Harry Potter's Christmas Angel

"Harry Potter's Christmas Angel"
By R.S. Lindsay

Chapter One
"An Angel Falls..."

"Listen, I don't think we should tell Harry about this."

Harry Potter stopped just inside the portrait hole entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room. He peered around the corner. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville were all seated together on sofas and chairs next to the fireplace. Neville had an open letter in his hand.

"Why not?" Ron asked, in response to Hermione's suggestion.

"Because he's already feeling bad enough," said Hermione. "It's two weeks until Christmas, and...well, you've seen him over the past few days, as they've been putting up the decorations in the Great Hall. He's very depressed. And something like this will only make him feel worse. Besides, there's not really anything that any of us can do about it. So..."

Hermione stopped. Neville was looking towards the portrait hole entrance. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny turned to see Harry, standing at the corner, listening to them. Ron winced as Harry came over to the fireplace.

"What is it you don't want to tell me?" Harry asked, calmly.

Ron sighed and gestured to Neville to give Harry the news.

"Um...well," Neville began, "my Gram went to St. Mungo's last week to visit my Mum and Dad. She was taking them some things...you know, blankets and stuff? And...well, while she was there, she ran into Amos Diggory. He was there to visit his wife. It seems Mrs. Diggory suffered an nervous breakdown about a month ago. She's been in the hospital ever since."

A silence followed. Harry's friends watched him closely. After a few moments, he pursed his lips. "I see. Does your Gram say how she's doing?"

"Well...no," Neville stammered. "Gram doesn't say how Mrs. Diggory is. She just says they moved her onto the Closed Ward, Ward Number 49."

Harry grimaced. "That can't be too good, can it? I mean, that's long-term care, isn't it? The Healers at St. Mungo's don't move you onto the Closed Ward unless they think you're going to be there a long time, do they?"

"No, they don't," Neville said, grimly.

There was another awkward silence. No one seemed to know what to say.

"Well," Harry asked, looking at his friends, "can anyone think of any way that we might be able to help Mrs. Diggory?"

"I suppose it would be a silly idea to send her a 'Get Well' card," said Ron.

"Probably," Harry agreed. "What would we say to her? 'Dear Mrs. Diggory. We're sorry you lost your marbles. Hope you find 'em again soon.'"

His voice was emotionless, without anger or sarcasm or humor. Behind him, a log snapped in the fireplace. "Look, I'm going to go upstairs and do my Transfiguration homework."

"Harry?" Hermione asked, looking at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Harry mumbled. He took a few steps towards the stairs that led to the boys' dormitory, then stopped and looked back at Neville.

"Umm...just curious, Neville. Why did your grandmother tell you about this? I mean, is Mrs. Diggory a friend of your family or something?"

"No, we don't know her that well." Neville looked at his letter, disgusted. "I think it's...well, you know what my Gram is like, Harry. She's not the most sensitive person in the world. When she tells me about Mrs. Diggory, it's like she's just telling me the latest news about Mum and Dad."

He did an imitation of his grandmother's high-pitched, pompous voice. "'Oh, by the way, Neville. Your parents have a new roommate on the Closed Ward. It's Mrs. Amos Diggory. Isn't that lovely?'" He sighed. "In the same paragraph, she mentions that my Mum and Dad have new wallpaper in their rooms."

"Right," Harry said, smiling slightly. "Well...I'd better go hit the books."

He walked across the room, and disappeared up the stairs into the boys' dormitory.

* * *

Harry walked into his room and closed the door. He went to his desk next to the wall, and slammed his books down on it, knocking over a cupful of pencils. He sat down at the desk and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

Boy, you really didn't see THAT one coming, did you?

he thought. First Cedric, then Sirius, now Cedric's mother. You're doing a terrific job, aren't you?

He remembered Mrs. Diggory, on the day he'd met with her...the day after his encounter with Voldemort, the day after Cedric's murder. Amos Diggory had been there. He had cried through most of the meeting. But Mrs. Diggory hadn't cried. Her grief had seemed beyond tears, as Harry had described to her how her son had died.

"He suffered very little then,"

she had said. "And after all, Amos...he died just when he'd won the Tournament. He must have been very happy."

No,

Harry thought. No, he wasn't happy. He was just dead.

Images filled Harry's mind, now. He saw Cedric flying on his broom during the one game they had played against each other as Seekers. Cedric dancing with Cho Chang at the Yule Ball. Cedric standing over him in the maze, after they had defeated the giant spider. The smile on Cedric's face when he, Harry, suggested that they take the Triwizard Cup together.

"Both of us. We'll take it at the same time. It's still a Hogwarts victory. We'll tie for it."

He saw Cedric lying dead in the graveyard, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. Cedric's ghostly image emerging from Voldemort's wand.

"Harry...take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents..."

Outside the window, snow was falling. The faint outline of Harry's reflection stared back at him from the darkened pane of glass.

Hermione was right. In the past few weeks, with Christmas coming on, he had felt his mood darkening. He was missing Sirius even more now. As he walked through the halls of Hogwarts and saw teachers and students putting up decorations everywhere, his mind kept going back to the previous year's Christmas. He remembered how Sirius had decorated the house at 12 Grimmauld Place, how cheerful his godfather had been to have guests in his house for the holidays. No one had suspected at the time that it would be Sirius's last Christmas.

If only you hadn't gone charging off to the Ministry of Magic to save Sirius when you thought he was in trouble! If only you'd continued with your Occlumency lessons! If only you'd opened the package containing the two-way mirror that he gave you just after Christmas!

He still had the cracked mirror, but so far Sirius had not made any attempts to send any messages from beyond the Veil.

And now, Mrs. Diggory's in the Closed Ward at St. Mungo's. I guess her grief was so far beyond tears that she just couldn't handle it. Bet Voldemort would have a good laugh over that one. He got two victims for the price of one! If only you hadn't suggested that you and Cedric should take the Triwizard Cup together.

No that's too easy. You shouldn't have saved Wormtail's life. You should have let Sirius and Remus Lupin kill him. If you had, Cedric would still be alive. Sirius would still be alive. And Voldemort would still be crawling around helpless somewhere in Albania. He might even have died by now.

If only...if only...if only...

Harry stood up. He went to his bed and lay down on it, listening to the wind howl outside as the evening shadows closed in around him.

It's going to be a very happy Christmas,

he thought bitterly.

* * *

"The Spell of the Dragon's Teeth," said Cho Chang. "It's a useful spell for distracting your opponent in a duel. It's somewhat difficult to learn. But once you've mastered it, it can really help you. Who knows? It might even save your life!"

About thirty Gryffindor first- and second-years sat on cushions in the Room of Requirement. Cho stood in the center of the room, holding her wand. Harry and Ginny sat together on wooden chairs against the wall.

"The Spell of the Dragon's Teeth is an old Mandarin Chinese spell," Cho continued. "What it does...it ignites the oxygen molecules in the air, producing a sort of flash-and-bang effect. Now, watch!"

She pointed her wand across the room, waved it airily, and shouted, "Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá!"

A series of small but bright flashes of light suddenly appeared in front of Cho's wand, accompanied by a loud "BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!!" The first- and second-year students jumped at the sound. The concussions echoed off the walls of the room, and a cloud of white smoke slowly floated up to the ceiling.

A few seconds of silence followed as the first- and second-years recovered from the shock of the spell. Then they burst into applause.

Cho grinned. "Thank you. Now, you see what happens! Better than a handful of Dr. Filibuster's Fireworks! You pop off this spell in your opponent's face. it won't kill them...but it will scare the you-know-what out of them!"

The students laughed at this.

"You pop off the Spell of the Dragon's Teeth, and your opponent might be so scared that they'll turn around and run the other way. Or if they don't, at least they'll be blinded for a few seconds by all those flashes of light you just saw. And they'll stand there like a deer in the headlights and give you all the time in the world to escape, or to put a new curse on them. It's a very useful diversion!"

You've got that right,

Harry thought, as he listened to Cho. I really could've used this spell at the Ministry of Magic, when the Death Eaters had us backed up against those shelves full of prophecy orbs in the Department of Mysteries.

At the beginning of Harry's sixth year, Professor Dumbledore had been unable to fill the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position. The D.A.D.A. classes were now being taught as a series of seminars hosted by professors on the Hogwarts staff, such as McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick, and by "guest lecturers" such as Remus Lupin, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora Tonks, who came to teach for one or two weeks at a time, and then departed. This schedule of rotating teachers gave the students at Hogwarts very little time to practice the skills they had learned in the previous class before moving on to the next seminar.

Early in the year, Professor Dumbledore had called Harry up to his office and given him official permission to revive "Dumbledore's Army" as a student group for the teaching and practice of Dark Arts Defense skills.

"I shall, of course, ask for regular updates on your progress, Harry," the headmaster had told him, "but I leave the choice of what you teach and practice up to you. I have only two requirements for this Dark Arts Defense group. The first is that any student who wishes to join it must be allowed to do so. And I mean any student -- Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw...or Slytherin."

"All right," Harry had agreed, reluctantly. "And the second requirement?"

"The second requirement," Dumbledore had said, smiling, "is that you change the name to something other than 'Dumbledore's Army.' I'm flattered by the name, Harry, but I wouldn't want any student to think that they must swear allegiance to me personally in order to join this group."

And so, "Dumbledore's Army" had been renamed as "The Dark Arts Defense Club." Immediately, an astounding number of students from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw had signed up for the group. The students were anxious to practice their Dark Arts Defense skills, especially now that Lord Voldemort's return had been officially acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic. It was also well known that, thanks to Dolores Umbridge's passive and worthless curriculum of "Ministry-Approved Defensive Magic" the previous year, many students at Hogwarts -- especially the second- and third-years -- were dangerously far behind in their Dark Arts Defense studies.

Harry knew that it would be impossible for him to teach three-hundred students from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw all by himself. Fortunately, his friends had been more than willing to help. Of the twenty-two original members of "Dumbledore's Army" who had returned to Hogwarts that year, all but one had readily volunteered to serve as "group leaders" for the new Dark Arts Defense Club.

It had surprised Harry how well his friends had adapted to their new roles as instructors. Sitting in the Room of Requirement now, he watched as Cho strolled casually back and forth in the center of the floor, the first- and second-years listening closely to her. Wand in hand, Cho looked almost like an old-time English schoolmistress, holding court with her hickory stick.

"The first thing you all need to understand," Cho told the students, "is that Mandarin Chinese is a very different language from English. Mandarin uses what are called 'vowel inflections.' This is a way of pronouncing the vowel sounds in each word. Words that are spelled the same in Mandarin have different meanings, depending on the type of vowel inflections you use. Everyone look at the cards I gave you."

Each of the Gryffindor students had a small white card, which Cho had passed out to them before the session began. They looked at them now. On the cards were printed the words:

Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá!

"There really isn't a direct English translation for this spell," Cho explained. "About the closest you could get would be 'I cast the Spell of the Dragon's Teeth.' Would anyone like to give a try at saying this spell?"

A small, sandy-haired boy, sitting on a purple cushion, raised his hand.

Cho smiled in a friendly manner. "Okay, stand up, please. And what's your name?"

The boy stood up. "Jeremy Wight, ma'am."

Harry smiled. Jeremy Wight had come to Hogwarts from a Yorkshire estate, where his family raised owls and other magical creatures. Harry had gotten to know the Gryffindor first-year a bit in the past few months, after Hedwig had selected Jeremy's owl, Hornsby, as her mate. The two owls had recently built a nest together in the Owlery, and Jeremy was confidently predicting that the happy couple would be hatching a few eggs in the spring.

Since coming to Hogwarts, Jeremy had shown himself to be a talented student of magic. Harry thought now, that if any of the Gryffindor first-years could learn the Spell of the Dragon's Teeth, it would be Jeremy.

"Please, Jeremy, just call me 'Cho,'" the group leader said, pleasantly. "Now, why don't you just try saying the spell? Don't try to cast it yet. Just try to pronounce the Mandarin words."

Jeremy held up his white card, and read from it. "Wo fuzhou lung ya."

Cho giggled. "That's very good, Jeremy. You just said, in Mandarin, 'I cast the Spell of the Deaf-mute Duck.'"

The Gryffindor first- and second-years burst out laughing. Jeremy looked confused. "But I said it just the way you said it a minute ago."

"Well...actually, no. You didn't," Cho said. "Everyone take a look at the card again. You'll notice that I've placed inflection marks over the vowels in each word. These inflection marks tell you how to pronounce the vowels. Basically, when you say the word, you move the range of pitch of your voice in the direction indicated by the inflection mark."

"If you look at the last two words of this spell -- 'lúng yá' -- you see they're pronounced with what are called 'rising' sounds on the vowels. In other words, you start at the bottom of your range of pitch and move upward. Those two words should be pronounced 'lu-UNG, ya-AH'" -- Here, Cho made an upward slanting motion with her index finger on each word, to indicate the direction of the range of pitch -- "which means, 'dragon's teeth.'"

"However, if you pronounce those two words, 'LU-ung, YA-ah'" -- Here, Cho made a downward slanting motion with her index finger on each word -- "if you pronounce them with 'falling' sounds on the vowels, they have an entirely different meaning. Together, they mean, 'deaf-mute duck.'

"Now, it's important that you all understand this difference in pronunciation. It can have a significant impact on how you cast this spell. When you're facing off against an opponent in a life-or-death situation, you don't want to accidentally cast the Spell of the Deaf-Mute Duck on them."

Again, the Gryffindor students laughed.

"A little trick I've learned," Cho went on. "The easiest way to pronounce a 'rising' sound in Mandarin is to pretend that the word or syllable has an English question mark behind it. So you should pronounce the last two words in this spell as 'lung? ya?' Everyone say this with me now."

"Lung? Ya?' the students repeated.

"Very good. Now, everyone look at the second word in this spell -- fúzhòu -- which means, 'to cast a spell.' In this word, you have a 'rising' sound on the first syllable, followed by a 'falling' sound on the second syllable. You should pronounce this word, 'foo-OO, ZHO-ow.'"

Again, Cho demonstrated the pronunciation by moving her index finger up, then down, in a slanting motion.

"We can't learn this spell!" a first-year boy complained. "It's impossible to say!"

"It's not impossible," said Cho. She sounded amused, as if she had heard this complaint before. "Billions of Chinese people have been saying these words for centuries. If they can learn how to pronounce them, so can all of you."

She glanced around the room and smiled slyly. "Now, come on! The Ravenclaw first- and second-years all learned how to cast this spell with an hour's worth of practice. And I know you kids don't want to be outdone by the Ravenclaws."

Her needling tone worked. Harry saw the Gryffindor first- and second-years exchanging disgruntled looks. No, they didn't want to be outdone by the Ravenclaws.

"Don't worry," Cho assured them. "We're going to practice saying this spell over and over, about a dozen times, until you can all pronounce it right."

Under Cho's direction, the first- and second-years repeated the spell 'Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá' out loud, several times together. Cho listened patiently, correcting their pronunciation of each vowel sound as they repeated it.

"That first word -- wŏ -- meaning 'I,' or 'I myself' -- is probably the hardest word to pronounce in the spell," she told the students. "It's a 'falling-rising' sound on the vowel. You have to pronounce it 'wor' -- like 'war,' but with an 'o' sound." Cho circled her mouth with her index finger. "Make sure you make a nice round 'o' with your lips when you say the word."

She turned to Jeremy Wight again. "Would you like to give it another try? Let me hear you pronounce the spell first."

Jeremy stood up from his cushion, and held up his white card. "Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá."

"Perfect!" Cho said. "Now, why don't you try casting the spell?"

Jeremy stepped forward. Cho stood behind him, and the first-year boy pointed his wand across the room. "Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá."

Nothing happened.

"Okay, your pronunciation is fine, Jeremy," said Cho. "But you're not moving your wand right. Remember Professor Flitwick's 'swish-and-flick' method? Try to use that."

Jeremy moved his wand in a swish-and-flick motion. "Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá."

Again nothing happened.

"Try it again," Cho urged.

Once more, Jeremy tried the swish-and-flick. "Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá."

Still nothing happened.

Cho stood behind Jeremy, in thought for a moment. "I think I know what you're doing wrong. When you say the spell, you're concentrating on pronouncing the Mandarin words correctly. You need to concentrate on casting the spell when you say the words. It might be that you'll have to practice saying the spell until you can say it without thinking about the pronunciation."

Jeremy looked at her. "I think I can do it. Let me try it one more time."

Cho gestured for him to go ahead. Jeremy closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths. He seemed to be clearing his mind, preparing himself to cast the spell.

Finally, he opened his eyes and waved his wand in a quick swish-and-flick once more. "Wŏ fúzhòu lúng yá!"

A series of small, bright flashes appeared in front of Jeremy's wand, accompanied by a loud "BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!!"

The room exploded in applause! The Gryffindor first-and second-years jumped up from their cushions, cheering for Jeremy, who stepped back from the cloud of smoke, grinning from ear to ear. Cho shook Jeremy's hand.

"Well done, Jeremy!" She turned to the other students in the room. "Now who wants to go next?"

Immediately, every first- and second-year in the room raised their hands.

* * *

By the end of the lesson, five more students had learned to cast the Spell of the Dragon's Teeth. As the Gryffindor first- and second-years filed out of the Room of Requirement, Jeremy Wight stopped in front of Cho.

"I was just curious," he said. "Where did you learn this spell?"

"My grandmother came to visit my family from China this past summer," Cho explained. "She taught it to me."

As Jeremy left the room, he muttered to one of his first-year friends, "I wonder what happens when you cast the Spell of the Deaf-Mute Duck?"

"I dunno," his friend commented. "But I wish she'd teach us that spell next. I'd use it on all those stupid ducks that landed on the Hogwarts lake a few weeks ago. I couldn't get any sleep with those bloody idiots quacking all night long!"

When the first- and second-years were gone, Cho turned to Harry. "I need to talk with you in private for a minute."

She smiled at Ginny, who was standing just behind Harry. "Don't worry, Ginny. I promise not to try to steal him back from you."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. She and Harry had been casually dating since her breakup with Dean Thomas the previous summer. She looked at Harry, and nodded to Cho as if to say, Be careful around her. Then she turned and left the room.

When they were alone, Harry said to Cho, "That was a great lesson. They really paid attention to you."

"Thanks." Cho sat down on a wooden chair next to the wall. Her expression turned serious. She hesitated, as if she were unsure how to begin. "I've...got some bad news to tell you, Harry. It's about Cedric's mother, Evelyn Diggory."

Evelyn

, Harry thought. I never did find out what her first name was.

"I know," he said, grimly. "She had a nervous breakdown."

Cho looked at him, surprised. "How did you hear about it?"

Harry pulled up another chair and sat down next to her. "Well...let's just say I have a few sources of information at St. Mungo's. How did you hear about it, Cho?"

"From Marietta," Cho answered, darkly. "She heard about it from Draco Malfoy. I don't know how he heard about it."

Harry winced. Draco Malfoy had returned to Hogwarts at the beginning of the school term with even more arrogance than usual. His father had escaped from Azkaban over the summer. Without the Dementors to keep them in prison, it had been very easy for Lucius Malfoy and the other Death Eaters to stage a new breakout. Draco's father and the rest of the escapees were now in hiding in some unknown location.

When Draco Malfoy had learned that Harry had received permission to re-form the new "Dark Arts Defense Club," he had gone to Dumbledore and demanded the right to form a group of his own. Malfoy was not about to let any Slytherin students fall under Harry Potter's influence. Dumbledore had been forced to grant Malfoy's request. As headmaster, he could not give special privileges to one student while denying those same privileges to another student.

So Malfoy had formed a group of his own made up primarily of Slytherins -- a group that he blatantly called, "The Pureblood Society." While it was supposed to be a group for practicing defense against the Dark Arts, Harry had heard that Malfoy and his cronies were openly teaching Dark Arts spells and curses to their followers at their meetings in the Slytherin dungeons. A small number of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw students who believed in the "Pureblood Superiority" theory had gone over to Malfoy's side. Among the first non-Slytherins to be accepted into the "Pureblood Society" was Marietta Edgecombe.

"She hasn't said a word to me in two months," Cho told Harry now. "We're still living in the same room in Ravenclaw Tower, but we're not speaking to each other. Not since I told her that I was going to help you again, with Dumbledore's -- I mean, with the Dark Arts Defense Club. Then suddenly last Tuesday, she says to me, 'Did you hear about Cedric Diggory's mother?' She had this accusing tone when she told me about it -- as if what happened to Mrs. Diggory was somehow my fault."

No,

Harry said to himself. It wasn't your fault. It was mine.

"I'm sorry, Cho."

"I can't believe how much she's changed," Cho continued. "She was never mean like this before." Tears rolled down her face. She wiped her eyes, angrily. "Dammit, I swore I wasn't going to do this anymore!"

"It's okay." Harry pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to her. "Don't blame yourself for Marietta. It's my fault she's turned against us. Well...mine and Hermione's. You were right, Cho. Last year, we should have told everyone exactly what they were getting into with Dumbledore's Army. And Hermione should have told everyone about the jinx that she put on the sign-up parchment before we made everyone sign it."

Cho dabbed her cheeks with the handkerchief. "No, Harry, it's not your fault. I was the one who made Marietta come to the meetings last year, even when I knew she didn't want to."

Harry decided to change the subject. "How well did you know Cedric's mother?"

"Not very well," Cho replied. "I only met her once. On the night when... "

She trailed off. Harry looked at her. "On the night Cedric died?"

Cho nodded. "Cedric had written a letter home. He had told his parents that we were dating. They were anxious to meet me when they came to Hogwarts. Cedric introduced us, just before the Third Task started."

"Mrs. Diggory was very kind. She could see that Cedric cared for me a great deal, and that I cared for him. She said to me, 'Why don't you sit with us, dear? We can watch Cedric go through the maze together.' So I got permission from Professor Flitwick to sit with them in the viewing stands."

With a sigh, Cho wiped her eyes again. "We knew something was wrong when Dumbledore and the other professors started knocking down hedges to get to the center of the maze. Mr. Diggory got up and went down onto the field. I stayed with Mrs. Diggory. Then the cries started coming up from the crowd, 'He's dead! Diggory's dead!' Mrs. Diggory and I left the stands and ran down to the maze. We got there just as they were carrying Cedric's body off the field. He was on a stretcher. Somebody had covered his face with a sheet. Mr. Diggory came off the field. He was crying. He took Mrs. Diggory and led her away. I never saw them again."

They sat silently for a few minutes. Then Harry said, "You live in London, don't you, Cho?"

"Just off Holland Park. Why?"

"Are you going home for Christmas? Maybe while you're home, you could pay a visit to Mrs. Diggory at St. Mungo's."

He didn't know if Mrs. Diggory would be in any condition to receive visitors. If she was in the Closed Ward at St. Mungo's, that might mean that she was like Neville's parents -- in a near-catatonic state, unable to recognize or remember people that she had once known.

But right now, it seemed important to Harry that they should do something.

"You think a visit from me would help?" Cho asked.

"It couldn't hurt," Harry said, hoping it was true.

Cho thought for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't know, Harry. I mean, I was with her on the night that her son died. What if I go to see Mrs. Diggory...and it only brings back all of her horrible memories of that night?"

Harry considered this. "Cho, I'm just guessing here. I don't know what Mrs. Diggory's reaction would be if you went to see her. But...you were someone that her son cared for very deeply. And you cared for him. My guess is, if you go to see Mrs. Diggory, that's what she'll remember about you. And she'll be glad to see you."

"Well," Cho said, slowly, "my parents and I were planning to go skiing in France this year. But we're not going to leave until the second day after Christmas." She looked at Harry again. "Maybe if I sent them an owl..."

Harry shrugged and nodded to indicate that he thought this was a good idea. Then he and Cho stood up from their chairs.

"Thanks again for the lesson today," Harry said, as they walked to the door. "By the way, how are you and Michael Corner getting along?"

"We're not." Cho smiled, without much joy. "I let him go. I told him it wasn't his fault. It wasn't fair to him, Harry. I just...you know, I couldn't feel anything for him, because..."

"Because you're still grieving for Cedric," Harry finished.

Again, Cho nodded. "I know it's pathetic, but..."

"No, Cho. It's not pathetic. Believe me, I know what it's like to have people you love taken from you."

"If Cedric had lived," said Cho, "I have little doubt that we would have spent the rest of our lives together. It was that kind of a feeling. I will love again some day, I guess. But right now...it's just so hard."

"Maybe you shouldn't date anyone for a while," Harry suggested. "Maybe you just need to give your heart time to heal."

"I've been thinking the same thing" Cho smiled at him again. "Maybe if I'd realized this last year, I wouldn't have put you through so much trouble, Harry."

Harry laughed. "Maybe we both should have realized it."

Cho then did something she hadn't done before. She came forward, put her arms around Harry's neck, and hugged him. Harry returned the embrace, and held her for a moment. It was an embrace that was very similar, and yet very different from the one that they had shared exactly one year ago, in this very room (and, Harry realized, in this very spot), while standing under the mistletoe.

It was an embrace between two friends. And Harry found that he liked it.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Harry. I can't help you with this one. It's beyond my skills."

Harry blinked in surprise. He had never heard Hermione Granger say this before. "What do you mean, it's beyond your skills?"

"Just what I said." Hermione gestured to the open book that lay on the study table between them. "It's like you told me when you gave me this formula to look at. It's not really a formula. It's just a list of ingredients with some very vague instructions."

"I don't understand, Hermione. You brewed Polyjuice Potion in our second year here. And you're telling me you can't do this?"

"Polyjuice Potion is different, Harry. It's been around for centuries. Yes, it's very difficult to brew, but everyone knows how to brew it. If you look in Moste Potente Potions, it tells you what the ingredients are, and how much of each ingredient to use."

Hermione traced her finger down the list of ingredients on the page that Harry had marked with a purple ribbon. "But this is something else. No one's tried to brew a Gealteethe Potion in a millennium. This book gives us a list of the ingredients -- Adder's milk, redroot, powdered unicorn horn. But it doesn't tell us how much of each ingredient we need in order to re-create the potion."

Harry glanced around the empty Gryffindor Common Room. It was just after six o'clock. They had about ten minutes, he thought, before all the other Gryffindor students came back from dinner in the Great Hall.

He looked at the book on the table. For the past three months, ever since Dumbledore had told him the secret of his family's ancestry, he had been reading everything he could find about Godric Gryffindor. A few weeks ago, he had found this book, The Lost Art of Pyromancy, in the Obscure and Ancient Forms of Magic section of the Hogwarts Library.

"I could really use your help on this, Hermione. I mean, this is the Green Flame Torch we're talking about. Think of that! The torch that my ancestor, Godric Gryffindor, used to defeat Salazar Slytherin in their final confrontation!"

"I know, Harry," said Hermione. "I read the book. I've also read Hogwarts: A History, in case I've never mentioned that before."

Harry stood up and began to pace around the table. "Just think of it! A torch that increases the power of positive life energies, while at the same time decreasing the power of negative life energies. In the presence of the Torch, negative emotions -- like hatred, malice, cruelty -- they become like a flesh-eating virus! A Dark Wizard can't perform even the most basic curses! The Torch literally saps their strength and leaves them helpless! The more negative energy they have, the weaker they become! A wizard like Voldemort could lose all his power in a single instant!"

Hermione nodded, patiently. "Yes, I can imagine he might."

"At the same time," Harry went on, "positive emotions like courage, love, and honor become a power source. The power of a good wizard's magic is magnified a hundred times over. Can you imagine what a spell like the Patronus Charm might do in the presence of the Green Flame Torch? It might be strong enough to drive all the Dementors out of England. Or it might even be enough to kill them!"

"You don't have to convince me, Harry. I agree with you. The Torch could be a very useful weapon."

Harry gestured to the tattered book in front of her. "The magic of the Green Flame Torch has been lost for a thousand years. But this could be the starting point to finding it again. Every book I've read says that the Torch must have been some form of advanced Pyromancy. According to this book, the Green Flame Torch was probably created using alder wood. Alder has magical properties that make it stronger than most other woods. So it was used in Pyromancy fires that contained several magical elements at once."

He sat down once more. Reaching across the table, he pulled the book to him and looked at it. At the top of the page he had marked, printed in faded Gothic letters, were the words "A Formulae for Gealteethe Potion."

"The book says that the first step in creating any Pyromancy fire using alder wood is to treat the wood with a Gealteethe Potion. This activates and strengthens the magical properties in the wood, so it can withstand the intense heat of the magical fire. If we could re-create the Gealteethe Potion, that could be the first step towards re-creating the Green Flame Torch itself!"

"Yes, I definitely think you should pursue this," said Hermione. She looked at the list of ingredients in the formula. "But it's going to take a lot of experimenting to re-create this potion. You're going to have to brew samples of the formula again and again, with different quantities of each ingredient, until you find the right combination for it. And you're going to have to take very careful notes each time you brew a sample. You'll have to write down how much of each ingredient you used in each attempt, and what the results were."

She pointed to the instructions at the bottom of the page. "But it's not just the ingredients that are the problem. The instructions are very vague, but they do say that you have to use Immutus Spells in brewing the potion, to manipulate the magical elements of each ingredient so that they join together properly."

"So we'll learn how to do Immutus Spells."

"It's not that simple. Immutus Spells are very complex. It takes several years of intense study to master them, even for the most talented wizards."

"Then we'll learn how to master them," Harry insisted. "We'll find everything in the library about Immutus Spells and go from there."

"Harry!" Hermione reached out and grasped his wrist, looking at him deliberately. "I'm saying that this formula is beyond my range of knowledge. I haven't learned enough to be able to help you with this potion. If you and I start working on it now, it could take us years to reproduce it. I'm saying you've got to take this to someone who knows more about potions than I do."

Harry was silent for a long moment. Then, he nodded slowly. "Right. You're right. I'm sorry. I'll take it to Dumbledore. He'll be able to help me with it."

Hermione fixed him with a look that she often used on Ron when he was being stubborn or thick-headed.

"What?" Harry asked.

She continued to stare at him. Harry rolled his eyes.

"I'm not taking it to Professor Snape!"

"Why not?" asked Hermione. "He's the Potions Master. He knows about creating new potions from scratch. And it's for sure that he knows how to do Immutus Spells. You can't achieve the rank of Potions Master without learning how to do them."

"Snape's not going to help me in a million years," Harry said.

"He might help you if you asked him."

"I don't have to ask him! He threw me out of his office last year, remember? After I looked into the Pensieve and saw his worst memories?"

Hermione rubbed her forehead with one hand. "Harry...I know this is hard for you to hear, but you really shouldn't have done that."

"I know!" Harry grumbled. "You don't have to tell me that, Hermione. I know what I did was stupid."

"So go back and apologize to him. Maybe if you say you're sorry, he'll..."

"I'm not going to apologize to Snape!"

Harry's voice rang off the stone walls of the common room. Hermione looked at him, startled.

"After all the crap he's given me," Harry continued, furiously, "after all the bloody bullshit I've had to put up with from him, I am not going to go crawling back to Snape and apologize! Don't you understand, Hermione? He hates me! He has hated me since before I came to this school, because of what my father and Sirius did to him! For the past six years, he's been punishing me for their mistakes."

He stabbed a finger at the book on the table. "So if I did take this to him, and if he did agree to help me with it, it'd just be a long slow march through hell! The only reason Snape would ever agree to help me with this would be for the pleasure of tormenting me even more. Every time I tried to brew a sample of this potion and failed, he'd be standing there sneering at me! Or he'd be yelling at me for mixing the ingredients wrong! And if I ever did get close to recreating the Gealteethe Potion, he'd probably sabotage it somehow! Maybe he'd put an extra spell in the cauldron when I wasn't looking, so the whole thing would blow up in my face. It would make him so happy to see me get so close to what I want, and then fail again! It's not worth the trouble, Hermione!"

Harry's face felt very hot, and his temples were throbbing. He took a deep, slow breath and looked at the book again.

"I'll take it to Professor Dumbledore. He can probably help me with the Gealteethe Potion. Or maybe he knows another Potions Master who can help me."

"He'll tell you to take it to Professor Snape, Harry," said Hermione.

"I'm not taking it to Snape!"

At that moment, they heard the Portrait Hole entrance open. The muffled voices of two first-year girls came from the hall outside. Harry looked at Hermione again. He picked up the book off the table. Without another word, he turned and stomped up the stairs to the boy's dormitory.

As he mounted the stairs, images filled Harry's mind. He saw Snape smiling maliciously in Potions Class as he, Harry, nervously dropped the wrong ingredients into his cauldron. Snape towering over him as he lay on the floor during those disastrous Occlumency lessons last year. Snape screaming and throwing things at him on the day he had expelled Harry from his office. Snape standing at the door of Dolores Umbridge's office while he, Harry, tried desperately, without speaking, to warn him that Sirius Black was in trouble.

Harry stopped in front of his door. He held the ancient book tightly in his hands.

I'll be damned if I'll take this to Snape!

* * *

Two things of interest happened in the week before Christmas. Five days before Christmas Eve, an owl arrived at Hogwarts with a letter for Harry from Remus Lupin.

"Tonks and I will be in the neighborhood on Christmas Eve. We thought you might want to join us in my old haunting house to drink a toast to our friend Padfoot. I've talked to Dumbledore, and he says it's fine with him. Stop by around eight. Bring your friends with you."

Harry knew that Lupin's "old haunting house" was the Shrieking Shack. He told Ron, Ginny, and Hermione about Lupin's invitation. Although Hermione didn't like the idea of sneaking out of Hogwarts Castle and crawling through a tunnel to reach the Shack on Christmas Eve, she agreed to go. While she was still speaking to Harry, she had been very cool towards him since their conversation in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Five days before Christmas, the students who were going home for the holidays boarded the Hogwarts Express back to London. Early that morning, Harry saw Cho Chang waiting at the top of the Grand Staircase. She was wearing a yellow winter coat, and chatting pleasantly with Padma and Pavarti Patil. A large suitcase was on the floor next to her leg. When she saw Harry, she came over to him, smiling.

"I got a letter from my parents yesterday. We're going to go visit Mrs. Diggory at St. Mungo's on the day after Christmas."

"That's great, Cho," said Harry. "Tell her...well, just tell her I hope she feels better."

That sounded weak and stupid to him as soon as he said it. But Cho didn't seem to notice. Harry offered her his hand.

Cho took his hand, but instead of shaking it, she grasped it in a firm grip, bending her arm at the elbow and turning her wrist inward. It was a grip that resembled two arm wrestlers 'locking up.' Harry had seen her use this special grip with her teammates on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. But she had never used it with him before.

She held the grip, and he looked at her. He had the feeling that this was her "special greeting," something that she reserved for a chosen few.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," she said, sincerely.

"Merry Christmas, Cho. Have a safe trip home."

She left him, and went to collect her bag. Harry waved to her as she followed the other students down the Grand Staircase.

The fact that Cho was going to visit Mrs. Diggory should have made Harry feel better. But it didn't. As Christmas drew closer, he started to feel worse.

He hated the fact that Sirius was dead, and would not be here this Christmas. All that he and his friends could do was drink a toast to his godfather's memory.

He hated the fact that Mrs. Diggory would be spending Christmas in the Closed Ward of St. Mungo's Hospital.

As the days went by, he began to wish more and more that Christmas was over.

* * *

"See the whole board," said Ron. "The trick is to try to think three or four moves ahead of your opponent."

Harry stared at the Wizard's Chess board and tried to think. If he moved his white knight to the Bishop Three square, he knew, it would check the advance of Ron's black knight. But it would also open his rook to attack from Ron's bishop. The board was already littered with the rubble of Harry's white chess pieces. He had been on the defensive in this game for some time now.

It was just before noon on Christmas Eve. Ginny and Hermione were the only other people in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione was sitting on a couch by the fire, perusing The Encyclopedia of Ancient and Medieval Magic. Ginny was curled up in the window seat of a nearby alcove, reading a copy of Careers for Magical Healers.

I'm going to have to sacrifice something, Harry thought, looking at the chessboard. What should I sacrifice? A pawn? A bishop? A rook? A knight? Think two moves ahead. No, three moves ahead. If I make one move, or two moves, or three moves in any direction, what will be the result?

At least Ron had had the sense to put a Silencing Spell on the board before they started the game. It was usually easier to concentrate on Wizard's Chess when you didn't have the chess pieces yelling at you, giving you bad advice about what moves to make.

Usually...

Harry stared at the chess board...and discovered that he couldn't even see it. His vision was blurring. He had spent the previous night tossing and turning, his dreams haunted by their usual horrific images. Cedric lying dead in the graveyard. Wormtail grinning as he tied Harry to Tom Riddle's tombstone. Voldemort looming over him. Sirius falling through the great black veil in the Department of Mysteries.

How much will I lose? How much will I have to sacrifice?

He picked up his knight and moved it to the Bishop Three square.

Three moves later, Ron placed his knight on Queen Two, checkmating Harry's king. The chess piece, shaped like a black horse, reared up and smashed the white king to pieces with its front hooves.

"You could have gotten out of that trap, you know?" said Ron.

"Tell me."

Ron pointed to a white square on the board. "If you'd moved your knight to Knight Three instead of to Bishop Three, and then moved it to Queen Four on the next move, that would've put you in a position to take my rook. You'd've had to sacrifice two pawns to do it, but you would've been okay."

Looking at the board, Harry could see that Ron was right. He should have moved his knight to Knight Three.

"Want to play again?" Ron asked.

"No," Harry said softly. He stood up from the table and left the room, walking up the stairs to the boys' dormitories.

Ron stayed where he was, staring grimly at the wreckage on the chess board. He knew that Harry had deliberately made a bad move. He had thrown the game, because he didn't feel like playing anymore.

A few minutes later, Harry came back down the dormitory stairs, wearing his black winter cloak. "I'm going out for a while."

Ron and Hermione both looked at him.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked.

"Down to Hogsmeade."

"Why?" asked Ron.

Harry shrugged. "No reason. I just want to take a walk."

Ron stood up and moved towards the staircase of the boys' dormitory. "Wait here. I'll go get my cloak."

"No, that's okay. I'd rather be alone."

"Don't be silly." Hermione stood up from the couch and moved toward the girls' dormitory staircase. "We're coming with you."

"No, it's okay," Harry insisted. "I'd really prefer to be alone right now."

"Dumbledore says you're not to go anywhere without an escort, Harry. He says it's for your own..."

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHAT DUMBLEDORE SAYS!"

Ron and Hermione both stopped where they were. Still sitting in the window seat, Ginny looked startled.

"I just want to be alone right now!" Harry shouted. "Is that okay? Can I please be alone for a while?"

He glared at his friends. Their worried faces seemed to annoy him even more.

"I'll be fine!" he told them. "I'm just going to go down to Hogsmeade and walk off some steam! I'll see you all tonight at the Shrieking Shack. And don't worry! I'm not going to go jump off a bridge, if that's what you're thinking!"

He stormed out of the room. His friends heard the Portrait Hole entrance open. They heard the Fat Lady scream, "OHH! Really!" when Harry slammed the portrait shut.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other. Ron moved to the study table and began putting the chess pieces back into their box. Hermione went to the couch and sat down again. She sat staring into the fire for a long time.

In the window seat, Ginny tried to read once more, but could not concentrate. She closed her book and looked out the window. Outside, the wind was blowing. In the sky overhead, thick gray clouds were gathering, promising more snow for that afternoon.

A few minutes later, Ginny saw Harry Potter walking across the grounds below, in the direction of the Hogwarts gates. In his black winter cloak, Harry was a dark figure against the white, snow-covered ground. He hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched. His dark hair blew in the wind.

Ginny leaned her head back against the alcove wall and closed her eyes.

If anyone is listening up there

, she prayed, I have a friend. He's in pain. I want to help him, but I don't know how. And neither does anyone else here. If there is a way to ease his pain, please let it come.

Please let it come.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore had given permission for sixth- and seventh-years who were staying at Hogwarts for the holidays to go to Hogsmeade any time they wished, as long as they returned to the castle by nightfall. So Harry had no worries of getting into trouble for leaving the school grounds. He didn't even think about the matter as he trudged down the hill from the Hogwarts gates, and into the streets of the old town.

He walked the sidewalks, moving furiously through crowds of last-minute holiday shoppers. He barely saw the people surrounding him as he paced up one street and down another. He turned corners, marched through back alleys, passed window shoppers staring at storefront displays, skidded thoughtlessly across salted ice on the pavement, and once was nearly run down by a horse-drawn sleigh as he blundered across an intersection without looking both ways. He reached the ends of streets, turned back, and retraced his steps, never once thinking of going anywhere. He didn't even notice the freezing wind as it blew against his face, or the raw cold that numbed his ears.

He couldn't help thinking that his own life was like a chess game, each move irreversible once it had been played.

What's your next move, White Knight? The Black King is advancing, ready to checkmate you. He's already taken some of your best pieces off the board. And let's face it. You've made some really lousy moves in this game so far!

Spare the life of the man who betrayed your parents, even though your father's two best friends want to kill him? Bad move, my friend! He goes running back to his evil master, and they hatch a plot to bring the Black King back to power.

Offer to share the Triwizard Cup with one of your school mates? He beat you to the Snitch, beat you to the girl that you liked, and has now beaten you to the trophy cup. But he thinks YOU deserve it because, noble hero that you are, you just saved him from a giant spider. So you offer to draw with him. And you both take hold of the cup at once.

Congratulations, mate! You just fell into a classic trap! You land in a graveyard where your school mate is murdered by the man whose life you spared. And that same man ties YOU to a tombstone and uses your blood to revive the Black King.

Black Pawn takes White Pawn. Check!

Fly off to London to save your godfather, who's been captured by the Black King? It's another trap, friend! A scam vision planted in your mind by the Black King, because you couldn't bother with your Occlumency lessons! And when you get to London, your godfather shows up to save YOU, and is killed by the Black King's hench wench!

Black Queen takes White Knight. Check!

Oh, and remember that kid who died in the graveyard? His mother's stuck in the madhouse now, thanks to you. She misses her son so much that her mind can't take the grief. Bet you never anticipated THAT when you offered her son the draw for the Triwizard Cup.

So what's your next move, White Knight? Can you see the whole board? Can you think three-four-FIVE moves ahead of the Black King? How long will this game go on? When will it all stop?

Which of your pawns will be sacrificed next? Ginny? Ron? Hermione? Neville?

And YOU, White Knight? Will YOU fall to the Black King? Will you sacrifice yourself in the end?

Or are you already lost? Have you already been taken three moves back without even knowing it?

Harry's legs and feet started to ache. His face was red and chapped from the wind, and his eyes were burning. He kept walking.

He had just turned onto a side street, and was walking past Madam Puddifoot's Tea Room for the third time. Ahead of him, he saw a group of elderly witches dressed in winter coats, emerging from the Tea Room. They huddled together on the sidewalk, all laughing and chattering at once. To avoid them, Harry stepped off the curb and skirted the edge of the pavement, just under the rim of the pink-and-white pin-striped awning that hung outside the Tea Room.

"LOOK OUT BELOW!!"

There was a "CRASH!" as something hard hit the top of the awning. Its metal frame jolted violently, sending a shower of snow down on Harry.

"Ow! Hey!" Harry yelled. He stopped on the curb, throwing up his hands to protect himself from the flying snow.

The next instant, something very heavy slammed down on Harry's shoulders from above. He pitched forward, face-down, into a snow bank and blacked out.