Refraction

"I am who I choose to be. I always have been what I chose...though not always what I pleased."

--Lois McMaster Bujold

* * *

(Arthur Weasley, 1995)

Fifth year

Molly's been worrying about Harry again. There'd be nothing wrong with it, of course--though she certainly worries more than necessary--except that Molly's response to being worried about Harry is to refuse to tell him anything. And he always finds out in the end. And every time, he trusts us a little less.

Molly's trying to make a child of him. It's hard not to, I know--hard to look at that face and those eyes and not want them to be carefree and happy. It hurts him more that he looks like James. Had we not seen those very features on a person who was properly joyful and young, we might not recognize just what it is that Harry's missing.

But it is missing, and it can't be given to him. He's not a broken toaster, he's a boy, and boy's are notoriously reluctant to be fixed. Anyway, I could tell Molly all of this until I was blue in the face, and she wouldn't listen to me, so I suppose it's futile anyway. She feels firmly that children should be children. Bill and Charlie generously overlooked this, but it's going to cause no end of grief with Fred and George. And Harry.

Harry needs to be treated like an adult, not because he is one, but because he needs to believe he is to have any chance at all of living until twenty. He is at least dangerous, which he'll need--and which is exactly what Fred and George love about him, bless them.

So dangerous is good and fine and necessary--but I'd like it much better if he were dangerous and completely on our side. He tries, but it's very hard to side with a group you don't trust. Harry has a very hard time trusting, and, as I say, we're not making it any easier for him. Sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore really knows what he's about as much as he pretends he does. Ah, speaking of difficulty trusting...

Harry grew up with the knowledge that he could have been loved if he had been anyone but who he was. As a result, he won't trust love that's handed over unconditionally, because it's too foreign a concept to be believed. Perhaps he could tolerate love he felt he'd earned, but I have my doubts even about that much. In this, he and Severus Snape are more alike than either of them would like to believe.

We protect him when we should respect him; we worship him when we should fear for him; we simultaneously expect too much and too little. We deliberately ignore the most painfully obvious truth about Harry Potter: he's only in Gryffindor because he's a Slytherin with no sense of self-preservation.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1995)

Fifth year

Utterly humiliated self today. Hate when that happens. Hate the first day of school. Despise prim n proper Ravenclaw twats.

So. What happened.

Was giddy anyway. Quibbler particularly amusing (Stubby Boardman! Will cut out and treasure!), school starting--nerves, you know.

Sigh.

So, Ginny Weasley walks into my compartment on the train. Fair enough. I know her, am vaguely fond. Possible Chamber of Secrets shenanigans notwithstanding. Neville Longbottom followed. Meh, inoffensive. And then HARRY POTTER.

You shouldn't have to sit in a small compartment with a boy you've been stalking for almost two years. It's just wrong. And even more wrong when the other boy you've been stalking strolls in. This other boy being the one you suspect of having an illicit love affair with, or at least being a spy for, the first. At least he came in post-humiliation. Oh, weep, weep for the lost souls...

So. HP. I was short on sleep, okay? I got a little hysterical. I pointed out that he was Harry Potter. He agreed. I decided I should just shut up while I was behind. But no. Of course not.

Had to ask who Longbottom was. I knew, of course, but you really can't reveal your stalkerage. Strange that the Longbottoms have a child. A sane child. Of course, the nurses said they hadn't always been mad...and he must visit them. It's awful there, you know. Mum died there. I'm rather surprised he's as normal as he...seems.

Ginny defended him. From himself. Self deprecation will get you nowhere with the little Weasley! She is small but fierce! Bearing this in mind, I said something nice about Ravenclaw. Ra-ra, indeed. *yawn* House love. That's why I'm alone in a compartment with a host of mad Gryffindors.

Not that I'm bitter. No, no.

Longbottom waxed poetic about some plant he had for a while. Cho came in and tried to molest HP, but the plant bravely protected him. Go, plant. Have I mentioned that I hate Cho? I loathe Cho, I despise Cho. Not that it's anything personal. Of course, she said nothing to me when she came by.

House solidarity, brother! That's what I'm talking about!

Some days I wish I were in Slytherin. They've got that united-against-a-common-enemy thing going for them. Hey, I warned you I'd had a bad day.

The point being, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and their personal menagerie dashed in to find me rather closer to hysteria than I had been even a couple hours before. I should have known to keep my mouth shut, but they were talking about the prefects and there was Ron Weasley right there and I had to say something about the Yule Ball. Had to. Couldn't be helped.

He was completely clueless. It was a riot. No wonder Padma detests him. RW took Padma to the Yule Ball, see. Took her, and then ignored her all night and stared longingly at HG. A woman scorned, you know. And not just any woman, but the Queen Gossip herself. RW doesn't spend time with non-Gryffindors, and so he will never know that, thanks to Padma, his name is mud all over the school.

I vaguely thought about flirting with him, but I couldn't even pretend to take it seriously and had to hide behind the Quibbler before I started laughing because I suspected I might not be able to stop. And everyone sat in silence to digest this. And I had to bite my tongue quite hard and think melancholy thoughts. And then RW made a bad joke, and I imagined him saying it to Padma, and I couldn't help it, a laughing fit had been coming on all morning. And everyone stared blankly. And that made it worse.

Made utter fool of self, as aforementioned. Apparently, one never does get used to this.

At least I had no social status anyway. We bottom feeders have loads of freedom.

Mocked Hermione Granger for mocking Quibbler (which is, indeed, eminently mockable, but this is not the point). She's funny when she's flustered. Must harass her more often.

AND DRACO MALFOY CAME IN! WAH!

Wasn't expecting that. Should have. DM being a far more dedicated Harry Potter stalker than I could hope to be. They spoke nastily to one another in what I insist is code. Not that I have any evidence of such a thing...but I do not let facts get in the way of my wild speculations! Indeed, this sentiment is the foundation of the Quibbler creed. So it must be code. So it must be that DM basically asked why HP wasn't a prefect, and HP didn't know. Odd. Then there was the 'dogging your footsteps' comment, which clearly meant something because even HG picked up on it (it's all code, code I tell you!). RW didn't pick up on it, though. Is he being left out? Or is he just slow on the uptake? Neither would surprise me.

Last really interesting point for the day, as I have babbled far too long: HP can see thestrals now, but couldn't before. ? Didn't he see his parents die? So, do you have to remember seeing death? Or was the whole parent thing a blatant lie? Must research this. Because that's what Ravenclaws do, along with crouching along rooftops like gargoyles.

Just kidding.

I hope.

* * *

(Draco, 1995)

Fifth year

"Draco!"

I turned, very slowly, to face him. I had known this was coming, after all.

"Potter?" I tried to sound bored. Not that it worked. Not that anything ever works quite the way I'd like, with Potter.

He came close to me and started whispering. I don't know why he bothers. It's not as if anyone else is going to be under the Ravenclaw stands at midnight.

"Hermione knows you know about Sirius," he hissed. "What were you thinking? She's watching you now--and you can't afford that! I mean, I appreciate the warnings--and Umbridge is a Death Eater?--but it could have been ... I don't know, aren't you being a little obvious? Couldn't it have waited?" He stopped, staring at me. I stared back at him. His expression passed from angry through confused to worried.

"Draco..." He was honestly whispering now, not hissing. "Why did you do it?"

I shrugged. I couldn't really think what to tell him. As is so often the case when I have a great deal to say, my brain found itself unable to handle the overwork and stalled. This tendency is particularly unfortunate when I'm in exams.

He shook his head at me, thinking I didn't have an answer to the question, and looking even more worried. "No. No, you know very well what you're doing. You always do. What are you doing, Draco?"

I looked down at my feet. I was madly trying to come up with a starting point when--

"You've given up. Haven't you? You don't care if you get caught."

I jerked my head up to stare in disbelief. He was crying. At least, tears were in his eyes, though they weren't falling. I had made Harry Potter cry. Harry Potter never cries. I hadn't realized he knew how.

"You don't have to keep doing this, you know," he continued, turning away. "If, if it's too much, I mean, you don't have to help me, I'm not worth--"

"Potter!" I snapped, and it's so much easier to talk to him when I'm angry with him. "Stop babbling. I'm not, as you seem to think, giving up." I tried not to notice how blessedly relieved he looked. "Malfoys don't give up. Don't be absurd. What I was doing ... well. I was thinking, I was wondering ... Potter, would it be terrible if people knew I was ... helping you, sometimes?"

He was staring at me blankly with his mouth hanging open. He looked like an imbecile (shocking, I know), but he had stopped his almost-crying. I felt this must be an improvement.

"I mean to say," I staggered bravely on, "I'm obviously not going to become a Death Eater." He looked like this was news to him. "I ... I did see Voldemort this summer--" I chose to ignore his gasp--"and he's insane, and Father thinks he has a point, so Father's insane, and Mother hates him, and I like Mother, and, and why should I be trying to please madmen? We could, I could be like Weasley and Granger. I could still help. Couldn't I?" I was panting a bit. That had been completely incoherent. At least I hadn't slipped and called Granger 'Mudblood.'

Harry closed his mouth. He cleared his throat. After several very painful moments of uncomfortable staring, he spoke. "You saw Voldemort this summer?"

I nodded. "He spent time at the manor once Father came back. Before Father left again, that is. A Malfoy in hiding. Imagine."

"Did anything ... happen?" he asked delicately. If ever there was a loaded question...

"To me? Oh, no." I could feel my lip curling. "I was being courted." Courted in the halfhearted way a man courts a pre-paid whore. He knows he need not, but suspects he'll get better service if he makes the effort. No, nothing awful happened to me.

Mother, however.

Not that anything awful had happened to her. No, no. Just a Cruciatus Curse or two. Father had informed me that Mother's loyalties had always been 'less certain than her family might have wished.' So she was reminded.

The strange thing was, I didn't need to tell Harry this. I could see it in his face--he knew. Somehow, he always knows.

"So you've given up on the pureblood breeding program?" he asked. I guess it was his right.

I shrugged, and refused to look at him. "I decided I wasn't up to killing babies."

"I see," he whispered. He sat down. He does this, when he's thinking. It's funny. It's as if he tries to eliminate attention to his body as much as possible. When he's really worrying, he braces himself against something and closes his eyes, as if he might shut down his body altogether, leaving only his mind. That night, he scooted over to me and leaned against my legs, and I assume his eyes were closed. It was a situation worthy of worry.

My mind was ... oddly blank. I was just staring down at Potter, waiting for him to decide my fate.

Shite. I'd already become just like the Weasel and the Mudblood.

Time passed. I'm not sure how much time. Quite a lot, I imagine. Eventually, Harry came back. He always comes back abruptly, with no warning--all or nothing. He twisted around to face me, tugging on my cloak until I gave in and sat on the ground with him. The muddy ground. Stupid Gryffindor.

"I think you should still pretend to be a baby Death Eater. You could be a spy. My spy. I wouldn't have to get news through Dumbledore and Snape anymore--we would already know all the important stuff. Just the two of us." His eyes were glittering oddly, and he seemed wildly enthusiastic.

The surrealism of the moment overwhelmed me. The boy who wouldn't shake my hand. The boy who had laughed at me in the Forbidden Forest. The boy who had sincerely hated me moments after he met me. Just the two of us.

"You don't have to, you know. Of course you don't." I must have stayed quiet too long, because he was looking concerned again. "I know it's dangerous," he babbled. "In fact, it's probably way too dangerous. I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Harry!" I had to cut in. He might have wittered on all night, otherwise. "Stop. You Gryffindors panic so easily. Spying would be perfect."

He blinked, startled. "It would?"

"Yes. You haven't got an in with that side, but you've already got two obvious partners-in-crime here. I'll be more useful this way."

He grinned at me. It was a goofy, mad grin; one I hadn't seen since before the third task last year. All for me. The year started to look a little less hopeless.

"This is just because I hate the Madman, you understand." He nodded earnestly, but looked annoyingly unconvinced. "And Umbridge isn't a Death Eater, you twat," I continued. "'You're being too obvious,' he says. Much bloody good it does me, when you can't even pick up hints then..."

He was smirking my smirk at me again. We're going to have to have words about that, someday. Someday.

* * *

(Minerva McGonagall, 1995)

Fifth year

I will never understand Harry Potter.

He obviously detests Dolores Umbridge--and who could possibly blame him?--and yet he apparently goes out of his way to attract her attention. A week of detention with that woman! I can only imagine what he did to merit that--or what she has him doing. "Writing lines," she says, but that doesn't explain why he's hated her from the first detention. Not that he was fond of her before, of course, but this is real hatred. I had hoped he wouldn't learn to hate just yet. Of course, might have missed the boat there years ago...I don't know what to do with him.

I don't know what to do with her, either. Apart from making her life as miserable as possible, which seems distinctly petty for a woman of my age. Distinctly petty, and yet increasingly difficult to resist...

One must deal gently with Harry. This is something Severus has never understood, and it is clearly beyond that Dolores Umbridge--well, but what isn't? It's just that Severus is less offensive in his dislike of Harry. I can't explain it. He resents Harry's presence, but still, he...I don't know...he does his hatred by the book. He stays within the bounds of what is reasonable. He'd never truly harm Harry. Never. I trust him.

I don't trust that woman.

Harry's not been well this year. When is he ever well, really? The boy has more troubles...but this is different. This is worse. He never complains to authority figures, blast him, but he is visibly and obviously miserable, he's staring at everyone suspiciously, and he's being far more randomly defiant than is typical. Even for him. And perhaps it is only the pressures of You-Know--Voldemort, or of being unable to see Sirius, or of the media attention, or of the fact that many of his housemates are pulling away from him....

Yes, well, I can see that he might be upset, yes. It's just that it's so sudden--he went from being angry to being...embittered. Yes, that's the word I'm looking for. And all since that first detention with Umbridge. He's been angry, he's been upset, he's been frustrated, but he's never been bitter before. He's too young to be bitter. Far too young.

What did she do to him?

I know that he'll never tell me, because I am an authority figure, and, therefore, a threat. Wouldn't I love to know what strange series of events led to that little phobia? Or perhaps I wouldn't. It's all too late now, in any case. I can only hope that he tells his friends more than he does his teachers--and that they're actually listening to him. He might actually let them help.

* * *

(Hermione, 1995)

Fifth year

I haven't been paying enough attention to Harry.

I heard the words. I saw the interactions. I was there for everything, and, somehow, I missed everything that was important. Malfoy practically told us his father knew about Sirius' animagus form. He did his best to warn us every time Umbridge was up to something--he mentioned her preference for Slytherins, her association with his father, even the extent of his father's influence at the Ministry. I'm almost certain he was trying to help us at the Quidditch Cup. I am now. And Harry? Harry didn't let Neville attack Malfoy. For Neville's protection, we thought.

Yesterday, I heard voices echoing down the corridor. I knew one of them was Harry. I couldn't be certain of the other, but I thought it must be someone I knew, so I walked closer. I had something to tell Harry. I've forgotten, now, what it was.

Harry's voice: "I know, I know...but how will I get out of it? And I'll miss it so much..."

"Potter." I gasped, fortunately quietly. I had recognized the voice--it belonged to Draco Malfoy. The annoying drawl was unmistakable. "You don't have time for Quidditch, you said it yourself. I can get you out of it."

Harry sighed. "Plans?" he asked.

"Just play along, Potter. Like always."

And I ran away. It wasn't the cleverest thing to do, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly. Actually, I was practically gibbering. Remembering Harry's voice: And it wants all the houses to be friends? Fat chance. Remembering Malfoy: You wouldn't want her spotted, would you? I'll be dogging your footsteps...

How could I have missed something this important?

I can't tell anyone, either. Harry's already pulling away--I don't want him mad at me too. Can't tell Ron. Ron would panic and hex Malfoy in a corridor. Harry would never speak to us again.

I'll watch. Just watch. What else can I do?

* * *

(Harry, 1995)

Fifth year

Sometimes I wonder what our conversations sound like to other people. Aren't they strange? I'm usually so busy focusing on what's not said that I can only just pay attention to what is. It must come off a bit disjointed.

Draco says: "Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you? I've never seen a worse Keeper ... did you like my lyrics, Potter?"

Draco means: (I need to talk to you about Weasley. And isn't my cover clever?)

I say nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Draco says: "--we wanted to sing about his mother...useless loser...for his father...but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?"

Draco means: (Alright, the Weasleys are in trouble--it's not as though they're particularly popular. And you owe them.)

I look around for Hooch, but she's pretty far away. This is one of those times I'm not getting everything he's saying. Yes, the warning, but he knows that George is not going to get it, and already I'm having a hard time holding him...

Draco says: "Or perhaps you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it--"

I let go of George in shock. Draco, he doesn't talk about our mothers much, his and mine. They're kind of a touchy subject with him. But George is running toward him and I can't believe I let him go, and then I see Draco, and for just a second, he's grinning.

Oh. OH.

Draco means: (I need to be hospitalized, or I'll have to go home this weekend.)

Of course. He's just lost another Quidditch match, hasn't he? So I help George beat Draco senseless. It's for the best. He's not going to want to go home for a while yet--let Lucius calm down. It also gets me out of Quidditch, just according to plan. Well, not exactly according to plan, but ... near enough.

When I dream of Arthur Weasley a few days later, I'm not surprised.

* * *

(Ernie Macmillan's Annual Evaluation of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1995)

Fifth year

Gryffindor House

Fifth Year Students

Mr. Harry Potter (son: James and Lily Potter, neé Evans, both deceased)

Harry Potter--really an amazing sort of fellow, and I am proud, quite proud, to call him a member of my class here at Hogwarts. I choose to review Mr. Potter's case now (I realize he is out of alphabetical order) because I have just received some startling new information regarding the aforementioned Mr. Potter.

Let me begin by reviewing what we already know of Mr. Potter, in case, in the event of some dire accident, my records of the previous four years are lost.

First: Mr. Potter's alarming tendency to refer to You-Know-Who by his true name. While I was originally inclined to attribute this tendency to ignorance, recent events would suggest it stems from a most admirable courage.

Second: His amazing natural Quidditch ability, which, though not a sign of great virtue in itself, does append itself attractively to his list of accomplishments.

Third: His truly impressive rage, though most often directed at Draco Malfoy (aforementioned), is most effective at persuading others to leave him unmolested. Always excepting Draco Malfoy (aforementioned).

Fourth: His lack of respect for authority, though generally a trait of which I violently disapprove, has now shown itself to be useful at a critical juncture.

Fifth: His ability to speak to snakes, which, I am embarrassed to admit, once led me to believe he was Salazar Slytherin's heir, may well prove useful in this great war against another who speaks to snakes.

Sixth: His fearlessness in the face of the Sirius Black threat was certainly an example to us all, especially as Black turned out to be, as I have heard from others, a werewolf. Perhaps that is too farfetched to be plausible, but so I did hear.

Seventh: His amazing performance in the Triwizard Tournament, and stiff upper lip in the fallout afterword--the death of our own Cedric Diggory, the rise of You-Know-Who, et cetera, et cetera.

One might well ask oneself what further great accomplishments could possibly lie hidden beneath that awkward façade, after all of these have been uncovered--but let me assure you, dear reader, that more tales of talent are yet to come.

It was revealed to this observer that Mr. Potter is capable of producing a corporeal Patronus in the shape of a stag. It develops that the Patronus Charm is a NEWT-level charm, most often used to repel Dementors. That one so young as Mr. Potter is able to use this charm is truly impressive.

More impressive still, Mr. Potter rather grudgingly confessed to having slain a Basilisk--the king of serpents--with a sword which he daringly stole from Professor Dumbledore's own office.

Finally, we uncovered Mr. Potter's stunning recovery of the Philosopher's Stone from the disembodied You-Know-Who, though the circumstances of this recovery are still uncertain. In fact, I seem to remember strange circumstances surrounding the untimely death of Professor Quirrell (aforementioned) around the same time, but never anything definitive. Could the Professor have died at the hands--the disembodied hands--of You-Know-Who himself?

In any case, Mr. Harry Potter has undoubtedly grown to become a hero in our midst, and I shall not hesitate to lend him all the support I may muster.

Ernie Macmillan.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1996)

Fifth year

DOOM DOOM DOOM.

Ginny is dating Dean Thomas. *weeps* No! He's my dark-and-handsome, Ginny, mine! I've never spoken to him, of course, but I'm sure that's not the point! It's truuuueeee loooove...

Or something.

Ah, well. I shall stagger on, alone and lonely, madly in love with boys who are dating my friends. Or, in one especially woeful case, each other. Speaking of which, DM spoke to me the other day. He said, "Lovegood, why are you standing in the doorway? Move."

He knows my name!

I shall do a happy-dance, and reflect that my patheticness knows no bounds. Well, I could have been standing in the doorway to get his attention. That would have been worse. So perhaps my patheticness knows distant and very feeble bounds. Hmm.

Some comfort.

Anyway, at least I'm not utterly perverted. The Headmaster (ahem) caused oblong confetti to fall from the ceiling at Halloween. Very phallic. Especially the pink ones.

Thought I was just imagining it, but then Terry Boot saw them and choked on his pumpkin juice and started laughing and coughing a bit wildly.

Lord, the boy has a personality! Who knew? Stealth personality. Maybe I can persuade Ginny to go out with him.

"Dear Ginny,

Please dump Dean and go out with Terry Boot because, contrary to appearances, Terry does have a personality and is, in fact, amused by phallic confetti. Thank you for your assistance with my love life.

Luuuurve, Luna. (Call me Loony)."

Almost worth it for the expression on her face. But somehow not quite.

Peeves dropped a dresser on Vector's desk yesterday. HA HA THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR RUINING MY LIFE WITH YOUR SOUL-SAPPING HOMEWORK, YOU MONSTROUS OLD BAT!!!

Perhaps I should write a love letter to Peeves.

Or not.

* * *

(Seamus Finnegan, 1996)

Fifth year

The first talk I ever had with Dean Thomas was on the train before first year. That way we could start off right away with...the weirdness. It's funny, really, how many of us were completely sorted out by the time we got off the train, and before we'd even walked through the doors. Destiny, by God.

So, Dean. I'd picked him to talk to, you see, on account of he was quiet and still--i.e., nonthreatening. Hadn't really stopped to consider the negative points to quiet stillness.

Negative Point One: I sat across from him, trying to look anything but nervous, and said, "Seamus Finnegan." And he looked at me blankly and said, "Hmm."

Not a lot to be going on with, that. Hmm. Off to a good start, indeed.

"So what's your name?" I asked. Nervously. He smiled at me tolerantly--and the wretch never acted like a boy, not even when he was a young boy. He was eleven going on thirty at the best of times. Could be (can be) bloody irritating.

He said, "Dean Thomas." And then he stopped talking. And just watched me. Amused. Miserable, miserable bastard.

"So..." casting desperately about for topic of conversation, "pureblood or mixed? Or muggle?"

"Mixed, apparently."

"Apparently?"

"Hmm."

Now, we weren't off to a flying start, it's true, but there was something about him...and I found myself liking him anyway, just a bit. Maybe it was the way he silently watched me make a fool of myself, but I could see he was loving every minute of it.

I couldn't figure it out then, but now I see. I like him because, well, calm sadists are pretty rare, aren't they? Makes them interesting.

"So...what house do you think you'll be in?" I'm nothing if not persistent. And idiotic, or so says my dear old Mum.

"House? I don't know much about it."

"Oh. Well, ah. D'you think you're brave, smart, loyal, or sneaky?"

"That's a bit personal."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess it is, at that..."

The compartment door slid open, sparing me further awful, embarrassing babble. Didn't seem fair that he knew nothing, I knew everything, and he was still making me look like an eedjit.

"Have you seen a toad? Neville's lost one." Memorable first words from Ms. Hermione Granger.

Neville was the one with her; the pudgy, sad one. That was my first impression of the boy. "A toad?" I asked him. "Why would you want one?"

His lip quivered. I didn't even know that happened to real people. "M-m-my U-uncle Algie gave it to m-me," he whimpered. Pathetically.

"Huh. Well, can't you just tell him it hopped onto the tracks?" It's what I'd do, if I'd lost a toad. Neville, though, only looked upset, and I thought, weakling.

"B-but, Trevor! What will happen to him if I--"

"We haven't seen a toad named Trevor," Dean broke in with enviable smoothness. "Or any toads at all. Good luck finding him, though." It was the longest speech he'd made all trip.

"Oh." Neville drew up short. Hermione did too--had probably been just about to lay into me, knowing her. But Dean has that effect on people--calming. Probably the only reason I've lasted so long; Dean always manages to head people off before they turn murderous on me.

"Well...thanks, anyway," said Hermione, sounding suddenly uncertain without her forward momentum. And, "Nice to meet you," squeaked Neville, and they walked out and disappeared.

Leaving me alone with Dean. Again.

"So, what did you think of them?" I asked, thinking it would be my last stab at small talk before I gave up and stared vacantly out the window for the rest of the trip.

But lo! "The girl's very clever," he says, "but she doesn't know what to do with people. The boy just doesn't know what to do with people." WE HAVE A RESPONSE.

He had answered a question with an entire sentence. I was so excited. I asked about everyone I could think of on the train, and he had opinions on almost everyone I'd seen.

The red-headed twins: "mental. They should be funny."

The sneering blond boy: "trouble. I'm going to avoid him."

Harry Potter--'the boy with the scar on his head,' Dean called him, "shy but reckless. Avoiding him, too."

"The Quidditch enthusiast scares me. What's Quidditch?"

And on, and on, and on. And, by the way, who says 'enthusiast' at eleven? No one. Really, I had no clue what to make of him. But he was fascinating.

We're fifteen now, and nothing's changed, really. I always have Dean's opinion of everyone but me (because there are things I just don't want to know). He knows everything about me, and I know precious little about him. He can still make me feel an arse at will, and he still thinks it's funny. I don't think those things will ever change.

Probably it's all because he never tells anyone anything about himself, and everyone just thinks it's because he's got nothing to tell, and then he's always got this, this...better information over all of us. I think he'd have done pretty well in Slytherin, maybe.

Don't tell him I said that.

* * *

(Severus Snape, 1996)

Fifth year

Even the Slytherins are beyond my understanding at this point. Perhaps I shall resign. Or throw myself off of the Astronomy Tower. Would that be considered juvenile? Doubtless.

Peeves the Poltergeist appears to be fond of Draco Malfoy. And I had thought Harry Potter was going to be my most serious problem for the afternoon. Optimism kills me every time.

Occlumency. What a disaster.

I never wanted to know what Harry Potter thought of his life, or of his family, or of me. I didn't want to know anything at all of his thoughts. I suppose Albus found the situation too amusing to pass up.

At first I didn't realize what my puppet master was aiming for. Clearly, he didn't want the boy to learn Occlumency, or he would have taught him himself. It was not, and is not, my place to question Albus Dumbledore, unfortunately.

The first few sessions were no more than I expected. A little give-and-take. I wasn't pleased, of course, but I had accepted the loss of a little privacy as inevitable. Albus had suggested that I place my most unfortunate memories in a pensieve, to be safe. Albus suggested. I am a fool; a captive fool. Salazar Slytherin would expel me retroactively if he could know the depths to which I've sunk. It's idiotic enough to trust a self-interested Gryffindor once, but orders of magnitude worse to trust him again and again...

Of course Harry Potter stole the memories in my pensieve. Of course he didn't perceive it as tantamount to mind-rape--and even if he had, he might, with reason, have argued that it was no worse than I had done to him, under the sobriquet of lessons. Of course he didn't realize that I had placed most of those memories there for his protection, rather than my own. After all, I have little to lose, at this point. Only my dignity--a poor thing at best, and I have managed without before. I suppose I must again, now.

What did he imagine I was keeping from him? Death Eater secrets? My sinister true loyalties? Thrilling sexcapades? Clearly, embarrassing moments from my childhood were not what he had in mind. Poor, stupid boy. Poor, blind child of Gryffindor.

Then there is Draco Malfoy. Vanishing cupboards, indeed. Montague could not have been in a toilet for two weeks, not even he. I imagine Peeves was hiding him--in fact, I'm almost certain of it. It's been a fool's paradise for Peeves recently, after all, and I can easily imagine him indulging slightly to excess.

Peeves has a strange sympathy for Draco, as I've noted before. I don't wish to understand why. I know too much of Draco Malfoy as it is. The point being, Peeves would certainly produce someone he was...entertaining...if Draco so requested. Draco distracting the Potions professor so that Potter could violate his pensieve? No. It isn't logical. Draco's been trying to attract Potter's attention from the beginning (the tattling, good gods), and Potter has consistently failed to notice--this year even more than the previous few. And yet...the timing. Such beautiful, such coincidental timing. The gods weep, how many people are plotting against me?

At least I know what Potter's thinking, even if Draco is currently beyond me. Potter is such a strange combination of Slytherin and Gryffindor that I think he must be destined to self-destruct. His father's betrayal has driven him to murderous fury--it offends both sides of him, in this case--betrayal, yes, but also identification with the victim. The lion refuses to acknowledge (as the snake would, in its cool calculation) that there is no one left alive to blame, and cannot bear to blame the revered father. The lion chooses to blame the nearest living relative...Harry himself. The snake refuses to accept blame unjustly, and shifts it to me. The blame, the fury, and the disgust with the idea that there must be blame. All mine.

I know misdirected fury very well. I've been misdirecting mine onto Harry Potter for years now, after all, so I suppose there's some justice in this.

Potter also believes that I have precisely reversed his position and Draco's in this little repetition of history, and cast myself as Draco, and Potter as...Potter. More anger aimed in my direction--how dare I so horribly misunderstand the situation? He's mistaken, of course, but in the present incarnation, so many of us are playing parts that it's a wonder anyone can keep reality separate from fiction.

Draco as he plays himself does indeed match James Potter. Draco as he truly is...is every bit as much the victim as Harry Potter and I. A victim of more subtle influences. A victim who blames himself for his own abuse. Potter and I, at least, had the clarity of knowing that our nearest relations despised us, and were thus allowed the luxury of despising them in return. We feel little loyalty to them, thank all the gods.

Draco, on the other hand. Well. Lucius was always adept at casting the blame for his sins onto others. How he used such an ability on his only child, I fear that I can imagine all too clearly. The power of life and death, and the ability and the will to convince Draco that a sentence of death would be entirely his own fault, and that it would be for Draco's benefit, besides--that sort of power and opportunity might corrupt a far better man than Lucius. Perhaps Lucius is misdirecting his own anger toward his father. There's a lot of that going around.

We're a twisted lot, every father's son.

That's as far as I'll take my analysis for today, I believe. Extending it to the probable result of today's uncovering of memories-better-left-forgotten...will be too painful. Or perhaps I am a coward.

Yes, I am surely a coward. A brave man would have killed Albus Dumbledore 14 years ago. Weak, and a disgrace to Salazar, and to my mother, and even to my worthless sot of a father. Disgrace.

This is babbling.

* * *

(Griselda Marchbanks, 1996)

Fifth year

Students are so...intriguing. I've been administering OWLs for nearly 90 years, and still, every year brings something new.

This year I administered the exam to Susan Bones. She is an odd combination of her aunt and her mother--earnest and kind and grounded. She did well enough.

I admininstered the exam to Neville Longbottom. He has skill, oh yes, but no confidence. His parents would be pained. I wonder what has made him so? Nurture, of course, not nature. Hmm. I suppose it's far too late to have a word with his grandmother.

There was Padma Patil. Ravenclaws. They're so focused. Ms Patil was giggling with one of her friends at the door, but as soon as she was informed I was free, all humor vanished and her expression turned intent. Alarmingly intent. She did very well.

Blaise Zabini worried me just as much as his father had--they both have a faint air of menace. 'Fail me and I will lacerate you with the shards of this wine glass,' they seem to say. Fortunately, I shall not have to fail him.

And every year there is at least one student who manages to thoroughly surprise me. This year it was Draco Malfoy.

I know his family, of course. The acquaintence is difficult to avoid, for one in a position of any kind of power. As far as I had seen, he seemed fairly typical of his family. Arrogant. Disdainful. Scheming. At first glance, that is.

He had done quite respectably with most charms, thank heaven. I had no wish to listen to his father complain about his marks. I had him levitating a wineglass as the beginning of the last segment. Slytherins seem to find the wineglasses amusing. He was having no trouble until a dark-haired boy walked to the next table and Tofty said his name (which I, of course, couldn't hear--curse old age and infirmity). The Malfoy boy's concentration was shattered, and, shortly thereafter, so was the wineglass. I had to mark off for susceptibility to distraction, but it wasn't a serious error.

The dark-haired boy grinned a bit ruefully, as if he'd known he would be distracting and was a bit sorry, but would still mock Malfoy for it later. Malfoy scowled toward the dark-haired boy, a 'you will pay' sort of scowl, then turned back to me, worried. Neither of them had looked directly at the other, but they had communicated all the same. I thought they must be very close. Very competitive, but very close.

Mr. Malfoy looked sick at his mistake. I tried to assure him that he wouldn't suffer a serious deduction. He nodded, but clearly didn't believe me. He didn't threaten me, or mention his family in any way. He allowed me to see that he was nervous. He had let this dark-haired boy distract him. This was not behaviour...typical of Malfoys.

I thought to check what what so distracting about his friend, before Ms Patil came to be tested. I concluded that he was quite handsome (if thin), which might be the cause of contention between them. Of course, it might be the cause of Mr Malfoy's distraction for quite another reason, if his preferences ran that way. Nothing else seemed particularly remarkable about him until he flicked his hair away from his eyes, and the scar appeared. I nearly broke the glass I had just repaired.

Harry Potter. By all that is merciful.

Enemies do not smile that way at one another. They don't look exasperated with each other. They don't look rueful. Potters and Malfoys have never gotten along.

Very interesting, indeed. Not to say appalling. I shall have to speak to Minerva. She might be willing to inform me of further developments.

Ah, students. Always exciting.

* * *

(Albus Dumbledore, 1996)

Fifth year

I'm doing what I must. The problem is, of course, that there is no acceptable solution--and so I must do what is unacceptable.

I confess that I underestimated Tom in the beginning. I mean to say, how impressive can a boy be who wakes up one morning, rearranges the letters of his name, and announces to his friends, "You will now call me...Lord Voldemort!"

Honestly.

But I let him out of my sight for too long, and he got completely out of hand.

Tom thrives on killing muggles, muggleborns, blood traitors, and everyone else he doesn't like--nearly the entire population of the world, when one reflects on it. Eventually, the sheer weight of numbers against him would topple him from power, but it might be quite a long wait. A wait that would result in deaths which we can ill afford.

Tom suffered a temporary defeat some 15 years ago, through no act of mine, and Sybill Trelawney gave us a prophecy. The prophecy spoke of an equal, an influence; the only person who might defeat Tom for good and all. The prophecy spoke of Harry Potter, as it developed, and a pretty mess that set for all of us.

Harry Potter was born of a gentle, if stern, mother, and an irritable but essentially petty father. Of such stock, murderers are not made. It was clear from the outset that he would need some artificial encouragement.

Had the situation been purely muggle, of course, the training would not have been necessary. Murder can be nearly accidental, as it is done in the muggle world. The wizarding world is not so fortunate...or unfortunate. Curses require full knowledge of the effects and a desire to inflict them before they will work properly.

Though the realization sickened me, I knew that Harry would have to be more familiar with pain and fear and hatred than a child raised by Lily and James Potter could possibly have been.

At least Lily and James were already dead. I would have hated having to arrange that.

Fate, perhaps in apology for the situation as a whole, handed me the Dursleys on a silver platter. Not only Harry's most abusive relations, but Harry's only surviving relations. Minerva might well have asked awkward questions had I not been able to assure her that this was the only way to keep Harry's body perfectly sound--and so it was. His aunt's blood protection kept his body sound, and her mindless prejudices kept his mind unstable. I gave her free rein to do anything short of throwing the boy out...but Minerva didn't know that.

Alas, even after the Dursleys, Harry seemed, if not perfectly happy, at least perfectly kind. Curse Lily's forgiving nature.

And so I was forced to have that first unpleasant conversation with Severus.

"You can't ask this of me," he said, looking hurt and upset. Poor, poor Severus.

"Come, Severus. It should be simple enough. He looks a great deal like James, you know."

"Headmaster, he is eleven years old. I don't think I can work up the pettiness to torture a child over the memory of an enemy ten years dead--an enemy this child has never known!"

"You must, Severus. It is necessary."

Necessary, necessary.

Necessary to allow the boy to throw himself into danger time and again. Necessary to see to it that he always survived. Necessary to let him believe that the rules did not apply to him. Necessary.

Necessary for him to feel the continuing touch of hatred. Severus eventually yielded to me in this, as we both knew he must. Severus must always yield--he owes me too much. I dislike using him this way, but the stakes are too high to let my heart interfere with my logic.

When Sirius Black appeared, I believe Severus released a great deal of his pent-up aggression onto him, poor fellow. It must have been a relief to Severus to see a true enemy, after conjuring up a ghost to fight with for so long.

Sirius's timing was quite good. Harry needed to learn that those in authority--and the Ministry in particular--were not always to be trusted, and Sirius taught him that. He also provided a father figure for Harry; a source of stability which I knew would have an interesting effect on Harry's psyche. Particularly if it were to be taken away.

The younger Barty Crouch also came along at an opportune moment in Harry's development. I didn't realize he wasn't Alastor until after that unfortunate ferret incident with Mr. Malfoy--poor young man. Of course, I couldn't punish young Crouch too harshly--it might have discouraged him, and his goals were strangely in line with my own. It was a risk, of course, but Harry needed to face Voldemort again. I had faith that he would survive the experience.

I had forseen a meeting along the lines of the meeting with Professor Quirrell. Disembodied. I didn't realize that Voldemort himself would rise again. The risk turned out to be greater than I had imagined in my most panic-stricken nightmares.

The rewards, likewise, were beyond what I could have dreamed.

Cedric Diggory was dead, Harry touched by Voldemort, Harry's blood in Voldemort's veins (what a fool Tom can be, sometimes), and Peter Pettigrew indebted to Harry...

The link between Harry and Tom could only be strengthened by the blood exchange. Yes, Tom got around Lily's protection--but Harry would grow more violent, and Tom could well be touched by Harry's gentleness--Lily's gentleness.

The whole charade was most successful. Cornelius managed to make Harry angrier--and even more dubious of the Ministry's authority. Rita Skeeter proved to be a more effective destabilizer than even poor Severus has managed to be.

Harry's Fourth year advanced all of my agendas admirably, and I ought to have been well pleased. It's a pity that I'm sickened by the lot of it.

Still. One does what one must.

Severus, of course, was deeply horrified by the whole affair. I occasionally question how well-suited to Slytherin Severus really is. Surely he, of all people, should be able to focus on the larger purpose.

"I suppose you're pleased he watched Diggory die."

"I am very sorry that Mr. Diggory is no longer with us, Severus...but if he had to die, I am glad it was at the hands of Death Eaters, and, yes, I am glad that Harry saw it."

"You're breaking him. You're breaking him, and you're making all of us help you. How do you expect him to defeat the Dark Lord, broken? I'm not convinced he could have done it whole."

"Of course he couldn't have done it whole. That is the point of this entire miserable exercise. Breaking his mind is not the same as breaking his spirit, Severus. His spirit survived the Dursleys; it is like to survive anything. He will be our mad avenging angel."

"I see. So you plan to control a madman. Shall I begin making my funeral arrangements now, or wait for the first explosions?"

"It will work, Severus. We're the ones who shaped his madness, after all."

Severus turned away and paced rapidly up and down the room, then whirled to face me again.

"When I left the Dark Lord," he said, shaking with rage, "I believed that I would never again be forced to complete tasks that made me despise myself. Congratulations, Headmaster. You've exceeded my expectations." And he whirled around and stalked out dramatically.

Bless Severus. He does everything dramatically, and I don't think he's even aware of it.

The summer after Harry's Fourth year was particularly wearing--both physically and emotionally--for all of us. I had to identify all of Harry's nearest and dearest, and then I had to take them away from him.

Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger were simple enough, at least for the summer--I forbid them to send Harry any useful information, as the owls might be watched. This served the secondary purpose of keeping Harry in an information vacuum which would have driven the most well-balanced individual a bit mad. Well-balanced, Harry is not.

I was carefully not there when Harry needed me--at least not emotionally. I had to make sure he was able to practice magic and was not arrested, of course. If he doesn't practice magic, everything is lost.

Sirius was trapped in Grimmauld Place. The elder Weasleys were consumed with Order business, as was Remus Lupin.

I decided I would let Harry keep Mr. Malfoy--mainly because I felt that any effect a Slytherin son-of-a-Death-Eater might have on Harry's sanity would be detrimental. What a warped parent figure I have become! I let the boy keep his friends, but only if I am sure they will be bad for him.

What Lily would say.

Over the course of the school year, I made no attempt to rein in the press. I let Dolores Umbridge do what she would, and I eventually allowed her to drive me off. At least, I allowed her to believe she had driven me off. I forced the Occlumency lessons with Severus, though what Severus saw in Harry's mind prompted another shouting match between us. I allowed Quidditch to be taken from Harry. I let it all happen.

He trusted that he would be safe at Hogwarts. He trusted that I would always be right. He trusted that Sirius would always watch over him. He could not be allowed to trust.

Sirius's death was a master stroke.

I cannot claim full responsibility for it, which is good for my conscience, and bad for my ego--but I could not have chosen better, had I chosen.

Father figure, elder brother, dear friend, noble protector. And good Harry believes the death is entirely his fault, much as he tries to pretend he blames Severus. I really should thank Tom. And Bellatrix, of course.

Sirius had been a growing problem in the Order, in any case. Wild animals in cages, yes?

I can't decide who must be next. Molly? A mother figure to match the father? Or Ms. Ginevra Weasley, eliminating two of the people Harry had saved? Perhaps Ginevra, followed by the Dursley boy, thus rendering Harry's every rescue useless? I must consider.

But I will not throw lives away carelessly. I will not become Tom.

I will sacrifice another only if another loss becomes absolutely necessary.

I will only do what is necessary.