."

Ron laughed. "Except for last week, in Potions, remember?"

"What happened?" Sirius asked, eating the second sandwich.

Ron explained the incident of Ryan's erupting potion, with Sirius asking for details. "Funny, really, because remember how early on, Snape was real happy with him."

"Snape?" Sirius barked derisively. "Happy with a student?"

Ron nodded solemnly. "He said he was almost worthy of being taught potions."

"That's another thing," Hermione jumped back in. "He seems to know things. Like in Arithmancy. He always knows the answer—well, most of the time."

Sirius held back a smile. "Just because a Slytherin knows the answer doesn't automatically make him a Death Eater in disguise."

"It's not just that," Hermione insisted. "He caught a fish bare-handed. There's what he said about the house-elves, and how he acted when we asked about Slytherin's reputation. And that package he got at breakfast—the bird that brought it. And—and—there's something not right, there, I know it!"

"Yeah, but Hermione," Ron said suddenly, "remember when Snape was absent those times? Pelerand wasn't gone."

"Well, that makes sense, doesn't it? If his mission is to stay close and watch Harry, he wouldn't leave, even if You-know-who summoned the others."

Sirius sighed. "Well, even if it's true, Hermione, what do you expect me to do about it?" He wasn't looking at her, though. He was looking at Harry.

Hermione stopped short. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no noise came out. "You could look him over," she said finally. "He's here, in Hogsmeade. You could—"

"I could what? Hermione," Sirius continued, embarrassed, "I can't go running after a student just to have a look at him. Even if I weren't an escaped convict, I still have my own affairs to attend."

Hermione bit her lips, thinking. "Well," she said slowly, "you're going to see Professor Dumbledore, right? You could ask him."

Sirius tore his eyes away from Harry long enough to give Hermione a good, hard look. "All right," he conceded with another sigh. "I'll ask Dumbledore if he knows anything about this boy. But that's all I can do, I'm afraid."

It was enough for Hermione. She seemed to think that, now that Sirius was on the case, everything would come out right.

"Harry," Sirius coaxed. "You're being awfully quiet over there. Anything wrong?"

Harry shrugged. "No, I'm fine," he lied unconvincingly.

Sirius gazed up at Ron with an unspoken request. "Er, Hermione, we'd better get back to Hogsmeade," Ron said, tugging at the bushy-haired girl's arm. They left the cave.

"Harry," Sirius repeated. "What's troubling you? Come on, test out my skills as a godfather."

"Nothing," Harry insisted.

Sirius studied him with a cocked eyebrow. "Hmm. This nothing: does she have a name?"

Harry looked up too quickly to deny it. "How—"

"Well, it's been a while, Harry, but I hope I can still recognize girl trouble." He leaned against the cave wall, his attention fixed on the boy wizard. "So what is it?"

Harry found himself telling Sirius in a tumble of words about Cho, from his first match against her to asking her to the Yule ball, up to his conversation that afternoon. As he had through the Gryffindor common room fireplace last year, Sirius listened without interrupting until Harry came to a halt. When he drew breath to speak, Harry could tell he was trying to think of something encouraging and paternal to say.

"Well, Harry, you're absolutely right. 'Let's just be friends.' It's the kiss of death," Sirius said with an involuntary shudder. "Except—she did say something you might take comfort in. It's like this: when a relationship ends—especially so suddenly like that—it takes time to trust again. It's hard to explain, but usually, the first person one turns to, romantically, doesn't turn out to be the right one. Oh, I'm awful at this," he said, standing up and pacing the cave. "Look: you say she said, she can't see you until she's sure she's past Cedric."

"Yeah," Harry said dejectedly.

"Then give her that time, Harry. Let some other boy be the one whose heart she breaks. Let her come to you when she's ready."

"But what if she never is?"

Sirius shrugged. "That's a chance you'd take either way, isn't it?" He walked over and offered Harry a lift up off the floor. "The only consolation I have, Harry, is that it doesn't get any easier to deal with women. But at least you won't be a teen forever."

Harry smiled, not exactly ready to be happy, but not feeling sorry for himself, either. Just then, they heard shouting outside the cave entrance.

"What on earth—" Sirius began, but then Ron came hurtling through the mouth of the cave.

"It's the Slytherins! They're attacking all sorts of students!"