Harry Potter and the Watcher's Council

Chapter 14

"Dates are things normal girls have. Girls who have time to think about nail polish and facials. You know what I think about? Ambush tactics. Beheading. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of." -Buffy, "Halloween"

Hermione stirred the contents of the cauldron with three careful, precise strokes counter clockwise, her brow furrowed in concentration. A bead of sweat trickled from her hair line, leaving a salty streak on her cheek, but she did not move to brush it away. All her attention was centered on the simmering liquid in front of her.

"What color is it supposed to be?" She asked as she removed the ladle and placed it gently on the cloth next to the toilet upon which her cauldron sat.

"A dark purple, with silvery mist," Ron said, reading from Most Potente Potions, which lay open on his lap.

Hermione took a step back from the cauldron with a satisfied nod. "Well, that's it then," she told Harry and Ron. "Now we just need to put the dagger in. You can do that, Harry. I need to record my observations of the results in order to set up the Arithmantical equations later."

"Er, right," said Harry. Now that the Vrai Vue potion was finally complete and they'd soon know the truth about Ginny, Harry wasn't so sure he actually wanted to know. He remembered what Cassandra had told him in the clearing--that knowledge can be as terrible as it is useful. What if it turned out that Ginny wasn't under a spell at all, but acting the way she had been because it was what she wanted--because Malfoy was what she wanted? What would he do then?

"Harry?" Hermione asked gently, bringing him back to himself. "I'm ready. Go on."

Swallowing hard, Harry moved forward and tossed Ginny's dagger into the cauldron before he could think about it any further. For a moment nothing happened. Their heavy breathing and the steady drip of a leaky tap echoed along the grimy tiles of Myrtle's bathroom in the seemingly endless seconds between the muted splash of the dagger falling into the potion and the reaction, when it finally came. Harry was just beginning to wonder if perhaps they'd gotten something wrong when sparks began to shoot from the surface of the potion, reminding him sickeningly of the potion that had restored Voldemort to his body. Harry backed away quickly to watch from a safe distance as the purple liquid began to bubble and roil alarmingly. The silver vapor swirled in strange patterns, shifting so quickly that the sight was almost hypnotizing. The only sounds in the bathroom were the scratch of Hermione's quill as her hand flew across a long sheet of parchment, and Harry and Ron's shallow breaths as they watched, entranced. Hermione gazed fixedly at the whirling mass of mist hovering above the cauldron, filling the parchment with her tiny, precise handwriting.

Harry didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the rapidly shifting designs in the vapor, enthralled. Everything else in his life--all the angst and hardship and death and pain--was forgotten for those brief moments. It wasn't until he heard Hermione calling his name, her voice snapping slightly in annoyance, that he came back to himself.

"Honestly, Harry," she said, looking up at him quizzically as she rolled up her parchment, now completely filled. "I've been calling your name for ages. Thank Merlin it's Friday--I can get started analyzing these results straight away."

"Right. Er, shouldn't we fish Ginny's dagger out of that cauldron? If she hasn't already missed it, she's bound to soon," Harry pointed out.

Ron grimaced as he stared into the cauldron. "The potion's gone all gooey, like some sort of slimy, sludgy...ugh."

"Very articulate, Ron," said Hermione with biting sarcasm. "It's supposed to look like that. Stop whining and just fetch out the dagger."

Harry regarded her questioningly. She wasn't usually so sharpish, at least not to him and Ron. Something had to be bothering her, for her to act like that.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Ron muttered under his breath. "Bloody woman ordering me about," he added bitterly as he reached into the cauldron with a look of disgust marring his face. "Oh, gross. This is truly, absolutely, the most disgusting thing I've ever... Urgh!"

With a final grunt that twisted his face into an expression of utter distaste, Ron pulled out Ginny's dagger, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. The once-silver knife was covered with a brown sludge that dripped thickly from the tip of the blade, leaving large muddy splotches on the already filthy floor of Myrtle's bathroom.

"Well that's it, then," Hermione said briskly. She Vanished the potion with a flick of her wand and gathered up her supplies. "Bring my book, would you Harry?" Without looking to see if Harry did as she asked, Hermione swept out of the bathroom, her nose already buried in her parchment.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked as he stuffed Hermione's book into his bag, heedless of its age and value.

"How should I know?" Ron replied. "I'm just a stupid boy, I don't know anything. Apparently I'm not good for anything but the occasional snog. I'm just not boyfriend material." He said all this under his breath very quickly, almost as if he didn't quite realize Harry was still there, listening.

"Er, well," said Harry helplessly. "I wish I could help you, mate, but I only ever had the one date with Cho, and we both know what a miserable failure that was."

Ron shrugged and practically fled the bathroom, still muttering, leaving a dumbfounded Harry staring after him. Harry just caught sight of Ron's face as he left, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

Harry headed for the library to begin his homework, avoiding the common room altogether in hopes of missing what was sure to be a spectacular row between his best friends. It had been over a week since he'd returned with Willow and Buffy, and he still had not caught up with all his work. He'd missed McGonagall's first two lectures on human transformation theory, and had been desperately attempting to understand the reading ever since. He had yet to discover even one element of the potion Snape had set him for the unknown lab, although he was now almost certain it was an Undetectable Poison, probably one they'd covered during his fourth year, when he'd been so distracted by the Tri-Wizard Tournament. In fact, the only class Harry wasn't behind in was Defense, and that was only because the professors had been off fetching him back to Hogwarts, instead of teaching their classes.

Harry found an empty table near the back of the library. Nearly all the best tables had been claimed by fifth and seventh year students, who had taken to camping out beneath the disapproving nose of Madame Pince, staying in the library until the lanterns flickered and died, forcing them back to their common rooms. Although the sixth years did not have to sit the N.E.W.T.s until the following spring, Harry found himself loaded down with work that was far more difficult than he was used to. He dug out his Transfiguration text with a sigh, trying to put Ron and Hermione's behavior out of his mind.

An hour later he felt as if he was finally beginning to understand how partial human transformations were possible when he heard what sounded distinctly like quiet sobbing from the stacks directly behind him. Harry tried to ignore it (probably just some fifth year snapping under the pressure, he told himself), but after several minutes he closed his book in frustration, knowing he'd never be able to concentrate for wondering about the crying. Pretending to need a book from the Astronomy section just behind him to the right, Harry snuck down the aisle of towering books, moving as quietly as he could. As the noise grew louder, from quiet sobs to rather loud wails, Harry could tell that whoever was making it was opposite him in the next aisle, and extremely upset. Harry pulled a thick, heavy book from the shelf and peered through the space he'd created, trying to get a look at whoever was making the racket. After a few moments during which all he could see was the motes of dust from the book settling onto the shelf, Harry could just make out two people standing close together.

It was Ginny and Malfoy. Ginny was the one who'd been crying. Her back was to him, but Harry could tell she was still crying by the teary sound of her voice and the slight trembling of her shoulders. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, Draco!" She whispered. "It's just too much, and I can't... I can't..."

Malfoy pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest with a look of concern on his pale, pointed face that struck Harry as simply wrong. "Shh..." He whispered, stroking his long fingers through her hair. She let out another sob and buried her face into the front of his robes. "Hey," Malfoy said soothingly. "Hey, it'll be all right. You've just got to let me help you more, that's all. We'll get you through this."

Ginny pulled back slightly and tilted her head back to look up at Malfoy. "I know," she said sheepishly. "Sometimes it's just so hard..."

Malfoy smiled softly and bent down to kiss her. Harry turned away quickly, feeling suddenly ill. He hurried back to his table and packed up his things in record time, not bothering to check behind him as he left the library to make sure Malfoy and Ginny had not seen him. As he made his way to Gryffindor tower to tell Ron and Hermione what he'd seen, he wondered bleakly what it was Malfoy could possibly be helping Ginny with.

* * *

"What have you got for your third example, Harry?" Ron asked, worrying at the tip of his quill with his thumb nail. "Only I can't seem to find one for irreversible spells gone wrong."

Harry shrugged and began reading over his own Defense essay ("When good Wicca goes bad--give three reasons with examples why calling on the forces of nature can be dangerous re: the threefold rule"), making sure that he'd detailed each of his reasons and found examples for each one. It was Sunday night, and Harry felt as if he hadn't had a weekend at all, what with all the catch up he'd had to do from the days he'd missed. Potions alone had taken all of Saturday. While Ron held an all-day Quidditch practice to form strategies to play two players short (with which Harry had refused to help in no uncertain terms), Harry had spent the entire afternoon in the student labs with Hermione, attempting to narrow down some of the elements of his unknown. He'd had some success at last; by the end of the day he was quite sure it contained essence of pieris japonica, better known as Lily-of-the-Valley bush, which definitely indicated a poison of some kind. Harry had cringed when he'd discovered it--he supposed Snape thought he was being clever. Now all he'd have to do was narrow it down to ingredients found in different poisons to find his match.

Sunday had been much of the same, only instead of the potions lab, Harry had been stuck in the library all day with Ron, working on Charms and Defense. It had been a miserable weekend. Harry was almost looking forward to classes the next day, if only for a bit of a change.

"Harry, are you listening? I asked if you've got an example for irreversible spells?" Ron asked impatiently.

"What?" Harry asked, lost in his essay. "Oh, er, sure. I used that love spell case. Dido Romanus, that girl who cast the love spell on her brother instead of her lover. Remember? He went insane and had to be locked away?"

"Wish I didn't remember," Ron muttered. He picked up his quill and began scribbling across his parchment while Harry retrieved a fresh sheet from his bag to write out a fair copy of his essay. He had just begun when Hermione dropped into the empty chair at their table, looking exhausted but satisfied.

"Haven't seen you since last night," Ron remarked lightly. Harry was relieved that the two of them were not fighting. Instead, they seemed to be mutually ignoring the situation by avoiding mentioning anything even remotely controversial, which pretty much excluded anything but schoolwork and their new favorite topic--the prophecy.

"Well I've been busy with the Arithmantical readings, haven't I?" Hermione asked waspishly. She looked frazzled and exhausted, as if she hadn't slept the night before. "Now do you want to know what I've found or not?"

Harry's head shot up abruptly, his essay forgotten. "Is it... what we suspected?" he asked in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard.

Hermione couldn't quite meet his eyes. "She's definitely under some kind of spell," Hermione said quietly, her voice full of worry. "But...it's like nothing I've seen before. Normally a spell will lay on the surface of the blood. It affects the person, but it doesn't actually change them. But this spell... it's almost as if it's infused in her blood. I'll need to configure the magicalculus matrices before I can be absolutely certain, but this..." she trailed off, shaking her head. "This may be beyond me. I suppose I could ask Professor Vector about it--you know, what sort of spell would react this way."

Harry felt a surge of relief at Hermione's words, closely followed by a crashing wave of worry mingled with guilt. "What does this mean?" he asked quickly. "Is she in danger from this spell, whatever it is?"

Hermione shook her head helplessly. "I just don't know, Harry. I need to keep looking at the results. We'll be able to tell more once I've figured out which spell it is, exactly. If I can figure it out, that is."

Harry stared blankly at Hermione. He'd never seen her look so lost or confused, never seen her confront a spell or potion that she couldn't work through. But this thing Ginny was under, whatever it was, had thrown her for a loop. She looked as if her entire world had simply spun off its axis and left her behind to clear up the mess.

Ron stood up quickly. Not looking at either of his friends, he mumbled something about needing a book from the dormitory and grabbed up his bag, disappearing through the library doors without a further word of explanation. Hermione watched him go, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I'm going after him," she said finally, sounding surprisingly firm despite her tears. "This is getting ridiculous."

Harry watched her go, feeling inexplicably sad and confused. Nothing was simple anymore, particularly not his relationships with other people. Even the once almost comforting constant of Ron and Hermione's bickering was no longer the trivial annoyance it used to be.

* * *

"Find a partner," Willow said from the front of the classroom, giving them all a small, tired smile. The students immediately began clamoring for partners; Ron and Hermione chose one another, of course, and Harry was left with Neville, as always. He smiled gamely at Neville, who shrugged as if to apologize.

"Okay. So. Today we're starting Glamours. We'll just do some basic stuff today, eye color, maybe some slight appearance modification. We'll get into the heavier stuff later. Let's see who did the reading. To start off, you'll all need..." she paused, waiting for someone to chime in with the answer. Harry, who had not done the reading, slouched in his desk and tried to become invisible.

"We'll each need one pink rose and one red candle," Padma Patil recited, sounding like a textbook. "And for the Glamour to change one's appearance slightly, we'll need pink candles."

Next to him, Hermione's hand came down. She shot a nasty look at Padma, who smirked back.

"Right. So, everyone have your supply kits? Open your books to page one hundred and fifty two. The incantation is there. Try to follow it exactly. The first time I tried a Glamour, I ended up giving myself a giant wart on the end of my nose that wouldn't go away for an entire week."

The class, tittering with laughter, began to set up their candles. Neville retrieved a rose for each of them from a vase on Willow's desk. "All right then, Harry," he said, his voice quivering slightly with nervousness. "What color shall I make your eyes?"

"Er, how about hazel?" Harry said. His father had had hazel eyes. Ever since he'd entered the wizarding world, people had been telling him that he had his mother's eyes. It would be strange to change his eye color, if only for an hour or two.

Neville set up his candle and lit it carefully, then laid his rose down to the right of it. Flipping through the pages of his copy of Grimmoire, Standard Edition, Neville smoothed out the correct page. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, taking a deep breath.

Harry watched the other boy with bated breath. The last thing he need was a giant wart on his nose, or, knowing his luck, a pulsating boil of some kind. He didn't need to give Malfoy any more fodder to make his life miserable.

"This is to touch," Neville recited, placing his palm over the rose, "this is to see," he continued, moving his palm over the flickering flame of the candle. "Shape and forment for all to see. By the powers of three times three," at this he put both hands over Harry's eyes, blinding him momentarily, "as I will it, so shall it be."

Neville removed his hands. Harry's eyes fluttered open and Neville gasped in surprise. "I've done it, Harry!" he exclaimed excitedly. "It's awfully strange to see you with hazel eyes instead of green."

"Here, Harry," Parvati called from across the room. "I've got a mirror you can use." She dug into her bag and pulled out a small hand mirror that Harry had seen her use countless times to fix her make up and hair between classes. She Banished it to him and he caught it deftly out of the air--Seeker's reflexes.

The change was more drastic than he'd supposed. He'd never really thought eye color was all that important but now, staring at a Harry that was not him, exactly, it seemed immensely so. The image in the mirror looked so like his father that Harry confused himself for a moment, feeling as if he was back in Snape's pensieve, looking at his father's sixteen year old self, or perhaps caught in some strange time warp.

"Brilliant," was all he could manage. Harry set the mirror aside and turned to his book, trying to distract himself from the strange, hot feeling in his stomach. "All right then," he muttered, staring at the page. "It looks as if I can change your hair color with this spell here," Harry said, pointing to the page. "How do you feel about being a red head?"

"Er, all right," Neville said. "It will wear off though, right? I won't have to go searching for the counter spell somewhere?"

Harry grinned at him. "Oh, it'll wear off. Eventually." Harry set up the spell carefully. He dug through his canister of Defense supplies until he found what he was looking for: a fat, pink candle. He lit it with a poke of his wand and began reciting the spell, reading word for word from the Grimmoire.

"Blazing fire as you dance, call upon my sacred glance. Call upon my second sight, give Neville red hair with your sacred light. Blazing fire, shining bright, give him now his second sight."

Harry looked up from the book just in time to watch Neville's hair change color. The color spread from his hairline back, staining his sandy mop like ink soaking into a piece of parchment. At first Harry thought the spell had worked, but then, to his horror, he saw that, instead of red hair, he had given Neville...

"It's pink," Neville gasped, picking up Parvati's mirror and staring at his image, his mouth gaping open in shock. "Harry, you've gone and made my hair pink!"

The rest of the class turned to look, gasping and giggling despite the fact that many of them also had oddly colored hair, and Lavender seemed to have sprouted tiny horns. Willow made her way over to them, shaking her head and grinning.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you didn't actually ask for pink hair?" she asked Neville, favoring him with a kind smile. Neville stared back at her miserably.

"I don't know what went wrong," Harry mumbled, staring at his book with a frown as if wondering how it had failed him. "I followed the directions, spoke the incantation..."

"Harry, what's the most important thing in magic?" Willow asked. At his blank stare, she sighed. "Let me explain...is it enough to just say the words and light the right candles, do you think?"

"Er, no?" Harry ventured.

"Magic requires, well, magic. This isn't like your wand magic that automatically focuses your energy for you. I still say that's cheating, by the way. You have to put something of yourself into it. It isn't enough just to say the words. You have to really mean them. Now this spell, it needs eye contact. You have to be staring into the flame of the candle. Where were you looking?" she asked.

"At the book," Harry admitted.

"The evil spirit of book dependency strikes again!" Willow joked. "Why don't you give it another try. And remember, the book can't do the magic for you. It can only sit there and, you know, be booky."

Harry nodded and set the spell up again, but his mind was elsewhere, Willow's words echoing in his head. It's not enough just to say the words. You have to mean them...

You need to mean them, Potter...you have to really want to cause pain...

Swallowing hard, Harry pushed the thoughts from his mind. The last thing he needed to think about right now was Bellatrix Lestrange and their aborted duel at the Ministry. He glanced up at Neville, who smiled bravely.

"You ready?" Harry asked, trying to gather himself. "Alright. Blazing fire as you dance..."

* * *

"Need any help with that?"

Harry jumped in surprise, nearly dropping the target he'd been detaching from the ceiling. He'd taught the D.A. the Conjunctivitis Curse that evening, thinking that in all likelihood, the Giants would be firmly on Voldemort's side and they'd need a way to fight them. As far as he knew, their eyes were their only real weakness, hence that particular curse. Of course, they couldn't practice aiming the curse on actual people --too dangerous--so Harry, Ron, and Hermione had set up parchment bulls-eye targets around the room. The one Harry held featured a large, charred hole through the center.

"Er, sorry?" Harry said, confused. He'd thought everyone had gone by then, but when he turned to face the speaker, he found himself looking down at Susan Bones's flushed face.

She flung her long braid over her shoulder and cleared her throat. "Do you need any help?" she repeated, shrugging.

Harry stared at her, nonplused. To his knowledge, he had not exchanged more than six or seven words with the Hufflepuff girl during as many years at school together. And yet here she was, waiting around the Room of Requirement for him to be alone, with a look on her face that clearly meant business.

"Um, sure," he said, although there were only a few targets left to take down.

She nodded briskly, pulling out her wand. "Accio!" she said, and the rest of the targets flew gracefully into her out-stretched palm. She gave him a small, embarrassed smile.

"Actually, I was just hoping I could have a word," she said. "I don't know why I made up that rubbish about helping. I suppose, well, I'm a bit nervous, you know. I've never actually done anything like this before, and you have this strange effect on me, perhaps because of all the D.A. meetings, wherein I feel as if I have to do this exactly right, or something completely dire might happen." She stopped suddenly, clapping her hand over her mouth. "Oh no. I've just verbally vomited all over you!"

Harry grinned. "At least it was only figurative vomit, then. Those stains are so hard to get out of one's robes, don't you think?"

She laughed. "Right. Well, you're probably standing there wondering, 'Is this silly girl just going to continue babbling incoherently at me all night, or does she actually have a point?'"

"I imagine you're very pointy," Harry said, then immediately flushed. "Er, that didn't quite come out right. Serves me right for trying to be witty. And Ron just told me the other day that I need to stick to the strong, silent, hero-type."

"Not at all! I mean, I am pointy! No, I don't mean that. I mean I have a point!" Susan laughed again. "Sorry, still nervous here. All right then, to the point. So. As you're probably aware, there's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up. You know, for Valentine's and all that rubbish. But I was thinking that if you didn't already have plans..."

"Are you asking me on a date?" Harry blurted, staring at her in shock. Aside from the Yule Ball, when loads of girls had asked him to go just so they could be partnered with a champion, Harry had never been asked out before. He found he quite liked the experience and the way he could make Susan flush pink with embarrassment. He'd never really noticed her before, but now that he was taking a good, long look... well she wasn't extremely pretty, like Cho, nor did she have Ginny's spark (but then, neither had Ginny, recently), but she was nice-looking in a way he'd describe as cute, and she certainly seemed pleasant enough.

Her chin went up a notch at his question and she gave him a lopsided, self-conscious smile. "Are you accepting?" she countered.

Harry thought about it for a moment. Despite their non-dating status, Ron and Hermione were sure to want time to themselves on Valentine's day. Harry knew if he didn't have some sort of plans for the weekend, he'd end up locked away in his dormitory, feeling miserable about Ginny and wondering what she was up to with Malfoy, or worse, cooped up in the dungeon labs, working on his unknown lab for Snape. That decided it--he'd much rather spend the day with Susan Bones, who seemed nice enough despite being an almost complete unknown--than thinking about anything Slytherin-related.

"Actually, that sounds brilliant," Harry said.

Susan grinned and they made plans to meet in the entrance hall after breakfast the day of the Hogsmeade visit. Harry watched Susan leave the Room of Requirement, braid swinging back and forth across her slim back, and smiled to himself.

* * *

The day of the Ravenclaw-Gryffindor Quidditch match dawned cold and clear with a chill wind that would prove difficult for the players to navigate. Harry stared out the window of his dormitory, listening to the familiar, comforting sounds of Ron's soft snores and the occasional mumble from Neville indicating that they were still deep asleep. The sun rose in a gentle shower of orange and pink sparks over the lake, reflecting on the ice-encrusted surface with a glare like fire. Harry leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, smiling ruefully to himself. It seemed that even when he wasn't flying, he still couldn't sleep in on game days.

Harry found himself wondering about Gryffindor's chances for the first time since he'd returned from the winter hols. He knew what he'd done--giving up Quidditch and denouncing the points system--was the right thing to do. Voldemort was raising his army even as Harry sat in this window seat watching the sun rise, and he knew it was only a matter of time before war descended upon Hogwarts. His vision through Cassandra's Door had only strengthened his certainty on the matter. Sooner than any of them could bear to imagine, a battle would be fought on school grounds: the battle for Hogwarts. Their only hope--the school's only hope--was for everyone to stand united against the rising tide of darkness slowly creeping over their world.

Even so, Harry couldn't help but sigh and wish that he, too, would be out on the pitch that day, flying as if his life depended on it. Quidditch was always the one thing he missed the most during the summer holidays with the Dursleys. Now, knowing that today he'd watch his teammates play without him (and undoubtedly lose without him), Harry felt an ache deep in his chest, as if someone had rooted around inside and removed a piece just big enough that the space where it had been rang hollow, a perpetual lack. Buffy was right in some ways when she'd told him that this was his only chance to be a real teenager. But Harry had been sacrificing bits and pieces of himself for too long to remember how to stop now. It just wasn't in his nature.

And Gryffindor would lose. There was no way they could beat Ravenclaw when they were down two players, one of them being the all-important Seeker. Harry had heard Ron discussing strategy with Seamus just the night before in the common room. Ron planned for Ginny to play Chaser and Seeker, but Harry knew that would never work. Even though Ginny had improved phenomenally since the year before when she'd first joined the team, she simply couldn't be in two places at once. Well, Harry thought with another smile, not legally, anyway. Harry allowed himself to indulge in a moment of frustration as he considered Gryffindor's chances. Not for the first time, he wished that he were someone else--anyone else. Maybe then he could be the one snoring peacefully in his bed, sleep undisturbed by nightmarish visions of past and future. Maybe then he could be the one who didn't care about school unity, as long as Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup and the Slytherins didn't win anything, if he could help it.

Ron grunted in his sleep and Harry turned to watch him. Ron's eyes fluttered open, staring blearily at the canopy above his bed for a few moments before he sat up slowly, rubbing his face tiredly with both hands.

"Morning," Harry said, sliding from his perch on the window seat and crossing the room slowly to sink onto his own bed. "Nervous?" he asked a bit wistfully.

Ron grunted in response and began getting ready for the day. He pulled out his Quidditch robes and laid them on the bed while he gathered up his toiletries. Harry stared at the scarlet and gold uniform enviously, feeling once again that frustrating jealousy that Ron should get to play Quidditch and have a girlfriend and a family and everything else, while Harry had had to give up what small semblance of normalcy he had for the greater good. It wasn't fair, not at all.

Ron caught him staring and sent him an odd, calculating look. "You could still play, you know," he said casually over his shoulder as he crossed the room, heading for the toilets. "I've still got time to add you to the roster."

Before Harry could respond, the door had closed behind Ron. He was left staring at the uniform, hating Ron more than he had ever thought possible. How dare Ron throw it back in his face, when he knew... Of course Harry wanted to play, but he couldn't, could he? He'd had to give up one of the only things that made him truly happy in some grand symbolic gesture, and now Ron was acting as if he could simply take it away, pretend it hadn't happened? Harry glared at the scarlet and gold robes on Ron's bed, robes that were fast becoming a blur as tears of anger and frustration clouded his vision. Harry wanted to hit something. No, he wanted to hit Ron. How dare he...?!

"Harry?" Neville said gently. He let out a jaw-popping yawn and climbed out of bed, coming to stand next to Harry's. With a sigh he sat down next to Harry, watching him silently for several moments before speaking again, his round face kind but sober. "That wasn't fair," he said quietly. "But Ron... well we all know he's not the most sensitive guy around. He just wants what's best for his team, for his friends, and he knows that thing is you. He's a brilliant tactician, but when it comes to people, he just doesn't think."

"You're right," Harry whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling with anger. "It's not fair. Nothing's ever fair when it comes to me, is it? I've given up so much, and he has the nerve to tell me...?"

Neville snorted. "Come off it, Harry," he said in a stern voice that surprised Harry. Harry turned to look at the other boy, shocked by the frustration and disappointment he saw on Neville's face. "All right, so you've got no parents. Well, neither have I, not really. Neither have a lot of us whose parents fought against Voldemort the first time round. And you had an awful childhood, I'll grant you that, but then so do loads of people. For Merlin's sake, Harry! My own uncle dropped me from a fourth story window. Ron and Ginny have never had anything new, and Hermione--"

"What are you trying to get at, Neville?" Harry cut in, his eyes flashing. But inside, Harry's anger was beginning to peel away from his core, leaving him feeling cold and ashamed. Neville's words were getting to him, and Harry couldn't help but feel that he was giving him a more effective version of Buffy's 'stop feeling sorry for yourself' speech. Neville didn't know about the prophecy and Voldemort, Harry reminded himself, trying to maintain his anger. Anger was clean and easy, purging in a way that made Harry feel almost free. This sudden guilt and self-loathing, on the other hand...

Neville sighed again, tiredly, as if he'd explained this already more times than he cared to. He met Harry's eyes steadily. "I'm saying that I understand at least a little of what you're feeling. It's not fair, what you've got to go through. There're expectations for you, and high ones at that. But you know what, Harry? I'd give just about anything to be in your place, instead of in mine. You've got friends--true, loyal friends who would protect you to the death if need be. Everyone in the wizarding world believes in you. We all you have faith in you. I can't even get Gran to believe me when I say I conjured a Patronus."

Harry stared at Neville for a few moments, nonplused. His anger had drained away, and with its loss came the knowledge that Neville was, well, right. Ron had been a prat, saying Harry could still fly for Gryffindor that afternoon, but then Ron was always a bit of a prat when it came down to it. That didn't change the fact that whenever Harry had needed him most, Ron had believed in him and been there for him.

"As touching as this moment is," said Dean groggily from behind his drawn curtains, "some of us have to get our beauty rest in order to commentate today, so would you two poufs kindly shut up and leave me in peace?"

Harry grinned at Neville, who shrugged ruefully. Grabbing Harry's pillow, Neville crept over to Dean's bed and threw back the curtains, letting shafts of bright early morning sunshine into Dean's cocoon of bedding.

"No rest for the wicked, mate!" Neville shouted as he brought the pillow down onto Dean's head with a crow of triumph. Dean emerged from his blankets in a cloud of feathers, only to be smacked again in the side of the head with Harry's pillow. Seamus, awakened by the noise of three yelling boys, poked his head out from his drawn curtains, watched Dean snatch up his own pillow and launch himself at Neville, then closed his curtains again with a sleepy mumble.

"That's it, Longbottom!" Dean yelled as he pummeled the other boy. "You're going down!" Neville's reply was to shriek with laughter, then sputter into a coughing fit when several of the small, poofy feathers from the pillows took the opportunity to fly into his open mouth. Harry grinned and shifted backwards onto his bed, content to watch.

* * *

"Are you even going to come?" Ron asked moodily from his seat across the Gryffindor table. He glared into his eggs and began stabbing at them viciously, as if they had pronounced a deadly slur on his family name. Hermione gave him an exasperated look and plucked the fork from his fingers unceremoniously.

"Stop trying to murder the innocent eggs, Ron," she said, but her eyes flicked between Harry and Ron, curiosity clear in their brown depths.

Harry paused with a forkful of potatoes halfway up to his mouth to answer. "Of course I'm coming, you git. Do you really think I'd miss this? Didn't you always watch my matches?"

"Well, yeah," Ron said slowly, watching Harry with his eyes narrowed. "But that was different, wasn't it? I wasn't on a crusade against the house system, was I?"

Harry shrugged. "It's not about that. And anyway, I fully plan to wear my invisibility cloak during the match. You're my friend, and I'll go to support you," Harry continued quickly, before Ron could protest, "but I can't be obvious about it, can I? Everyone will say I'm a hypocrite."

"A three syllable word, Potter," a cold voice said from behind him. "I didn't realize your vocabulary stretched beyond the occasional grunt or curse."

Harry twisted around to find Draco Malfoy smiling maliciously down at him, waving a small sapphire and bronze flag gleefully in his face. Harry narrowed his eyes at the Slytherin. They hadn't spoken since that day on the train, not even to trade insults. Harry thought it must've been Ginny's influence--that she'd told Malfoy to lay off the Gryffindors. Obviously, he'd been fooling himself.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Hermione asked finally, after several minutes of silence. Ron was once again attacking his eggs, clearly bent on murder. Harry was amazed by his friend's restraint, although he supposed most of it had to do with not wanting to be suspended from the game before it had even begun.

"Shut up, Granger," Malfoy said, although that annoyingly superior smile was still plastered on his face, as though he couldn't quite help it. "I've not stooped so low as to converse with Mudbloods quite yet. Anyway, Potter, I just came over to thank you." He smiled beatifically at Harry and offered him one delicate hand. Harry narrowed his eyes. He couldn't help but notice that Malfoy's nails were manicured. How could Ginny stand him? His hands were manicured, for Merlin's sake!

"I haven't done anything for you, Malfoy," Harry said. He eyed Malfoy's hand cagily, wondering briefly, almost hopefully, if Ginny had sent Malfoy over here to make amends or something. Malfoy's next words dashed all thoughts of reconciliation, however brief and entirely unwanted, from his head.

"Well, of course you have." Malfoy let his hand drop to his side, subtly wiping it on his robes, as if he'd actually touched Harry and now sought to remove any impurities Harry may have given him. Malfoy tossed his head imperiously and wrapped his scarf more tightly about his neck--Ravenclaw colors, to match his flag. "It's because of you and your idiotic attempts to unite the school against You-Know-Who," at this he chuckled as if highly amused by the very idea, "that Slytherin is going to win the Quidditch Cup this year. We'll finally be getting what we deserve."

"What you deserve, Malfoy," said Hermione, her eyes flashing dangerously, "is to be exposed for what you really are! A mindless follower, a bigot who spouts his father's philosophy without even bothering to research the facts!"

"Hermione," Harry said, his voice holding a warning, "he's not worth it."

But Hermione seemed not to have heard him. Instead, she stood from the table, palms flat on its polished surface, and leaned toward Malfoy menacingly. Malfoy stared back haughtily, looking calm and collected and wholly unaffected by Hermione's rage. When Hermione spoke again, her voice shook with fury.

"You know, Malfoy, I used to think you were intelligent. There was that one time, back in third year, when you topped my score in Transfiguration... and of course you've always been top in the class in Potions, but I've always assumed that it was mainly due to favoritism... Nevertheless, I'd thought you had brains enough to think for yourself, but all you are--all you've ever been--is a spoilt brat who turned into an equally spoilt racist!"

"Hermione, stop!" Ron whispered frantically. Most of Gryffindor had turned to watch the confrontation, and a few of the teachers at the head table were beginning to take notice.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had not moved a muscle during Hermione's tirade. His only acknowledgement was the cold fury burning in his eyes. Carefully, he flicked a piece of non-existent lint from his cuff, looking extremely bored and indifferent. His eyes flicked to Hermione, who was still glaring at him, her face flushed red with anger.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said innocently. "Were you talking? Only, when Mudbloods are speaking, all I can seem to hear is, 'I'm a filthy bint who should've never been born.'"

At this statement Ron swore and stood up next to Hermione, having apparently forgotten his fears of being banned from Quidditch. Harry stood up as well and turned to face Malfoy fully. Standing, he was very close to the other boy, so close that he could practically feel Malfoy trembling where he stood. The Slytherin looked outwardly calm, but the confrontation had affected him more than he was willing to admit.

Harry leaned closer still, so that he could whisper directly in Malfoy's ear. This was not something he wanted Hermione and Ron, much less the rest of the school, to hear.

"If you ever threaten her again," he whispered, "I swear to god, I'll kill you."

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy!" Professor McGonagall gasped, appearing next to them quite suddenly. Or, Harry supposed, he'd just been too distracted to notice her arrival. Harry took a step back from Malfoy and resumed his seat at the Gryffindor table. He picked up his fork and began calmly eating his potatoes, watching Malfoy all the while. Hermione's anger had shaken him, but Harry's threat seemed to have actually frightened him. Malfoy turned to McGonagall, a look of immense relief warming the cool grey of his eyes.

"Professor," Malfoy said quickly, shooting Harry a look that clearly meant for him to keep quiet, "lovely day for a Quidditch match, is it not?"

McGonagall paused with her mouth half-way open, surely on the verge of giving them all a good talking to, confused. She blinked, then opened her mouth again, undaunted. "What is the meaning of this, you four?" she snapped. "I'm getting sick and tired of your bickering. And you, Potter! Stirring up trouble between the houses! I'm ashamed, after all that talk about unity!"

"It wasn't like that, Professor!" Hermione said quickly. "Mal--er, Draco," the name rolled off her tongue like a particularly difficult to pronounce foreign word, "was just wishing us good luck today, that's all. Weren't you, Draco?"

Ron turned to stare at her incredulously. McGonagall wasn't buying it for a second either, her eyes flitting suspiciously from Hermione to Ron to Malfoy to Harry. Malfoy gave Hermione a shrewd, assessing look before responding.

"Absolutely," he said smoothly. "Of course, I'll be cheering for Ravenclaw, Professor," he added with a smirk and a little wave of his flag. "After all, if they win, Slytherin is a sure thing for the Quidditch Cup. Professor Snape wants that cup back--you understand."

"Yes, I suppose he does," McGonagall muttered. "Well, off with you, then. The match is about to start, anyway."

Malfoy didn't pass up the chance to give them another superior sneer before he left, waving his flag jauntily at them as he did so. The three of them watched him go, sending identical glares into the back of his robes.

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably and searched for something to say, anything that would break the tension. "So, uh, good luck then, Ron. I'm planning to watch from Hufflepuff--can't imagine many of them would bother to show up. Er, not that you'll be able to see me."

Ron looked as if he wanted to protest, but a quelling glare from Hermione nipped that in the bud. He shrugged instead. "All right then. At least you'll be there. Only it's not as if we even have a chance against Ravenclaw. Damn Malfoy for being right about something! You'd think at least one of those uppity brains would've quit the team in protest by now!"

Harry covered his grin behind a mouthful of food. Ron left shortly thereafter to prepare for the match, leaving Hermione and Harry to finish their breakfasts in the quickly emptying Great Hall. Hermione sipped at her coffee, lost in thought, while Harry devoured his food.

"I'm still having trouble with those readings," Hermione said finally. She cupped her hands around her mug, staring down into the dregs of her coffee with a look of great concentration, as if she was trying to read her future in the grounds.

Harry pushed his plate aside, finished, and gazed at her with concern. "That's bad, right? Hermione, tell me honestly--what kind of spell could have affected Ginny so deeply that it changed her very nature?"

Hermione did not meet his eyes, but continued to stare into her cup. "It's complicated, Harry," she said. "I... I do know something that might be a factor, that might be interfering with the readings, but I promised I wouldn't say anything, and I'm already saying too much. You've got to understand that Ron can't ever know, it's far too dangerous and--"

"Hermione," Harry said, realization dawning on him. "Is this... look, I heard you and Ginny arguing one night, back at Giles's house over Christmas hols. I didn't hear much, just enough to know that there's something you're not telling us. I haven't said anything before, because, well--"

"You knew?" Hermione gasped, her eyes flying up to catch his. "But why didn't you tell Ron, o-or ask me...?"

Harry smiled wanly. "I was about to get to that, if you'd have let me finish. I guess I was just embarrassed. I felt guilty for having overheard you and Ginny. And besides that, well, I trust you, Hermione. You've kept secrets from us before, and you usually have a good reason. There are things with Ginny... well there are things I haven't told you either."

Hermione nodded slowly and gave him a teary smile. "I just... you'll help me, won't you Harry? I promised Ginny that I wouldn't tell her secret, and I won't, but Ron... he won't understand that. She's his only sister and he takes his duty to protect her very seriously even if, well, she doesn't necessarily need protecting."

Harry raised his eyebrows at her. "She doesn't need protecting?" he echoed. "That's not what you were saying when the two of you argued."

Hermione flushed. "Well, not in the way you mean. She's made some terrible decisions lately--I mean honestly, Draco Malfoy!--but she's right about one thing. She's not a child anymore, and we can't keep trying to hide her away from the rest of the world."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose that would matter if she were actually talking to any of us at the moment, but as it is..."

Hermione sighed tiredly. "I know. Look, just do me a favor, will you? When Ron mentions Ginny, try to change the subject. I don't want to have to lie to him, but..." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly before opening them again to give Harry a hard stare. "Sometimes knowing the truth is far more painful than not knowing at all."

Harry nodded, feeling as if for once, he understood Hermione perfectly.

* * *

Harry watched the match from the Hufflepuff stands, which were nearly empty as their team was no longer in existence, much less in the running for the Quidditch cup. A few Hufflepuffs had turned out to cheer on their friends from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but even so Harry managed to find an entire empty bench to himself. He kept his invisibility cloak wrapped tightly around him, enjoying the freedom of being able to do something as simple as watch a Quidditch match without feeling the stares of the other students or wonder what they were whispering about him behind their cupped hands.

The match itself was nothing short of painful. Ginny was brilliant, scoring several goals while searching for the snitch. The Ravenclaw team had the advantage of a full complement of players, though, and quickly began pulling ahead of Gryffindor. The more goals Ravenclaw scored, the less confidence Ron seemed to have. When it was all over, Harry thought that, despite Gryffindor's handicaps, they might have won if only the snitch had appeared sooner; instead, the game lasted for several long, grueling hours. By the time dusk had fallen, the snitch had failed to show even a glimmer of itself, allowing Ravenclaw to take advantage of Ginny's dual role and the lack of a Gryffindor Beater to pull ahead by nearly three hundred points.

The most exciting moment of the match came at the very end. Ginny, who had all but given up Seeking to concentrate on scoring, fell into a sudden, near vertical dive. For a moment Harry thought her broom had failed, that she was falling to a certain death on the hard pitch below. But then she began to spin, whipping her broom in tight spirals to force it to move faster than it was meant to. Harry found himself standing suddenly along with the rest of the crowd, shouting himself hoarse as Ginny's broom began to vibrate at the maneuvers she was forcing it through. Harry could just make out her face, frozen in a dark scowl of concentration, teeth clenched around her bottom lip. He was screaming but no one noticed--they were yelling too, far too loudly to hear him. Harry was sure she would crash, she was so close to the pitch, and then with an easy, graceful turn, she spiraled out of her dive, hand clutched around a pair of fluttering silver wings. Ginny had caught the snitch, but Gryffindor had lost.

Harry heard Dean's voice announcing the end of the game above the raucous cheering from the Ravenclaw stands. "And a valiant effort by Gryffindor Chaser--and now Seeker--Ginny Weasley, but it won't be enough to save the game for Gryffindor. Ravenclaw wins by two hundred and five points, putting them in the lead for the House Cup! The final will be Slytherin versus Ravenclaw, but we've got a long wait until then. Good luck teams, and congratulations to Ravenclaw!"

Harry closed his eyes briefly, wishing at that moment that things could have been different. He watched Ginny hop off her broom, looking frustrated and dejected. Harry could only imagine what it must be like, to make a fabulous catch like the one she had, but still find yourself on the losing side. Ron dismounted and headed across the pitch to shake hands with the Ravenclaw captain, looking as if his favorite uncle had suddenly keeled over dead. Harry began making his way down to the pitch, threading his way carefully through the small crowd of Hufflepuffs. A glint of silver caught his eye, and Harry turned, distracted, to watch the Gryffindor team shake hands with the Ravenclaws. All except Ginny.

The glint of silver that had caught Harry's eye was Malfoy, or rather, Malfoy's hair reflecting the bright sunlight of the cold February afternoon. He stood with Ginny on the sidelines, gesturing wildly at her. For a moment Harry thought they must be arguing; Ginny looked horrified and angry. She yelled something back at Malfoy, and Harry found himself hoping fervently that she would hit him--it certainly looked as if she wanted to. But then she grabbed Malfoy's hand and the two of them took off across the pitch in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

Harry shoved his way through the crowd, not caring at that point that he might be noticed. He had to catch up to Malfoy and Ginny. He had a feeling deep in his gut that whatever they had argued about, wherever they had run off to, held the key to the mystery that Ginny had become. Harry jumped the last few steps of the stands and sprinted across the pitch toward the forest, hoping he wasn't too late to catch them.

By the time Harry reached the edge of the forest, full night had fallen. The moon shone brightly above, bathing the lawns in an unreal silvery light that made Harry feel as if he were dreaming. He saw another bright flash of silver--not moonlight this time, but something else--several yards ahead in the trees. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, Harry headed into the forest.

He had only been walking for a few minutes when the sound of raised, angry voices reached his ears, just a few more yards ahead, where Harry knew there was an opening in the trees. He hurried his steps until he saw the clearing ahead. Two people stood at the edge of it, arguing in harsh tones. Harry ducked behind a wide oak tree to listen, wincing as his foot snapped a large twig with a loud crack.

"Did you hear that?" Harry frowned. He had thought the people in the clearing were Ginny and Malfoy, but that was Buffy's voice.

"Probably just an animal. We are in a forest, in case you hadn't noticed," said a familiar, drawling voice--Spike.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Whatever. Look, you have to keep your goons under control, Spike! I can't believe you let this happen. That kid could have died, and who knows how long that memory spell Willow did on him will hold? You could've ruined everything!"

"They're vampires, Buffy, not saints. What do you expect, with all that fresh meat practically begging to be tasted, all gathered in one small convenient place? It's like a bloody McDonald's out there."

"You're disgusting!" Buffy spat. "I can't believe I ever let you touch me!"

"Give it a rest, love. Let me touch you? You begged for it, you hypocritical bint!"

"I hate you," came the whispered reply. Buffy's voice broke on a sob, and the conversation ceased for a few moments. Harry shifted against the tree, feeling immensely uncomfortable that he had eavesdropped on such a personal conversation, feeling very glad that he could not see the two of them from behind his hiding place. He waited, hoping they would begin discussing the boy who could have died again. Buffy's sobs slowly died out, replaced by low, breathy gasps. Spike laughed knowingly, and Buffy gasped again. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, Harry realized that they weren't likely to begin talking again anytime soon and fled, racing down the moonlit path out of the forest and trying desperately not to think about what Buffy and Spike must be doing. He didn't want to know, he told himself. He shouldn't have heard any of it in the first place, and now he sort of wished he hadn't.

Harry dreamt that night that he was back in the stands, watching Ginny dive for the snitch. Only this time, she lost control of her broom and was falling, her mouth open in a silent scream, her brown eyes filled with terror. Instead of the hard, packed earth of the pitch, a tattered black curtain fluttered below her, waiting patiently for her to fall through.