White Horses

HARRY POTTER'S SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, AND indeed his whole summer, had been spent quite miserably with his equally miserable relatives, as was tradition. Harry was rather disappointed to call it tradition, as he had been hoping against hope to not spend the entire holiday alone in Little Whinging. Back when he had first started at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry had always managed to escape the Dursleys, and Number Four, Privet Drive, for at least a portion of the summer holidays. Even last year's escape – being whisked away to Grimmauld Place, hardly a pleasant trip – was no longer possible, as Grimmauld Place had been the property of his godfather, Sirius Black, and had been seized by the government upon the fugitive's death. From what he had heard, the Ministry of Magic had been quite disappointed by the decided lack of Dark paraphernalia in Grimmauld Place. Harry could feel a grim satisfaction at this news, at least, since he and his best friends had been the ones forced to clean out the creaking old manor. But mostly Harry had just been trying to avoid thinking of Grimmauld or anything else that might remind him of his late godfather, ever since the funeral back in July. It had been held right after he'd received his O.W.L. results and had been his only trip outside of the house all summer.

To be fair, though, life at the Dursley's hadn't been as bad as it could have been. His cousin, Dudley, had been quite petrified of Harry, despite being nearly a foot taller and easily a hundred pounds heavier than his diminutive cousin. After the dementor incident of the year before, Dudley had taken to noticeably paling and stuttering whenever Harry was around – quite acting like the gibbering idiot that he, in fact, was. Of course, not knowing what Dudley had seen when the dementors had attacked still plagued Harry with curiosity, but he knew better than to bring it up if he wanted to relative peace to continue.

Harry had also found himself surprisingly apathetic towards the senior Dursley, despite his uncle's best attempts at intimidation. Harry no longer considered Vernon Dursley worthy of fear, having seen so much worse, and it was now to his Aunt Petunia that he turned his attention. He had spent much of the summer trying to trick her into revealing any knowledge she might have of the Wizarding world. After she had so foolishly let it slip last year that she knew of the wizard prison Azkaban, and since he had nothing else to do at Number Four, he had spent the entire summer trying to learn what else Petunia might know about the Wizarding world. Unsurprisingly, his aunt only got defensive and tight-lipped each time he dropped wizarding terms into a conversation in an attempt to trip her up - so tight-lipped, in fact, that he was sometimes surprised that her mouth didn't simply disappear into her face. She could almost rival Professor McGonagall for disapproving looks. But she hadn't kicked him out of the house (most definitely because of her promise to Dumbledore), and so he had kept on pushing the limits.

Although he hadn't received any surprising news from Petunia about any knowledge she might or might not have about the Wizarding world, he did still subscribe to both the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler. The latter subscription had been out of appreciation to his friend, Luna, for getting his story published in the rather unique news magazine that her father worked for. But it was the Prophet that ran the story which had captured Harry's attention that summer. It was a report of Lucius Malfoy and the eight other Death Eaters who had been captured the previous month in the Ministry of Magic. All involved had been sentenced to numerous consecutive life sentences in the new prison, with no hope of repeal. Even Lucius Malfoy's money, so much of which had funded the Ministry for years, couldn't keep him from justice this time. The Ministry, after spending over a year denying the return of Lord Voldemort, had decided to rectify their mistakes by making a vicious example out of these first criminals of the war; trying to assure the public of their readiness for the difficulties to come, or so Harry imagined.

The location of this new prison hadn't been revealed, of course. Since Azkaban had been overcome by the Dark Lord's forces, no one knew where the new prison was, or what the security measures might be. There would be no visiting sessions for Narcissa or Draco Malfoy, both of whom were described in the article as declining comment. Of course, there had also been mention of the remaining two Malfoys'attendance of Sirius'funeral. The reporter had tried to allude to the Malfoy family's continued entanglement with the Dark Arts by bringing up Narcissa's ties to the house of Black. But Harry was of course blocking out anything to do with Sirius, including the surprise of his rival's disturbing presence at the funeral.

The rest of Harry's reading material for the summer had consisted mostly of Defense Against the Dark Arts books. He had gone back through all of the textbooks he had used in the past five years of schooling and made sure that he knew everything covered. He had also already read the entire textbook for the coming year, which he had ordered through Owl Post. Although he was still more than a little resentful of his expected duty in the upcoming war – to be a living weapon employed by Dumbledore, as it were - he knew better than to let his resentment of circumstances leave him unprepared. He had certainly learned that during his fourth year with the Triwizard Tournament. Besides, he wasn't the only one training. The entire wizarding world was facing dark times, and everyone needed to be prepared for the war that was already building up. There had been a number of attacks already that summer, mostly small skirmishes whose only point seemed to be letting the Wizarding world know that Voldemort truly was back. The people were being lulled into a false sense of security, though; thinking that these small sorties and few casualties were the most Lord Voldemort could cause. But Harry knew better, having been exposed to the Dark Lord himself for years. Thankfully he was no longer privy to Voldemort's private thoughts and visions since he had started practising Occlumency the year before. It was his Occlumency lessons, in fact, which brought him to Dumbledore's office on a calm, rather balmy evening in early September.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE LOOKED OVER HIS gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles at the boy staring rather stonily back at him with his mother's green eyes. This was Harry's third Occlumency lesson with Dumbledore so far this term. He'd had a conference with the headmaster on his first night back to discuss Dumbledore's taking over the lessons in Professor Snape's stead.

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat; lightly sucking on the lemon drop that was still dissolving in his mouth. "Well, Harry, you've been doing remarkably well. This marked improvement shows how much effort you've put into your practice this summer," he started kindly, only to be met with silence. "Yes, yes, and no more dreams involving Voldemort, I trust?"

Dumbledore thought that Harry might have snorted at that, but it was quickly masked as the boy replied shortly, "No, sir. None of those dreams." Dumbledore nodded sagely, as though this were somehow significant news. He liked to keep his students wondering.

Harry, meanwhile, was quite quietly fuming. He was still rather frosty towards the headmaster, trapped behind the awkward embarrassment that still lingered from his blow-up at the old man last year. He did miss the grandfatherly relationship he'd shared with Dumbledore in the past, but he didn't know anyway to get past the wall that he had himself erected. Even if he could have, he was by no means ready to trust Dumbledore with his inner thoughts and worries, nor any of the nightmares he'd had involving Voldemort.

After all, no one is interested if my dreams aren't far seeing or prophetic. If my dreams don't have any valuable information, what does anyone care about the scarred mind of some sixteen year-old? He could have continued in this mental tirade - it being so familiar to him - but Dumbledore interrupted his bitter ruminations once again.

"Yes, very good. Very good progress indeed, my boy." Dumbledore seemed to realize that his compliments were not meeting with much reception, however, and switched tactics to a much more business-like tone. Stroking his long beard thoughtfully, he leant back in his chair, preferring to examine the arched ceiling above him with its gilded crossbeams flickering in the candlelight, than the resentful boy in front of him. "Yes, well, as we've discussed before, Harry, there have been a number of attacks this summer, but we in the Order believe this to be the proverbial calm before the storm. It seems to us that Voldemort's actions were merely testing the precautions against him, to see just how vulnerable his victims are. It is likely that Voldemort will begin striking in earnest, now that his presence is well known and before there are yet any real measures taken against him. Knowing of his animosity towards you and owing to the circumstances, we, both the Order and the staff here at Hogwarts, must insist that you take part in special lessons beginning this year." At this point, he glanced at the young Gryffindor.

Harry stared rather blankly back at the headmaster, wondering resignedly just what these special lessons were to entail. Introductory Defeating Dark Lords? An Elementary Course in Saving the World? He didn't have to wait long, though, for Dumbledore to elaborate.

"Judging the current situation and the likelihood for skirmishes, we thought it would be prudent for you to be privy to some special tuition, mostly focussed on the magic that will be useful in combat-type situations. This will also assist you in your future endeavours towards Aurorship, as Professor McGonagall has informed me that you are hoping to apply for the Auror program." Dumbledore appeared to follow that thought for a moment, before backing up and setting his speech firmly back on track. "This new schedule will include advance tuition in potions, charms, transfiguration, mediwizardry and duelling, both wizard duels and the more physical duelling involving muggle hand-to-hand and weaponry. And, of course, we will continue in our Occlumency and perhaps even begin teaching you some Legilimency, if you are up to the responsibility. Each evening will be assigned to one subject, leaving one open night a week for your Defence club, if you still intend to hold it."

Harry was a bit sidetracked by the mention of the D.A., the defence group that he had started with Hermione and Ron and which had grown into a large club sprawling across three of the four houses. Since they had arrived back at school three weeks past, there hadn't yet been any discussion about getting back together again, but Harry supposed he should talk to others about it. Of course, it would be much harder to get together with everyone if all of his night's were full but one. After all, with members from all the different houses and from many different years, the meetings had always been based as much as possible around everyone's conflicting schedules. It seemed that from now on they would be based solely on Harry's conflicting schedule.

Not to mention Quidditch! he realized with a silent groan. He had been almost looking forward to getting back to Quidditch this year, as Umbridge had banned him for life in his fifth year. He presumed the ban was void, now that the mad cow had been sacked from both Hogwarts and the Ministry.

Even though he knew that this new program had surely been devised for his own benefit, he couldn't help but feel annoyed. His voice held a hint of bitter sarcasm and perhaps more than a hint of desperation as he asked, "Headmaster, I know that you all expect me to kill Voldemort, but how exactly am I supposed to learn all of these extracurricular lessons in addition to all of my N.E.W.T. courses? Not to mention Quidditch practices and games, and maybe even being a teenager from time to time?" Picking up steam now, he ignored Dumbledore opening his mouth to rebuke him and spoke in a rush, "You've already told me that I'm tied up in this prophecy - can't this wait until I'm out of school, or when I'm actually an Auror, if I do become one?"

As soon as the words left Harry's mouth, though, he realized what he was saying. He didn't need Dumbledore to reiterate it aloud, the thought was already racing through his head: It couldn't wait. Every day that he tried to push the reality of the situation away meant that more people were dying uselessly in his place. Dumbledore recognized his understanding and nodded, looking sorrowful - when Harry wanted him to show anything but this infinite sadness and regret.

He wanted Dumbledore to get angry, to be determined, to be strong, anything but the weakness on display in front of him. Harry had never wanted Albus Dumbledore to fail, hadn't wanted to lose the image of a benevolent god-like figure who would swoop down to provide him with all the answers and save him from every pinch he found himself in. But now he was left staring in dim horror at the frail remains of an old man, speaking slowly in front of him.

"If it were up to me, Harry, I would give you all the time in the world. But I fear that the world would not have very much time left if I did so."

HARRY WALKED SLOWLY THROUGH THE thick stone corridors which led back to Gryffindor Tower. He was half avoiding his friends and all the questions they were sure to have. He could probably try to pass off all this new training as being due to Voldemort's ever constant animosity towards himself. It was true, of course. But he still hadn't told them about the prophecy which foretold either his murder of or murder by Voldemort. For reasons he couldn't quite express, he didn't want them to find out.

Suddenly he remembered Hermione's hesitant question back in third year: "Harry doesn't want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?" No, he thought bitterly, I don't want to kill anyone, Hermione. But I don't have much choice anymore, do I? He had, of course, had murderous impulses before. He still hated Wormtail with a passion unparalleled, except perhaps by his hatred for Belletrix Lestrange. Both had taken away the only family he'd had. But the rage was one thing, thinking he might like someone dead or even thinking about killing someone, all ended up as empty speculation when he was faced with the real thing. Then he realized that he couldn't end another life, even if it were the life of a miserable human being who had caused nothing but suffering for Harry.

Maybe I am just a scared little boy, he thought to himself. But of course he was. He didn't have any particularly stunning magical prowess, no special powers. What was supposed to save him? Love? No, love only got those who cared for him killed.

Deep in his musings, Harry hadn't noticed that he'd passed the corridor that turned to go to Gryffindor Tower. Instead he was heading into some section of the dungeons he hadn't seen before. The whole area was dusty and seemed to be in disuse. He didn't spot any doors leading off the corridor and wondered absently if there might be any hidden rooms down here, wishing that he had the Marauder's Map on him. Marauders. Sirius. Oh.

Letting his train of thought shudder to a stop, he turned back round, taking vague note of where the corridor hedged back into the main part of the castle for future reference. Always good to know extra hiding places from Filtch. He made his way back again toward Gryffindor Tower, managing to keep his mind off Sirius by fretting instead about what he would tell his best friends.

AFTER GIVING THE FAT LADY the password ("Ice Pops"), he was surprised and almost pleased to find Ron and Hermione getting along peacefully for a change. He couldn't be completely pleased, because if they had been arguing, they wouldn't pay him much notice. Oh well, I would have to explain it eventually. Even Ron would notice if he were gone every night for hours at a time.

Harry's best friends had looked up at him from their congenial chess match, which Ron was unsurprisingly winning. Hermione's face in particular openly showed all her sympathy and worry for anyone present to see. Lucky for Harry, then, that there was no one else left in the common room.

"Oh, Harry, you're back. How was the Occlumency lesson? You're later than usual tonight. Didn't everything go smoothly?" There was a hint of steel in that last query, as Hermione still didn't understand just why Harry was so cold and critical toward Dumbledore this year. She had tried to imply that his behaviour was due to Sirius'death, but Harry had cut her off harshly before she could even finish her statement. Since that shocking incident, neither she nor Ron had tried to bring up Sirius in Harry's presence.

Tired and not wanting to beat around the bush, only to have Hermione pry it out of him eventually, he sat down in one of the overstuffed armchairs that littered the room and launched into his explanation. He started off rather awkwardly, telling them, "Actually, things didn't go all that well. Dumbledore wants me to take all these extra lessons, which are pretty much just warfare and fighting. After all, I'm The Boy Who Lived once again and it just wouldn't be so effective a symbol if The Boy Who Lived died." Ron swallowed hard at the thought of his best friend dying, but didn't say anything as Harry went on to explain how he would have to meet with the professors every night.

Hermione, trying to be pragmatic and yet praise the Hogwarts staff simultaneously as usual, said rather stiffly, "Well, Professor Dumbledore is only looking out for your best interests. You know how much of a target you are, Harry. The headmaster surely just wants to be sure you can fight for yourself."

Harry's mouth tightened and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he heard Hermione's words. "Oh, no, if I'm fighting for anyone, it's definitely not for myself," he muttered bitterly.

Taken aback by his friend's rancour, Ron blustered into the conversation, "Well, all that extra training and fighting and all should come in handy for the D.A., right? Just think of all the great things that you could teach us now. You are still going to teach, right? Come on, we should plan the first meeting for the new year!" Ron looked pleased with what he imagined to be his suave changing of the subject, but Harry pushed himself tiredly out of his chair. Looking away from his friend's eager eyes, he absently brushed his hair out of his eyes, baring the glaring red scar on his forehead.

"Yeah, well, I'll figure out this new schedule and then I'll set the coins so everyone knows we're still on, okay? Right now, I'm going to try to get some sleep. It's been a long night." He left his friends by the fire, where they watched silently as he climbed the stairs, fading into the darkness.

IT WAS ONLY LATER THAT night, as Harry lay on his bed, staring at the complicated new timetable he had received from Dumbledore, that he remembered something else that the old man had said. Harry, still angry, had complained of how frustrated he was at being used all the time, as if he had no mind of his own: "It's my life, isn't throwing it away my decision?"

But he had been severely put-off when Dumbledore's only reaction had been to pause for a moment, as if in surprise, and cock his head to the side, musing thoughtfully, "You know, I had a boy in my office just last week, saying the very same thing. Curious how these things work out." Even now, Harry was dumbfounded by the headmaster's seemingly random comment. And, despite himself, he couldn't help but wonder just who the professor had been talking about.

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, HARRY FOUND himself once again singled out before the familiar figures of the D.A., their eager faces shining in anticipation of whatever pearls of wisdom he would bestow upon them this year. He couldn't decide just how he felt in the face of their adoration. At first, he probably had been flattered by their respect, feeling like he could finally live up to his name. But now he resented their expectations for him to be the hero, to be some super-human power. No one expected him to be just another moody, hormone-driven, immature Sixth Year like them. No, that wasn't right: no one allowed him to be just another moody, hormone-driven, immature Sixth Year like them.

All his life, Harry had been a symbol. When he was with the Dursleys, he had been a symbol of everything they had hated, everything unnatural and abhorrent in their world. When he had first entered the Wizarding world, he had been a symbol of hope; his very existence was their world's proof that good could triumph against overwhelming odds. But since Voldemort's return, he had lost any humanity he might have once held with the rest of Wizardkind. No one viewed him as Harry Potter, sixth former and quidditch Seeker at Hogwarts School. He was irrevocably the Boy Who Lived, and he would save them all.

Likely it had always been like this and he had been too immature and sheltered at Hogwarts to see what was really going on around him. When he had first found out he was a wizard, everything had been so bright and new, so inspiring when compared to the dull drudgery of life with the Dursleys. He saw the bright and gaily dressed crowds, extravagant in a rainbow swirl of cloaks. He didn't yet know the terror that could be hidden in the dark shadows beneath a concealing cowl. Upon his first trip to Diagon Alley, he never would have imagined there would be a place like Knockturn Alley so closely entwined with the festive streets. When he had first heard of Albus Dumbledore, he never imagined that there could be someone like Voldemort in the world, a dark reflection of Dumbledore's light.

Sometimes he wondered, as if the whole subject were unrelated to him: how could the adults do it? How could they expect some scrawny, underdeveloped little boy to do what they could not? Was it just them wanting to foist responsibility off on someone else or did they really believe he could actually save them? He, who had no special talents, who hadn't even finished school yet.

Didn't they realize he was a child? They were once children themselves, and yet they expected him to be so much more than they had ever been. His parents had died for him, but that didn't prove anything more than that his parents loved him, as any other parents should love their child. That didn't make him special, there were many orphans in his generation. He had somehow lived through the Death curse, Avada Kedavra. But as for how he had survived, the only thing he knew was what Dumbledore had told him long ago: that his mother's love had protected him - a type of ancient magic, the oldest magic of all. So, maybe his mother would have been a spectacular witch, but he sure wasn't a spectacular wizard. He needed Hermione to even pass his classes with the lowest marks.

And there was Hermione, with the rest the club, watching him with that lemming-like drive to follow him, even as he lead them into the depths of hell. How could she look at him like that, she who spent nights lecturing him over and over, going over charms till they lost count, just so that he might scrape through on the next test. What could she see in him? He wasn't even a good leader - and yet here he was, leading again.

"Welcome back to the D.A.," he said, trying not to dwell on their choice of names. As if he wanted to be a part of anything associated with that old man anymore. Knowing none of the others would understand his change of heart, he continued, "I realize that we disbanded under rather... extreme circumstances last year..." There were a few nervous titters as they remembered Umbridge and her Inquisitor Squad. But the Squad, like the rest of her Nuremberg laws, had been thrown out along with her.

"And although with Umbridge gone there's no longer any specific reason for us to hide ourselves, to be some sort of secret society, I still think that in the current situation..." He trailed off, realizing how awkward this sounded coming from him. He had never been very good at speech making. Looking to Hermione helplessly, Harry was relieved when she continued on without hesitation, stepping up next to him.

"Given the current situation and atmosphere of the Wizarding world," she started primly, "we feel it would be more prudent for the D.A. to continue its activities in a concealed manner. It does not mean that we will not welcome new members; however, we will leave the invitation of new members to your discretion. Those of you still remaining in the D.A. are trusted explicitly, as you have proved yourself in the last year." No one needed reminding of Marietta Edgecombe and the price of her defection.

"If you trust someone enough to tell them of the D.A., then we will trust your judgement and allow them to join. But choose carefully." As she said this, Hermione tried not to look too blatantly at Neville, who everyone could agree was the biggest liability in the group. There were more than a few nervous glances in his direction. "We simply don't have the time, resources or energy necessary to screen each new member. And there should be no more incidences such as last year when we were in grave danger for illegal actions.

"As such, you may wonder why we are going to these lengths to preserve secrecy. Although it's true that our group is no longer openly under attack, we cannot ignore that in actuality the entire Wizarding world is under attack. Our training here need not be common knowledge. Why should we give our enemies any advantages by knowing our strengths? In these days of darkness in which distrust and suspicion run rampant, let us not open ourselves to such accusations! Let us remain as a trusted and trusting group, that we might absolve ourselves of such paranoia that would tear us apart and leave us only more open to attack."

Even Harry felt slightly taken aback by Hermione's sudden vehemence. He hadn't been expecting such a rapturous speech out of her, merely an explanation of the new terms. He commended her for her eloquence with a slightly less enthusiastic, "Er... right, Hermione. Thanks. As we were saying... yes, well, we will be accepting new members. But we won't be starting at the beginning again. Every new member you bring in will be your responsibility and you must bring them up to snuff with what we have learned here in the D.A.. If there is a legit reason why you can't, then one of your fellow senior members can help you.

"Otherwise, this year we will be focussing mainly on duelling." There was a brief cheer and the students ranged in front of Harry looked slightly heartened. He felt a tiny flare of dark pleasure as snapped sharply, "But don't imagine that this will be anything like the duelling you may have done before. True enough, we will start at the beginning, with elementary duelling: counting down, taking turns at curses. But by the end of the year, you should be up to duelling with multiple partners, and defending yourself against unexpected attacks and what might seem to be unusual measures, such as muggle fighting and weapon combat. Our final testing for the year will be an attack. One of us will attack each one of you, probably in the last term, since I don't imagine anyone will be advanced enough before then."

Harry took a moment to glare at Zacharias, who faltered in his gloating. It felt rather good. "This will be an unmitigated surprise attack, made by an unknown person with unknown abilities. It may not even seem like an attack at the start. You will need to evaluate the situation and react appropriately."

Realizing with a small smirk that he sounded like some drill sergeant from a television program Dudley was likely to watch, Harry paused for a moment to savour his captive audience. "But, of course, we aren't ready for all that yet. We'll start at the beginning. Everyone, pair up."

MUCH OF HARRY'S PLANNING FOR this new year with the D.A. had been influenced by his meeting with Remus Lupin earlier that week. They'd had an awkward start when Lupin had tried to talk to Harry about Sirius'death, and Harry had refused to listen. Once they had got past that, though, Harry had realized that Remus Lupin had quite a bit else to say.

The professor seemed rather uncomfortable in his assigned role as Harry's duelling instructor and had laughed sheepishly at himself as he admitted that he'd never taught fighting skills to anyone else before, aside from the 'teaching' provided in school-yard scuffles.

That first night they didn't get into any physical contact, although Harry was taught some basic stretching and warm-ups, and introduced to the serialized motions that Lupin called patin. Harry didn't quite yet understand the purpose behind the patin, but it wasn't critical for him to do so just yet, or so Lupin had told him. "It will all come together later, Harry. The patin are the central aspect of the fighting practised by werewolves."

Seeing Harry's curiousness, Lupin explained briefly, "After your parents' death, Sirius'betrayal and Peter's supposed murder, I retreated to a lycanthrope community for a number of years, finding comfort in the simplicity of life thereÂ… and the isolation." Harry was taken aback, as he had never before thought of what it must have been like for Lupin in those dark days, with all of his closest friends and companions either betrayed to their deaths or betraying him. He hadn't ever thought to ask just what Lupin had been up to in the decade or so before he had come to Hogwarts. He didn't have time to feel more than embarrassed, though, as Lupin had continued on.

"As I've said, much of the patin won't really make sense initially. Once you've learned the basics, we'll start applying the moves to hand to hand combat and continue on from there - until you are able to hold your own in a fight. We'll also be adding weapons in as we go along, and a portion of each of our meetings will be dedicated to magical duelling, as well.

"The first, and most important lesson for me to impart upon you, though," Professor Lupin paused and chuckled under his breath, "is constant vigilance. Now, I don't intentionally mean to sound like Mad-Eye, nor am I aping his teachings; however, the most important skill I can teach you is awareness of your surroundings. Despite all the potions, charms and spells that you learn, the one thing most likely to keep you alive is this awareness. I want you to take note of everything around you." He smiled reprovingly at Harry as the boy looked around searchingly. "Not just now, but from here on out. This isn't just when you enter an unknown area or encounter a suspicious person, this is all the time.

"You must always be aware, especially a boy... excuse me, a young man in your position, Harry. So watch people: learn what their body language tells you, learn the little ticks and signs that might tell you that someone is lying or nervous or fearful, anything you can pick up. Always judge an area that you enter by what you can use in it. What might be used as a weapon, either by you or against you? Look at the floor: is there anything for you to trip over, any uneven stones you would need to watch out for when staying on your feet could mean life or death? And always be aware of the most expedient way out of a situation - doors, windows, corridors and dead ends. These are just a few of the things you should keep in mind."

After the two-hour lesson, Lupin had only a few more words for Harry. "Now please do make an effort to recall that this is just the beginning. As you progress, I want you to make certain you don't make the mistake of thinking that you're unbeatable. There will always be someone in this world better than you, Harry. Remember that. There's always some one more powerful, more intelligent or just plain quicker than you. Don't let overconfidence lead you to your death." Neither needed reminding of all the people they had known, whom this had been true of.

AND THEN, OF COURSE, THERE had been transfiguration with McGonagall. The old Scot had warmed considerably toward Harry since the last year, but not nearly so much as Harry had warmed toward her, in light of her treatment of Umbridge. She was, of course, still stiff and strict and generally known as the hardest teacher at Hogwarts School. (You might think that Snape would be up for that role, but Snape wasn't fair. Snape was just a bastard. McGonagall was unequivocally the same hard-ass to all her students: all houses, all years.)

Despite their new mutual understanding, though, the first thing McGonagall said to Harry when he found himself in her classroom that Tuesday night was a sharp bark of, "Sit down, Potter!" He dropped hastily into the nearest desk, feeling altogether like a first year again, late on the first day. McGonagall launched immediately into speech, telling him severely, "Now don't you go imagining that you'll be receiving the same lackadaisical treatment in our lessons here as you seem to expect in class. I said last year that I would help you become an Auror, and I meant it. I don't care what that-" Her nostrils flared dangerously, turning white against the strain of refraining from profanity, "...that sorry excuse for a professor last year said. I said you would be an Auror and so then you shall. Have you ever known me to go back on my word?" she snapped when she saw his face, which must have looked quite uncertain. "Then I won't have any doubting. If say I'm going to do something, I'll do it, Potter."

She paused to pick up the parchment on her desk, giving the writing - which he quickly decided must be his O.W.L. results - a brief once over before fixing an even more critical look on Harry. She folded the paper over in a sharp decisive movement, then continued, "Well, Harry." She stumbled a bit on his name, unaccustomed as she was to using it. "It seems you scraped through with enough O.W.L.s - for starting, anyway. Although I was quite disappointed with your transfiguration practical."

Harry spluttered a bit as he had gotten "Exceeds Expectations" in both the practical and written examinations. McGonagall looked him sternly, telling him, "You could have gotten O's all across the board, Potter. And I won't have you holding yourself back in these private lessons."

Harry felt a bit bemused and embarrassed, as he smiled weakly, "Professor, while I appreciate your... er, high opinion of me, I'm really not holding back. I'm just really not that good at Transfiguration."

"Potter!" He jumped at the sharp tone of voice. "Don't talk back to me, boy! If I said you're good, then you are!" She took a deep breath. "Now, as I was saying: I've seen you holding back in my class, particularly around that Weasley friend of yours. I understand, of course," she said in a rather pained voice, as if trying to understand her student's feelings was an unusual and arduous task, "that it must be difficult with all the expectations placed upon you. And whether conscious or unconscious," she looked rather doubtful of the latter, "you've been holding yourself back to your friends' level, not wanting to appear overly able or to over-achieve. Now, I know that you're not a braggart, Potter. But that doesn't mean you should limit yourself for those around you. Maybe you won't hurt them, but you'll definitely hurt yourself."

All speech making aside, McGonagall made him redo the lessons for the week. (Transfiguring clothes into different materials.) In class they had merely been transfiguring t-shirts into jumpers or rain jackets or those sorts of practical things. Once he proved his proficiency at these, McGonagall set him to transfiguring his clothes into more armour-like materials: impenetrable to projectiles, or padded from blows, even fire resistant and bullet proof - not that it was likely a wizard would ever use a gun. Harry was a bit uncomfortable with the rather violent implications behind these transfigurations and McGonagall was surprisingly adept at this type of fare. Harry was disinclined to ask where she had learned it.

He wasn't sure if her speech had set some courage or faith in him, or if it had been in him all along, but after her stern talking-to, Harry found he did have less problems with Transfiguration; he was able to perform the new tasks she set for him without fail, as opposed to his ramshackle and desolate results in class. However, after their initial meeting he had continued to perform as usual in her class, only doing better when his grade was in danger. He tried to ignore the glares McGonagall shot at him each time she passed his desk, where each newly failed project was displayed prominently.

IF MCGONAGALL HAD BEEN ENLIGHTENING or inspiring in the least, though, Flitwick's lesson had to be the most frustrating thus far. Although Harry ought to have been honoured that the diminutive professor had deigned to teach him wandless magic, he was mostly just annoyed. As Flitwick himself had said, wandless magic wasn't really something you were taught. There was no specific gestures or set phrases to trigger the magic. You could either do it or you couldn't. And so far, Harry couldn't.

They had started with 'simple' elementals, as Flitwick told Harry, "Elemental magic can be some of the most powerful - and thus unpredictable - magic there is. It is also one of the types of magic that most wizards and witches have a propensity towards accessing, when attempting wandless magic, and wizarding children often accidentally light things on fire or move things with their magic when feeling strongly about something." This reminded Harry of the incident when he had found himself on top of the school roof, while being chased by Dudley's gang. Now that he was a wizard he could explain that he had done something like Apparition, but he still couldn't begin to explain how an untrained school-age wizard could Apparate.

So Harry had spent the next hour and a half staring relentlessly at a matchstick, willing it to burn. It was doubly frustrating since he knew he could make it light by dragging it across the pitted desktop, or with a simple incantation. By the end of the night, all he had succeeded in was making the matchstick grow warm in his fingers and perhaps smoke a bit, but then maybe the smoke had been from his brain overheating.

Flitwick had seemed uncomfortably supportive, patting Harry on the small of his back (as that was the highest he could reach) and chuckling, "Well, no one gets it on their first try. Diagon Alley wasn't built in a day, you know!" But even the professor seemed a bit shocked that the Boy Who Lived hadn't managed any amazing feats on his first day. "After all, you've been wand-broken all these years. And you've proved yourself more than sufficient there," he chortled heartily, "Imagine, a third year producing a Patronus! It'll just take some time, as you figure out a new way to think." Still, Harry left feeling more disheartened than he had since he'd first been told of these lessons.

OF COURSE, THAT DIDN'T EVEN compare to how he felt now. As he watched the D.A. members walking their way through the first steps of duelling, he was really dreading his meeting with Snape the next night. He had avoided any interaction with Hogwart's Potion Master outside of class, where he had no choice. After Harry had seen into Snape's pensieve the previous year, he had been rather afraid to be alone with the professor, who had been more vicious than usual and more than a little unhinged at the end of last year.

Noticing that Hermione was watching him in a concerned manner, he smiled falsely and took a more active approach in the lesson. He walked around the room, critiquing stances and handing out compliments on creative curses, helping Dean Thomas out by reattaching his arm (the artistic Gryffindor had the misfortune to be partnered with Neville.) Eventually the group fell apart naturally, with Harry calling after the trailing students with a reminder, "Same time next week!"

SLEEP CAME RELUCTANTLY TO HARRY that night, as he addled himself with thoughts of all the different ways Snape could torture him. He was in a daze as he stumbled into the common room early the next morning, aiming to finish his Care of Magical Creature's essay that was due that afternoon. He had only continued to take the class out of loyalty to Hagrid, since he didn't need it for the Auror test. Though Harry had to admit that Hagrid had been doing a better job at introducing magical creatures that the students were actually likely to encounter in the war.

Thankfully his actual standards hadn't changed at all, so if Harry centred his whole essay on how misunderstood Dragons were ("those poisonous claws are solely for rightful defence") and threw in a few facts ("the 1732 Rampage, in which 38 wizards were killed, was completely provoked") then he was sure to pass with flying colours. Harry thought that he ought to feel guilty about this obvious manipulation of his friend, but he was too weighed down with the stress of his N.E.W.T. courses, plus the extra lessons, to really be bothered.

By the time Ron came stumbling down the tower with the rest of the upper Gryffindor boys, Harry had finished his essay and was chatting with Hermione about how to proceed with the D.A. over in a quiet corner. They quickly ended their conversation and were up and ready to leave with the rest of their year mates by the time everyone was tumbling out the door in the rush for food. In the Great Hall, Harry went almost unnoticed at the rowdy Gryffindor table - falling into his familiar role of glaring at Malfoy, ignoring Cho's end of the Ravenclaw table and laughing at the boys' ribald jokes while arguing quidditch. He slipped into this role easily from years of experience and it was simple to give his overworked mind a break.

ONLY WHEN WALKING INTO THE cold, dark atmosphere of the dungeons did Harry come back to himself and remember his impending doom. Snape seemed to have had no such wavering, as he shot Harry a glare so potent that the Gryffindor actually stopped in his tracks and caused Ron and Hermione to run into him from behind and stumble. Snape smiled maliciously and Harry knew it would only get worse. The rest of the class trailed in, in that thick silence that was so prevalent in the potions dungeon. Once everyone was seated and pulling out their supplies, Snape's smile (if you could call such an abomination a smile) grew and in his soft, dangerous voice, he spoke. "Don't get too comfortable. Today we will be starting work on Veritaserum, a very fragile and unstable potion which will take us the greater part of a month to prepare. For the duration of this assignment, you shall be working with a single partner. Whom I will of course assign to you."

There were no outraged groans, as most the Gryffindors had come to expect this and most the Slytherins knew that partners would be assigned as most advantageous to them. Resigned, Harry glanced at Malfoy - who he would surely be stuck with, since Snape (and the rest of the world) knew of the boys' animosity toward each other. He was surprised to find the pale boy looking curiously blank, as if lost in thought. Snape had already started reeling off names and Harry watched as Hermione reluctantly drug her cauldron over to Pansy Parkinson and Ron fumed as he moved to stand by Goyle, banging his cauldron as much as possible.

The real shocker came when Harry was paired with Malfoy. Of course, Harry had expected that he would get stuck with the Slytherin – no, it was rather Snape's attitude that was so shocking. He glared malevolently at Harry as he drawled out, "Potter, Harry." But then he turned a similar glare on Malfoy as he called out the other boy's name. He smiled silkily as he sneered, "That is, if you think you can deal with the Boy Who Lived to Fail at Potions." Normally this insult would be directed at Harry and Snape might even sound concerned for Draco. Today he was purposefully insulting Malfoy.

Roughly half the Slytherins snickered while the other half stared staring stonily ahead and Malfoy looked even more blank than before, as if nothing had happened. Harry was still staring in shock, his mind trying to get around the fact that Snape had just sneered at Malfoy, when the boy in question turned his burning silver eyes on him, asking coldly, "Have you become deaf as well as dumb, Potter? Surely you don't expect me to sully myself in Gryffindor territory?"

Harry would have regularly argued, but just obeyed mutely while he continued to reel in shock. He drug his cauldron over to where Malfoy had carefully lined up his expensive porcelain knives, their mahogany and silver plated handles gleaming in the light of the numerous candelabra. Although the dungeons in general were ill-lit and gloomy (no doubt, to preserve the intimidating impression), the N.E.W.T. potions classroom was usually illuminated to prevent mistakes in their delicate brews. It was only on occasions when Snape wanted to appear particularly fearsome that he indulged in the low lighting and deep shadows. Harry mightn't have normally noticed such things, but he was making an effort to be more observant of his surroundings.

Now he peered closely at the boy next to him. When Malfoy had called Harry over, he had been as disdainful and insulting as ever and he certainly didn't seem to be bothered at all by Snape's suddenly scornful attitude toward him, instead of pampering the former Slytherin poster boy. But, wait: although his face didn't betray him and even the hands that smoothly minced his Augury liver were free of any tremors or shaking, Harry noticed a faint flush staining the boy's throat, above the high collar of his robes. Malfoy seemed to notice him staring, though, and looked back at Harry blankly for a moment, eyes reflecting like dull mirrors, before drawling out, "If you continue to sit there like a lump, Potter, I will take points." He then sneered at Harry's surprised expression, tapping his prefect badge in reminder.

Embarrassed, since he should have expected something similarly prickish from Malfoy, Harry stormed away - wanting to beat the smirk off of that prat's pointy little face. He smiled in commiseration with Ron, who was grimacing at Goyle's slipshod preparations, mixing incompatible and roughly chopped ingredients on the dirty table. (Crabbe hadn't made it into N.E.W.T. potions and no one could honestly understand how Goyle had managed - though likely it had involved foul play on the part of the Slytherins.) As he collected the revealing potion that they would use as a base, he noticed that Hermione seemed to be actually talking with Pansy, although her face looked a bit like she had been asked to try to talk intelligibly with a flobberworm: a mix of doubt, surprise and disgust.

Carrying the flasks of both his and Malfoy's potions back to the table, Harry flinched at the sound of Snape's voice. "You should all be collecting the Revealing Potions from last week. If you could not manage even as simple a potion as that, you have no chance at creating anything as complicated and fragile as Veritaserum. Yet regardless of your surely abysmal failure, you must at least attempt the potion. The instructions are on the board," he waved his wand lazily and line upon line of the Potion Master's cramped scrawling appeared. "You will find yourself unable to copy down the recipe, as it is too valuable for foolish students to possess and duplicate, perhaps thinking it a good prank. Due to the charm, you will also find yourself unable to recall the potion's ingredients when you are outside class. The instructions will be displayed in this classroom only, for the next month as we work on the potion."

As Harry looked at the instructions on display, he realized that this potion was truly as difficult and complex as Snape had warned them. He was almost glad, in a bizarre way, to be partnered with Malfoy. He knew the boy would not let them mess up this potion. Although he loved to get one up on Harry, Malfoy would not sacrifice his own grade to do it. Of course, Harry thought to himself, Malfoy's grade isn't nearly as guaranteed now, is it? He still wasn't sure how to explain the professor's bizarre new attitude and Malfoy certainly wasn't volunteering any information. Although the Slytherin boy had looked inordinately pleased, more pleased than Harry had seen him all term, when Snape announced loudly at the end of class, "Don't forget, Potter. Remedial potions tonight."

THE CONFLICT IN THE HALL, like most of their altercations, arose from some simple biting comment. As they all tramped out of the dungeons, mixing with the rest of the variegated crowd, Malfoy had somehow ended up right next to Harry as they were stuck almost stationary in the crush. Harry hadn't noticed, so he jumped when Malfoy hissed in his ear, "You better not screw up on this potion, Potter." Harry wrenched his head to the side and was surprised to see those glittering eyes inches from his own. Malfoy drawled softly in his face, "Though, that's probably asking too much, isn't it? Really, Potter, remedial potions... again?" Harry glanced around to confirm that both Ron and Hermione were several yards down the hall from him, though they both were visually struggling to regain their usual positions on either side of him as they had realized that Malfoy and his goons had Harry alone. Goyle was grinning mercilessly and Crabbe had caught up with them from somewhere as well.

Just as Harry geared up for one of their usual spats, Malfoy froze as some little second-year Slytherin rudely shoved him aside on his way through. His supercilious shocked expression was comical, or at least Harry thought so as he snorted to himself. But he wasn't loud enough to disguise the underclassmen's slur: "Watch out, Malfoy," he sneered, "Better make room for the up and coming." Harry was slightly surprised, as Malfoy had always had perfect control over Slytherin house. And here this upstart came around insulting the Prince of Slytherins?

He glanced toward Malfoy and his sycophants, wondering what they'd do next. Malfoy's expression was the same as ever as he turned on the boy, speaking in the deceptively soft voice that Snape often used, "You ought to learn to respect your elders, boy. We wouldn't want you to disgrace Slytherin house."

The kid seemed to have a death wish, though, as he laughed openly in the sixth-year's face. "I'm not the one that's a disgrace to Slytherin house. Really, respect for a Malfoy?" He smiled darkly, an expression for too cold and knowing for a boy his age, "Your father is out of the inner circle, Draco, and with him went any chances you had in the new order."

By this time, Hermione and Ron had caught up with them. Ron was smirking gladly and Hermione watched, quite shocked, the proceedings. Malfoy's mouth had tightened slightly, but other than that he gave no sign that he had heard the boy. Barely nodding to Crabbe and Goyle, the two took up the gauntlet and hauled the second year away through the crowd. Harry opened his mouth, but whether it was to continue their argument or to make a comment about what had just occurred, even he didn't know. Before he could say anything, Malfoy looked at him with that blank expression once again and muttered, "We Slytherins take care of our own."

Then his glare focussed back on Harry, and he continued, with an unholy smile, "While I'd love to continue this thrilling conversation, Potter, I've got better things to do - second years to torture, kittens to sacrifice, you know how it is."

Was Malfoy actually joking with him?

"Besides," Malfoy glared pointedly at Hermione, "wouldn't want to get any mud on my robes."

No, definitely not then.

Before the trio could do anything but splutter indignantly, he had swept off in the wake of his two lumbering bodyguards. As the Gryffindors turned purposefully to stride away in the opposite direction, Harry couldn't help looking back over his shoulder at the retreating Slytherin. Ron was muttering about new ways to destroy the 'ferret,' but Hermione seemed lost in more serious thoughts. She spoke out unexpectedly, exclaiming "How interesting." But Harry and Ron couldn't get anything more out of her than that.

FINALLY, IT COULDN'T BE PUT off any longer. Potions with Snape. After loitering in the halls for nearly fifteen minutes, Harry knocked on the potions door at precisely seven o'clock sharp. Receiving no response from within, he tentatively opened the door. He saw the Potions Master standing with his back to Harry, hands clasped tightly behind him. He did not acknowledge Harry's presence immediately, so the boy decided to go ahead with his own plan.

"Er... Professor Snape?" He started uncertainly as the Potion Master still gave no sign as to whether he was even listening or not. "Uh... sir, I... um, I wanted to apologize." Still no response other than a quick twitch. "I know that looking into your Pensieve last year was wrong of me, and I'm sorry for it. But it did help me realize something." Now came the part that Harry was dreading the most. He spoke in a rush, as if that could make it easier, "Youwereright, sir. My father could be a complete git. I hadn't wanted to believe it, but he really could be."

Harry stopped there but the older man still seemed to be waiting for something more. Speaking more slowly and unsurely, Harry continued, "I suppose I've made a bad habit of seeing people as what I want them to be, not what they are. And I've been mistaken more than once," Harry sounded bitter as he spoke and though he couldn't say it aloud, he knew he might have been mistaken about Snape as well. After all, the man had been right about his father and he was on Dumbledore's side: a reformed Death Eater, he'd given up everything in order to turn traitor.

Perhaps Snape was thinking along the same lines, as he turned back to Harry and gave a short bark of a laugh. It was perhaps the first time Harry had ever heard the professor laugh. Then he sneered, "You wouldn't be the first, Potter. I've made a fair share of those mistakes myself." Harry smiled tentatively and was rewarded by the Potion Master snapping, "Get to work." But he had the feeling something had changed that night.

They began work on an Invisibility Potion, which Harry thought would be much more useful than his father's old Invisibility cloak. A potion couldn't get caught on things or tripped over to reveal him at inopportune times, as his cloak had in the past. They went through the potion together, Snape quizzing him the entire time and more often lecturing him as he got things wrong.

"Stop, Potter!"

Harry froze, with a beaker of thestral blood still poised above the cauldron. "The yew," Snape hissed in warning, "You've got to add the yew sap first, Potter. What are you trying to do?" Harry couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't infuriate the professor, so he just shrugged inelegantly. Snape made a sound of frustration as he asked rhetorically (or at least Harry assumed it was rhetorical, since he never knew the answer to any of Snape's questions), "Why do we add yew sap to this potion, boy?" Unsurprising to either of them, Harry had no answer and so the professor continued on scathingly, "Potter! What are the properties of yew?"

Harry thought back to distant herbology lessons and tried to pull the hazy memories to mind, "Uh, well, yew is associated with the rune Eoh, right? So, um, it can - it's poisonous and... associated with death?"

Snape reiterated his statement bitingly, "Yes, Potter, it's 'associated with death.' To be slightly more specific, though, it is associated with the transitive properties of death. As such, it can be used simply in poisons, but is also used often in potions that require a trance-like state. For example, Veritaserum. It is also commonly used in potions that are associated with transformation. Now, Potter," he asked sardonically, "would not an Invisibility Potion be a transformative potion?"

Harry nodded in embarrassment, mumbling, "Yes, sir. I hadn't thought of it like that."

Snape seemed slightly taken aback by Harry's lack of rancor. "Yes, well, Potter, any second year worth his salt would have. Now that you are so duly informed, could you tell me why it would not be prudent to add the thestral blood until after you have added the yew sap and allowed it to simmer properly?" When Harry continued to look blank, Snape snapped at him condescendingly, but not in the same insulting, well, purposefully insulting manner as usual, "Potter. How can I explain this to someone as thick as you? The yew has transformational properties. The thestral blood has invisibility properties. The order in which you add them is critical.

"Think of it as if you must first tell the potion what it's action is - in this case, to transform the imbiber in some way, by means of the yew - then to tell it the specifics of that action - to cause invisibility in the imbiber, by means of the thestral blood. Can you even get your head around something as simplified as that?"

Suddenly it made much more sense to Harry, who had never before thought about why you added the ingredients in a special order to a potion. It all ends up a great mess in the same pot anyway, right? He didn't normally think about what the individual ingredients did either, just followed the instructions set out for him. These failures on his part might also explain some of his less than stellar attempts at cooking, just as well as his lack of success in potions class.

Snape must have seen some sign of understanding on Harry's face because he went on in a slightly gentler (for Snape) tone of voice, now only sounding mildly vindictive, "Good enough, Potter. That'll do for going on. After all, you did pass your O.W.L.s in order to make it into my N.E.W.T. class. You couldn't be completely hopeless."

ALTHOUGH HIS FRIENDS HAD BEEN horridly curious after that lesson, Harry hadn't really told them what had occurred with Snape. After all, it wasn't as if the feared Potions professor had actually been nice or anything. Harry supposed that it was only because he had built up such a tolerance to Snape over the years that his present attitude seemed almost pleasant in comparison. He no longer attacked Harry without provocation in class and in a most bizarre turn of events, was actually treating Harry better than he treated the Malfoy heir. Harry brought that up with his friends one morning over breakfast. "So, have you guys noticed that things seem a bit odd with Malfoy this year?"

Ron stared at him incredulously, his expression aided by the piece of toast still hanging out of his open mouth. "Well, mate, I figure things have been a bit different for the little blighter since you got his dad packed off to prison. Maybe knock him down a couple pegs, right?"

Hermione looked at Ron in disgust before turning more introspective, musing to Harry, "There has been an odd tension in Slytherin house, this year. And perhaps," she sent a scathing glare at Ron, who was now shovelling down the eggs as if they might disappear at any given moment, "just perhaps, Ron is right." And indeed he was, as the tables magically cleared themselves and he bit down hard on his now sparkling clean fork. "It seems that Lucius Malfoy's absence has had greater repercussions around the school than we might have expected.

"I've been wondering about it myself. You both remember what happened in the hall two weeks ago? The day that we started the Veritaserum project? Well, ever since then I've been watching the Slytherins much more carefully." She looked away from the boys, affecting digging through her bag as they all got to their feet and made their way out of the Great Hall. "In fact, Pansy Parkinson has been trying to talk to me about it," she said carefully, avoiding looking at Ron as he spluttered in outrage.

"You've been talking to Pansy Parkinson?" he spat disbelievingly. She glared back at him sharply. It seemed to Harry that stupid 'White Horses' charm that she'd roped him into hadn't done much for those two.

"Look, I didn't want to listen to her at first either; it's not like she's pleasant or anything. But what she's been saying is really starting to make sense." She lowered her voice, looking around them warily, "Ever since Malfoy's father was convicted and ousted from his place in the Death Eater's, Malfoy's lost credibility. There's been a split in Slytherin, between those still loyal to Malfoy and those who are trying to take his place in Voldemort's ranks."

Harry asked her frankly, "Are you trying to imply that Draco Malfoy is against Voldemort in some way?"

She shook her head immediately, saying thoughtfully, "No, not at all. All I'm saying is that while Malfoy still has his name and money, he no longer has his friends in high places. He can't have his father try to sway the school governors, or put pressure on Snape, or bribe his way onto the Quidditch team any longer. And he certainly doesn't seem guaranteed a place in Voldemort's elite without his father's clout."

Ron said simply, "I don't get why we are talking so much about Malfoy. I mean, he's Malfoy, right? Anything bad for him must be good for us."

Hermione looked doubtful at this cavalier attitude and tried again to make her last argument, "All I'm saying is that he might be looking at other options now." Harry didn't really understand why Hermione sounded so serious about this until weeks later, but some of their questions were certainly answered - though, only to be replaced with new ones - when Malfoy walked into the D.A. meeting later that night.