Laocoon's Children, Year II

It was one o'clock before they finished with their schoolwork, owing mainly to the fact that Neville and Draco kept taking time off from their assignments to write notes to each other, flick wads of paper at Padma, and good-naturedly tease Snake with the feather-tips of their quills. Snakes were supposed to hibernate for most of the winter and Snake had always done so in the past, but he was anxious lately, and awake far more often than was usual. It helped Harry's nerves to have Snake distracted.

"I told Denbigh we'd get lunch in the kitchens, then we can go and look for Nick. Where do you suppose he is?" Harry asked, as they put their parchment away and sealed up their inkpots. Draco carefully slipped his silver-nibbed quills into the shallow wooden case he kept in his bag, shrugging.

"He's normally somewhere around the Great Hall. We can find him after lunch," Padma said. She stroked Snake's head with a fingertip, then allowed him to wrap himself around her wrist, loosely. Draco was still wary of holding Snake, but the other two kept equally cold-blooded pets and didn't mind carting him about once in a while.

They made their way towards the staircase that would lead them down past the next two floors and the landing with the bloody scrawl on it that no amount of scrubbing had been able to remove. Despite the previous night's events, they were in high spirits; while most Hogwarts students would spend the entire weekend feeling vaguely guilty about not completing their homework until Sunday night, they were finished and had a whole day and a half of freedom to look forward to, full of the prospect of playing Detective and talking to the ghosts, which was always an interesting experience.

Draco was saying something about Monday's classes, to which nobody was paying much attention, when Padma stopped on the stairs so suddenly that Neville had to dart to one side to avoid plowing into her, and only Harry's quick grab at the back of Neville's shirt kept him from tumbling down the stairs.

"What is it?" Harry asked, as Neville grunted his thanks.

"I bet Moaning Myrtle saw something. She's always here -- the other ghosts don't like her."

"Wow," Draco said. "I mean, hard enough being a ghost without being an unpopular ghost."

"She must have at least heard Ginny scream, and probably what happened before that."

"Can we ask her?" Neville asked.

"I don't see why not," Padma said, striding forward. The boys followed until she pushed open a door across the corridor, at which point they all paused uncertainly. The door swung shut behind her and, after a second, swung open again.

"Are you coming?" Padma asked, peevishly.

"That's the girls' toilet," Neville said.

"And?"

"And we're boys!" Harry replied.

"Nobody ever uses it," Padma said, rolling her eyes. "Come on, the toilets don't bite."

They hesitated on the threshold, but Padma forged ahead and it was cross or be hit by the door.

Entering the sanctum of a Girls' Loo was more than just going where you weren't supposed to go; it was a trespass into sacred space. Even Harry, who would normally go anywhere and do anything, felt a curious mix of anthropological interest and guilty discomfort.

He wasn't sure what he would have expected to find, but the reality was commonplace and eerie at the same time. It looked like most normal Hogwarts bathrooms. There was a long, spotty mirror on one wall, over a row of white porcelain sinks. There were half a dozen stalls with wooden doors, facing the mirror, and one of them housed leaky plumbing. The floor was damp, reflecting the light of Padma's illumination spell on the tip of her wand, and a handful of stubby, low-burning candles.

What was unsettling was the dust that was thick everywhere; it piled in the corners and scuttled in dustbunnies along the drier edges where wall met floor. Neville daringly ran his finger along the mirror and came away with dry brown powder on his hand. It was clear that the house-elves came here only to change out the candles and fled as soon as they could; cobwebs abounded, but even Draco, who was jumpy around things with more than four legs, couldn't spot a single spider.

"Myrtle?" Padma called softly, and the room amplified her voice. "Are you here, Myrtle?"

She was just pushing the door of the last stall open when there was an enormous splash and water slopped out over Padma's shoes, flooding the floor with a stale, rusty wet film. The boys all took a few steps back; Draco, who'd gone past Padma, was trapped against the wall.

Moaning Myrtle floated in the doorway, having apparently just emerged from the u-bend of the toilet. She was a short, lank-haired ghost who looked as if she were -- or rather, as if she'd been when she'd died -- about fifteen. She had pearly, thick-lensed spectacles on, far too big for her face, and she was incongruously chewing gum.

"This," she said snottily, "Is the girls' bathroom."

"I told you -- " Neville started to say to Padma, but she interrupted.

"It's all right, Myrtle, there's no one else here -- "

"Oh, that's just fine," Myrtle snapped. "I suppose I don't count. I suppose from now on, I'm to be a display item to show to boys -- "

"It isn't like that at all," Padma said hastily. Draco, behind the door, was mouthing something at Harry, who was terrible at reading lips. Myrtle saw Harry give Draco a bewildered look, and put her head right through the half-open door so that her body floated on one side near Padma, and her head stuck out of the other, a foot or so from Draco's rather startled face.

"What were you saying about me?" she asked.

"N-nothing," Draco stammered.

"Everyone's always talking about me behind my back!" Myrtle wailed. "Ghosts have feelings too, you know!"

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Neville said crossly. Everyone, including Neville, looked shocked at this. Myrtle gave a little choking sob, and Neville pushed onward. "We never heard of you before today so it's not likely we're telling tales about you, is it?"

"The fact is," Harry added hastily, stepping between Myrtle and Neville before she tried to drown him in a toilet or something equally dire, "you're a very important witness, Myrtle."

She opened her mouth to wail again, but seemed to change her mind just beforehand.

"I know you," she said instead. "You're Harry Potter."

"That's right," Harry said, playing on his celebrity for one of few times in his life. "I'm the Boy Who Lived."

"You're more than that," Myrtle said, and Harry watched in horror as she floated towards him, coyly.

"Yes, well," Harry continued. "The thing is, Myrtle, last night someone vandalised the school, and your bathroom's not at all far away, so we thought, knowing that you're so -- " he swallowed and took a step back; Myrtle was floating disconcertingly close, " -- so observant, we were wondering if you'd seen anything. Or heard anything. Or knew anything. So, anything really," he finished with a gulp.

"Last night?" Myrtle asked. "That was Hallowe'en."

"Yes..."

"Peeves made fun of my costume," Myrtle sulked.

"Oh? Er, what did you go as?"

"You know very well what I went as!" she shrieked. "Ghosts can't dress up as anything BUT ghosts, you know!"

Harry heard Draco whisper "Sod this for a game of soldiers" somewhere beyond Myrtle. He pushed his glasses up on his nose anxiously.

"Yes, but, but, I mean, what's Peeves? He hasn't even got a proper place to haunt. He's just a drifter, really," he said quickly. "Please, did you hear anything at all?"

Myrtle wrinkled her nose. "I don't like people coming in my bathroom," she said. "Coming in and making fun of me -- "

"Nobody's making fun, Myrtle! Honest!" Padma said helpfully.

"Stupid little house-elves," Myrtle snivelled. "He didn't have to clean his filthy old bucket in here."

"A house-elf was here?" Draco asked. Myrtle turned to him.

"Didn't I just say that?" she asked snidely. Harry wondered if he should bolt; the door was barely three feet behind him, but that would leave the other three with Myrtle between them and the door, and that was no good.

"Do you know which one?" Padma asked eagerly.

"House-elves don't talk to me," Myrtle sniffed. "He had big eyes and floppy ears."

"So every house-elf ever, then," Neville muttered.

"I heard that!" Myrtle shrieked, whirling on Neville, who flinched. "It's not my fault! They're all horrible little bug-eyed snobs! They come here just to make fun of me, you know! Replacing the candles as if anyone's ever going to want to come here again!" she howled.

And that was when Harry heard the voice again, the deep, primal snake-voice that terrified Snake and gave Harry bad dreams. Even as Myrtle continued to howl and dive into another toilet, splashing water all over the floor once more, he heard it as though it were rising through the stone floor.

Bite and kill....so close...

Free me....master....free me to feed in the air once more...

Snake had unwound himself from Padma's wrist and dropped, and now he left a pale trail on the damp floor as he slithered frantically towards Harry, who ran forward and scooped him up into his pocket before bolting --

Straight through the door and into Argus Filch.

The door was swinging behind him, and he heard Padma's surprised squeak when she caught sight of the dour caretaker. Hoping that at least the other three would be able to hide out in a stall, he pushed again, almost sending Filch sprawling and maneuvering him away from the door.

"What have we 'ere?" Filch asked, with the air of a wine connoisseur enjoying a fine vintage. "Harry Potter, trespassing in the girls' bathroom."

A thick wash of water spilled out through the crack at the bottom of the doorway.

"Vandalising the girls' bathroom," Filch announced. "I've nicked you, my young prankster. Come on," he added, grasping Harry's sleeve in his dirt-stained hand and pulling him along.

At least the other three were safe, so long as Myrtle didn't howl and ruin everything. In his pocket, Snake was agitated, writhing and complaining incoherently. He put his hand in to soothe the small creature and felt the sinewy body wrap tightly around his fingers, Snake's head burrowing into the fold of his palm.

He was being taken to Filch's office, he realised, a miserable windowless cubbyhole that most students preferred not to investigate. Filch nearly threw him into a chair and ordered him not to move. Harry took the opportunity to look around. There were -- were those manacles? -- hanging on the walls like grisly Christmas garlands, and a small stove with a teakettle and a few dirty plates on it. Most of the space was taken up with filing cabinets, which apparently contained details of every pupil ever punished by the caretakers of Hogwarts.

When Harry noticed that the Weasleys had an entire drawer to themselves, he grinned a little, despite Filch's admonitions to shut up and contemplate his doom. Filch, as he locked several of the file cabinets, mutered about fetching Dumbledore to expel the Vandal. Harry came to realise, with horror, that Filch meant to blame the vandalism in the hallway on him. He considered opening his mouth to protest, but that would probably only make Filch angrier; he decided to wait and appeal his punishment with Dumbledore, who would surely at least want to look into any student blamed for the macabre graffiti.

Finally, Filch's head snapped up and the caretaker fixed him with an icy glare.

"Fetchin' the Headmaster now," he grunted. "Stay there and don't touch anything. I'm locking you in."

Harry carefully did not point out that there was a large bowl of floo powder on the mantel over the fireplace, if should he really want to make his escape.

The door slammed, keys snicked in the lock, and Harry was alone in Filch's office. He investigated the file cabinets first, but couldn't get them open; shame, really, as he was sure there were things in the Weasleys' drawer that they'd like to have back. The desk, considering the bedlam the rest of the room was in, was oddly tidy; the only thing on it, aside from an inkbottle and a handful of quills in a stand, was a large glossy purple folder, lettered silver across the front. Harry picked it up idly, hoping Filch hadn't managed to stumble across the other three as he went to the Headmaster's office.

It seemed to be some kind of correspondence course, the sort he dimly remembered being advertised on television when he lived with the Dursleys in the dark time before Sirius and Remus took him away. Aunt Petunia had ordered a course on gourmet cooking, he thought, and for a few weeks their dinners were either composed of food too disgusting to eat or dishes that had gone subtly wrong in the cooking process.

Kwikspell, A Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic!
Feel out of step in the world of modern magic?
Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells?
Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?
THERE IS AN ANSWER!

Odd, Harry thought. Filch worked at a school for magic; why would he need a correspondence course? Surely he could get some sort of tutoring if he was having trouble in any particular area.

He opened the folder and sifted through the paperwork inside. A particular page caught his eye.

ONE SQUIB'S STORY
How one man conquered Squibhood and amazed his friends and family

Was Filch a squib?

It explained a lot, but it was still difficult to believe. He had just started to read the letter to Kwikspell from the grateful squib when the door opened and Filch loomed in it, menacingly. Harry narrowed his eyes at the caretaker, tilted down the folder just long enough for Filch to see what he was reading, then closed and set it on the desk. Filch gaped at him.

"You!" he sputtered. "My! What!"

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Harry said, as he moved back to stand before the desk. Dumbledore was attempting to look around Filch to see what the fuss was. Filch had no choice but to stumble into the room, glaring in anger and horror at Harry.

"Good afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore said, gravely. "Mr. Filch has brought me here for a very serious reason."

"Yes, sir. I was caught in the girls' loo," Harry replied. "Well, coming out of it, really, sir."

"He's the vandal!" Filch almost shrieked.

"Harry, Mr. Filch appears to be convinced that you painted the obscenity in the stairwell landing yesterday," Dumbledore continued. He looked so serious that Harry really began to believe he might be blamed, but there was a slight tilt to his lips that Harry hopefully interpreted as amusement. "I must say, it doesn't look good for you, skulking around a girls' bathroom. Especially as I found this while investigating his claim." He held out his hand. There was a red smear on one finger. "Blood on one of the sinks."

The house-elf washing out the bucket....

"I didn't do it, sir," Harry said. "You can ask Neville or Padma or Draco, I was with them when it happened!"

"He's tricky!" Filch shouted furiously. "His friends will lie for him!"

"Undoubtedly; sometimes that's the sign of a true friend," Dumbledore agreed. "Harry, we need to know what you were doing in that bathroom."

Harry bit his lip. "I was talking to Myrtle," he said truthfully, and then realised he might have a good thing, in that excuse. "Nobody ever goes in there, sir, and she's very lonely."

"You were keeping a morose ghost company in the middle of a Saturday afternoon?" Dumbledore asked. There was a definite twitch of a smile around his lips now.

"She's a very interesting person to talk to," Harry answered.

"You know what the ghosts are saying about him," Filch hissed. "You know he's -- "

"That's quite enough, Argus," Dumbledore said gently. "I happen to have spoken with several students, including a handful of Gryffindors, who can say irrevocably that Harry was...otherwise occupied at the time in question. I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for your vandal."

Filch's eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

"By all means, however, it is not right for boys to be in the girls' bathrooms, no matter what the pretext," Dumbledore said. "I think an evening's detention is in order, Harry."

Harry nodded. He was watching Filch now, hoping the man would blurt out something more about precisely what the ghosts were saying about him. He'd said he was the Boy Who Lived and Myrtle had said you're more than that....

"I leave this in your capable hands," Dumbledore finished, and tipped a wink at Harry as he left. Harry, feeling slightly bereft, was startled when Filch grabbed his arm and stared into his eyes, furiously.

"You read my private -- " Filch stuttered. "Not that it's mine -- for a friend -- "

"It was very interesting reading," Harry managed.

"If you say one word -- "

" -- it would make you the laughingstock of the school," Harry finished for him. Filch regarded him warily.

"I won't be blackmailed by some snotty twelve-year-old," he said finally.

"Fine. You don't tell anyone where I was when you caught me and I'll forget about that folder," Harry answered. Filch snarled. "It's not as though I've any proof."

"Detention," the caretaker growled. "Monday night, in the old scullery."

"But I don't know where that -- "

"OUT!" Filch roared, unable to take it any longer. Harry wisely did as he was told, and put as much distance between himself and the unpleasant, fishy-smelling office as he could.

***

The four of them didn't get a chance to meet or discuss what they'd discovered until late on Sunday, as it turned out, and by then, they had bigger problems to worry about.

At dinner on Saturday, thinking it would probably be unwise to be seen with the other three in case they were implicated by association, Harry sat with Cricket Creevey on one side of him (the name had caught on amongst the first years with almost alarming speed) and most of the Quidditch team ranged out along the table on the other side. If the others raised their eyebrows at Harry's protege, they didn't say anything. Most players, sooner or later, did take on someone to shine their gloves and carry their broom, and if Potter wanted a Muggleborn to do it, they weren't going to stop him.

Tomorrow was the first game of the Quidditch season, against Gryffindor, and the rowdy insults between Houses flew thick and fast at dinner. Wood and Flint both ordered their teams away early after dinner and Flint sequestered them in one corner of the snug, dimly-lit Slytherin common room, where they shared around chocolate frogs and talked informally about Gryffindor's plays. Harry knew that at that moment Oliver Wood was going over those plays as well, in a much more organised fashion than Flint. He wondered if, after this year, Slytherin might finally get a decent captain.

Bole and Montague were talking to each other again, grudgingly, because while fistfighting was all well and good on the ground, Quidditch was Quidditch, and team loyalty came before anything else, even for Slytherins.

Sunday dawned muggy, threatening to storm, and as usual before a game, Harry had very little appetite. He picked at his toast while Padma and Neville both ordered him to eat, and when the four dispersed to their respective tables as breakfast properly started he cut up his sausage into very small pieces. He fed most of it to Snake, who was sleepily bored with Quidditch, and the rest to Hedwig, who had delivered a letter from Remus and Sirius which was charmed to make little triumphant trumpeting sounds whenever it was opened.

Harry knew that it cost Sirius a great deal of effort to root for Slytherin, and the sentiments were appreciated. Remus, happily moderate when it came to House loyalties of any kind, actually owned a green-and-silver jumper and wore it on game days, much to Sirius' disgust.

To calm his nerves, he started mentally composing a letter back to them after he left Snake with Neville for safekeeping and followed Flint and the others down to the Quidditch pitch. Dear Sirius and Remus, he thought, I hope you both listened in to the match on the Floo Broadcast this morning. Lee Jordan is still announcing, and I overheard Ron Weasley say that he heard his brother Fred say that Lee wants to be a professional sports announcer after he leaves school. That'd be an interesting job, don't you think? Anyway, lots of people must hear him whenever there's a school match.

The Gryffindors have been training much harder than we have, which should come as no surprise, but we're cleverer, I think, and we're going to try some of my new plays today, so I hope you were listening especially close because I think that feint I was working on during the summer might --

He stopped then, surprised at what he saw; the little building that housed the showers and lockers for all four teams was in sight, and the door to the Slytherin section was open. Colin Creevey stood there with his camera around his neck and Harry's Quidditch gloves, nearly as big as Colin's entire arm, in his hands.

"One of the bigger boys told me I should look after your gear, Harry," he said breathlessly. The other Slytherins looked at each other and exchanged amused grins. "Did I do it all right?"

Harry accepted one of the gloves, turning it over in his hands. A loose tag of fabric that he'd been meaning to mend had been stitched back into the leather, and every inch of the glove shone.

"It's all right, Cricket," he said. "But you shouldn't be here. From now on make sure you do it before game day, all right?"

"All right!" Creevey said rapturously. Montague sniggered.

"Shut it," Harry said, turning to glare at Montague. "Go on, Cricket."

Creevey held up the camera, the flashbulb popped, the entire team roared in blinded outrage, and by the time Harry rubbed the spots from his eyes, the first-year was gone.

"If he does that again, Potter, I'll break that camera over his head, and I don't care how nicely he oils your glove," Flint growled. Montague sniggered again, but Harry was almost positive that couldn't have been as dirty as Montague thought it was.

"Break some fingerbones when you shake hands," Bole said to Flint as they were suiting up. "And hey, Potter!"

"What?"

"You're the wunderkind. Try and play like it, Scarhead."

"Sod off, Bole."

***

"And the Quaffle is up! The first game of the Hogwarts Quidditch season opens with a snatch by Slytherin captain Flint, playing in his final year..."

"Hey, do we have to listen to that?" asked Sara, the newest (and youngest) clerk at Madam Schaeffer's Scholars' Emporium and Educational Toy Shoppe.

"Yes," came a chorus of voices from Ellers, Lupin, Blake, Madam Schaeffer herself, and three patrons, all of whom were sitting at a table playing with Sirius Black's newest invention, gravity-defying building blocks which could be used to build skyscrapers from the top down.

"Don't you like Quidditch?" Ellers asked.

"Not really," Sara replied.

"Heretic," Blake said.

"Honestly, it's not even a real game, it's just a school game," Sara said, rolling her eyes.

"Mind your tongue," Madam Schaeffer said sternly. "That's our Lupin's boy playing Seeker for Slytherin."

Lupin, who was wearing a green jumper with silver cuffs and ringing up a purchase, smiled with pride.

"He's the youngest Seeker in a hundred years," he said. Most of the rest of the staff chimed in on the last few words. "He's going to take Slytherin to the cup this year again, you wait and see."

Over the Floo Broadcast, crackling out of the hearth in the corner, there was a ragged cheer.

"Who scored?" Lupin demanded. "Curse you, Sara, if you don't like it take the day off, I'll pay your wage."

"Gryffindor, I think," Ellers said, as she tossed another log on the fire. The volume increased.

"Gryffindor is playing with razor-sharp precision today but Slytherin seems to be breaking up their formations left and right. Oh, foul!" called a voice. "Harry Potter fouls the Gryffindor Beater -- "

"He never did!" Lupin said hotly.

"Hooch fails to call -- play continues -- "

"You're bloody right," Lupin muttered.

"Where's the proud godfather today?" Ellers asked, during a lull in the action.

"He's at home -- Andromeda's having a bit of a do."

"I could have given you the day off, you know," Madam Schaeffer scolded.

"And miss listening here and bragging to everyone who comes through? I'll make it for the end of the game. And the party afterwards when Slytherin wins," Lupin added. Sara rolled her eyes.

"So he can fly a broomstick, big deal," she muttered.

"He's the best flyer in Hogwarts," Lupin retorted.

"Slytherin scores!" called the announcer. The listeners cheered. "No sign of the Snitch yet as it begins to rain...they appear to be grappling for the ball near Slytherin goal and -- "

They heard the crowd gasp.

"What happened?" Lupin demanded.

"Slytherin has somehow...how did they do that?" the boy announcing the game sounded stunned. "Either that was a complete failure of a broom or a brand-new move in the Slytherin playbook -- Slytherin scores," he added glumly.

"Bet you two Galleons that was Harry's new move," Lupin said to Madam Schaeffer.

"I know better than to bet with you, you shark," she replied with a laugh.

"The Snitch has apparently been spotted but it's tough going through the rain -- both Seekers now in pursuit as Gryffindor scores -- quick steal by Slytherin but there seems to be a problem with one of the Slytherin Beaters, some sort of scrum between players -- Harry, look out -- "

All the colour drained from Lupin's face.

"Potter -- yes -- Potter has the Snitch and the game is over and it's Slytherin the winners, but Madam Pomfrey is already on the field and Potter appears to have fainted -- bad blow from the Bludger he took -- "

They all turned to look at Lupin, who was gripping the counter tightly.

"I'm sure he's fine," he said, sounding as if he was anything but sure. "If he had time to catch the Snitch it can't be that bad -- "

"Go, Lupin," Madam Schaeffer said, taking down a jar of floo powder and offering it to him. "Sara will cover your shift."

He looked indecisive for only a moment, then took up a pinch of powder and tossed it into the fire, calling "Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade" as he stepped inside.

He actually ran into Sirius' back as he emerged.

"It's Harry," Sirius said. "Did you hear?"

"Come on," Remus replied. "We can cut through the forest."

***

Harry woke to the sound of Montague and Bole being furiously shouted at by at least three separate voices, which was a great comfort.

He remembered seeing Montague skim past Bole as he'd done during practice, and Bole had reached out and grabbed him, and then Pucey had sailed in to keep them apart --

And nobody had been free to get rid of the Bludger which had hit him across the left shoulder, knocking him sideways just as his fingers curled around the Snitch. Rapid descent and blackness...

"Harry?" said a voice, quietly, and Harry opened his eyes. Sirius' face filled his vision, worried and pale. In the background, the voices resolved themselves into Professors McGonagall and Snape, and he could hear Remus trying to quiet everyone down. His shoulder was burning.

"Hey, how are you?" Sirius asked, stroking his hair. Harry smiled reassuringly at him.

"M'ok," he said, wanting to sit up but not sure his shoulder would support him. "Why're you here?"

"We heard about you getting hit on the Floo Broadcast," Sirius said.

"Lee's a good announcer, isn't he?"

"Yeah, Harry," Sirius said reassuringly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Bole and Montague were being arses," Harry said. Sirius laughed, looking relieved. "I thought I'd get in just under the Bludger."

"Hard to judge in the rain, huh," Sirius said, leaning back. Harry scrabbled a little with his right hand, pushing himself up, and felt Sirius' broad hand under his back, helping him.

"It's all right," he said. "I'm fine."

"Your shoulder was dislocated," Sirius said. "It's not all right."

"It's Quidditch, Sirius."

"Yes, and your teammates should have been looking out for you. I'll have a few choice words for your Beaters."

"People get hurt all the time."

"This was preventable, Harry. Even professionals don't dislocate their shoulders."

"Do shut up, Lupin," came Snape's voice, drifting down from where a three-way argument was still going on. Sirius' head whipped around, furiously.

"I think that's quite enough from all concerned," said Dumbledore, loudly. "Omnimutus!"

Snape opened his mouth to snarl something, and no noise came out. The silence was a blessed relief, at least to Harry. Dumbledore smiled pleasantly and gestured for Remus to join Sirius, at the same time as he clearly and calmly placed Montague and Bole in Snape's custody. The furious professor snapped his fingers at the two of them and pointed to the doorway, following them out. Harry was almost positive he saw Snape knock their heads together as they left.

Sirius stood to confront Dumbledore about the muting charm, annoyed, and Remus took his place in the chair near Harry's bed. He folded his arms on the bedrail and rested his chin on them, tilting his head slightly and smiling at Harry. Dumbledore, behind him, flicked his wand again, and suddenly the sounds of breathing, of Remus inhaling to talk, were highly audible.

"Feeling heroic?" Remus asked. "They've been pouring muscle regeneratives down your throat for an hour or two. Madam Pomfrey says you'll have to stay the night."

"That's all right," Harry said uncertainly.

"It was a brilliant win," Remus continued. "Andromeda and Ted send their love, I spoke to them by floo. Though they are rather bitter Gryffindor lost."

"Not for lack of trying," Harry said. "Did you hear about when we tried my new play?"

"Yes, I told Madam Schaeffer that was your idea."

Sirius had begun to drift down towards the other end of the room, as Professor Tonks came in to speak to Dumbledore. Their voices were low, but he heard a few words -- blood and dogs and what sounded like chicken, though that made no sense.

"Harry?" Remus asked, and Harry glanced back at him, ignoring the others. "Are you sure you feel all right?"

"Yeah. It just hurts."

"I can imagine."

"Not as bad as when I broke my leg, though."

"Well, that's some consolation," Remus said with a smile. "Madam Pomfrey says you can have the day off classes tomorrow, if you want, and I think your friends got permission to bring you dinner. I hear the house-elves are making you something really special, they must have taken quite a shine to you."

"And who wouldn't?" Sirius asked, returning. "Madam Pomfrey says we have to leave you, Harry, but we'll be back after dinner."

"M'kay," Harry said, feeling secretly relieved. The attention was nice, but he was still tired. He eased himself back down under the covers as they left, with many concerned backwards glances, and closed his eyes. He could still hear Dora and Headmaster Dumbledore talking, more clearly now that Remus wasn't there.

"Do you think it could have been some kind of purposeful distraction?" Dumbledore was asking. "It would not be unprecedented."

"I don't think so. Montague and Bole wouldn't throw a game, however stupid they are. I think someone saw their chance while everyone was distracted."

"Not dogs, then."

"No. Their throats were cut with a knife."

"How unutterably brutal," Dumbledore said. Harry wondered what they were talking about. It couldn't be good. "The entire flock?"

"The house-elves are plucking and cooking them now. It seems...cold-hearted somehow."

"No use in letting good food go to waste, alas," Dumbledore replied. "I suppose I shall have to resign myself to chicken for dinner for a good many days."

"Sir..."

"Yes, Professor Tonks?"

"There does come a point where the Aurors are going to have to be called. Someone at Hogwarts is distinctly unbalanced, and if it continues, a student is going to be hurt."

"And what will the Aurors do, pray?" Dumbledore inquired. There was a pause.

"If a child is hurt, it will be my duty as an Auror to open an investigation," Dora said.

"Understood, Professor," Dumbledore replied, as impassive as before. Harry barely had time to wonder what the big fuss was about before he was drifting off again, into dreams of the rain-slick, slippery Snitch flicking through the air.