The Brethren of Tyr

Chapter Seventeen: Rebel Without A Clue

"Blimey!" Ron gasped, and sat down on his bed to steady himself. It had taken Harry and Hermione until the nighttime to finally be able to speak to Ron and Ginny in private about the incident in the Weasleys' bathroom. Ginny had briefly complained about Hermione's pristine reputation elevating her above Mrs. Weasley's suspicions, and wished she radiated that same innocence.

"Blimey!" Ron repeated, as though his vocabulary had suddenly shrunk dramatically.

"I know," Hermione repeated, padding around the room in her nightdress and slippers.

"The poor guy," Ginny added. "I'm starting to feel guilty about hating him so much."

"Don't feel too guilty," Harry replied. "He's still horrible. He's just had something horrible happen to him, as well. Anyway, it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't become a Death Eater in the first place!"

Hermione looked shocked.

"Harry!"

"It's true, you can't deny it," he replied, quickly, and Hermione looked as though she saw his point.

"Anyway, we have to act like we don't know, otherwise Snape's going to do his nut!" Ron added. "Just be grateful you've got Occlumency lessons with Beauchamp, Harry, at least she doesn't know anything about this!"

"Don't I know it," Harry replied, darkly.

"I wonder who the girl is?" Ginny asked, absently. Hermione shook her head.

"I guess we'll never know," she replied. Ron looked up at her in shock.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "What about the birth and death records? They go back centuries! We could trace her easily- I'm sure Madam Pince will let you access them from the Hogwarts' library. I mean, she's let you get a look at the St. Mungo's records!" he finished, with an air of triumph. Hermione shook her head again.

"That's not the problem," she replied, "The problem is with the Snapes."

Ron, Harry and Ginny looked at her in perplexity,

"Huh?" they managed collectively. Hermione pointed to her book that Ginny had been using to balance Ron's chessboard on.

"It's all in there. The Snapes are not an old wizarding family; they're an old wizarding tribe. They originated as two separate Romany clans during the Twelfth Century in North Yorkshire and Suffolk, and spread across Europe like a rash. They have very few records of their existence, because they live outside of registration laws and the like. There certainly won't be enough to link one member of the family to another."

Ron sighed.

"Bugger," he said, and Hermione slapped him on the arm.

"Ron!" she exclaimed, and Harry was irresistibly reminded of what Dumbledore had told Bill about Hermione's similarity to the little girl that died in his own house. He didn't find it particularly comforting.

"Hey, watch it!" Ron exclaimed, as Hermione pulled her book out from under his chessboard and flicked through it, suddenly pointing out a page.

"Look here!" she said, in a voice that denoted she had found something of interest. "I knew I'd seen this before. The Snapes have a rather curious burial ritual, apparently, known as the ritual of Draconis. The body is kept away from the relatives until the next new moon, apparently in order to ensure it is pure enough to ascend, rather than descend, through the underworld..."

"How can you ascend though an underworld?" Harry asked. "Surely it's, well, under you."

Hermione shrugged.

"I suppose it's a figure of speech. I think it's a reference to going to Heaven, rather than Hell. Ooh, when the bodies are prepared for burial, the closest living male will leave a bunch of asphodel flowers to be placed in the dead person's hands... how fascinating!"

"Yeah, 'Miss Morbid 1996', fascinating," Ron replied, looking slightly disgusted.

"Why asphodel?" Ginny asked.

"Beauchamp called them 'food for the dead' when we went to see her in the hospital wing last month," Harry pointed out. Hermione nodded.

"They're supposed to provide nourishment for the body as it travels onto the afterlife," she said, closing her book quietly and slipping it back under Ron's chessboard.

Harry sighed. It was Christmas, and already they were up to their eyeballs in bizarre events and curious discoveries. He was glad of it for the most part, though, for it helped take his mind off Sirius. He had heard that the holidays were the worst time when you had lost someone, and he was starting to understand why. The reasoning was very simple: it was Christmas, everyone was with their families, and Sirius wasn't here to be with his. It wasn't even as though he could go and place flowers on his grave- his body had fallen through that veil and he doubted the Ministry would let down their tight security in order to let him lay a bunch of carnations in the Department of Mysteries for a man they still considered a mass murderer.

He glanced across the room, only to see Hermione looking sympathetically at him, which he found he could not bear, and avoided her gaze.

"Harry? Do you want to play 'Pointless Endeavour'?" Ginny suddenly asked out of nowhere. Harry looked at her.

"Huh?"

"It's a board game. In 'Pointless Endeavour' you have to answer questions and collect six rune stones to put on your counter, then get your piece to the centre of the board. The first person to do it wins, and the rest of the players get squirted with Stinksap. The fewer runes you collected, the more Stinksap you get squirted with," she explained. Harry raised his eyebrows at this.

"But why?" he asked. "What's the point?"

Ginny grinned.

"Well, there isn't one. That's why it's called 'Pointless Endeavour'!"

Harry shrugged, and joined in with the game, which took hours to complete, and Hermione inevitably won, though Ron was quick to point out that he had got the question about Grindelwald and the Muggle boy who defiantly stamped on his foot correct, which no-one else had known.

"Honestly, Ron, it was one question!" Ginny groaned. Ron stared at her defiantly.

"Yeah, but who got it, huh? Me! My question! And," he added, triumphantly, "who else knew it? Nobody. Not even Hermione!"

"Nice to know I'm a valued yard-stick in your acquisition of general knowledge," she had replied, with a slightly sarcastic expression on her face.

"Ooh, look!" Ginny said, pointing out of the window. "A shooting star!"

"Where, where!" Ron replied excitedly, pushing his way to the window.

"Shouldn't we make a wish?" Harry asked. Hermione smiled wistfully while looking out of the window from where she stood.

"How about making a wish for a better world," she replied, quietly. Harry though he couldn't have put it any better himself. They sat in a comfortable silence before going to bed, Harry with his grief considerably lessened from the companionship of his friends.

Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione took the Knight Bus back to Hogwarts the next week, under the watchful eye of Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt, much to Harry's chagrin. He liked them both a lot, but the fact that he was being kept under guard infuriated him. No matter how much the logical part of his brain tried to reason that it made perfect sense and would ensure his safety, as well as that of Ron, Ginny and Hermione, Steve, the savage part of his brain, jumped in now and then to petulantly protest.

"C'mon, Harry," Tonks quietly encouraged, on seeing Harry brooding in the corner seat at the back of the Knight Bus. "I know it's an arse, but we're only doing it because we all care about you."

"You mean you care about the prophecy," Harry snapped back in fury. Tonks looked hurt.

"Now, that's not fair. We care about you because you're Harry, no more, no less."

She turned away suddenly, and Harry felt guilt begin to eat away at his insides.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, grabbing her hand. She wiped her face with the other, and smiled at him weakly.

"Yeah, 'course you are," she replied. "We're all under stress at the moment. Difficult times..." she trailed off, and neither spoke again. Harry didn't let go of her hand until they reached the Hogwarts stop.

"Take care, all of you," Tonks said, giving them all a brief hug before they stepped off the bus. Kingsley Shacklebolt merely raised an eyebrow.

"If any of you get into trouble," he said, carefully, "just contact one of us."

"Not that you should have any hassle, with Dumbledore here protecting the place," Tonks reminded them, shooting Kingsley a quite aggressive glare, at which he just shrugged his shoulders.

"Things are getting heated, Tonks, as I'm sure you've noticed."

Harry glanced up at the two Aurors.

"What do you mean, heated?" he asked, warily. Tonks and Kingsley shared a glance, as though remembering what happened last time Harry was kept in the dark about Voldemort's plans, before Kingsley bent down to whisper to Harry.

"Voldemort's gathering his forces as we speak. They are far greater in number than you could imagine. We've been trying to prevent the Death Eater attacks, and have been managing it okay, but we don't have the resources or numbers to cope fully with an increase in Voldemort's followers, which is going to happen soon. The Ministry are unprepared, seeing as they chose to stick their heads in the sand over the whole issue last year."

He looked at Tonks, as though to glean her approval of his narrative skills. She nodded, and he continued.

"Hogwarts has always been safe- he never dared to attack the school during the first war whilst Dumbledore was headmaster. However," he sighed heavily, "what with that vampire attack in your Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, that appears to have changed. Just be on your guard."

Stunned more by the disclosure of this information than what it actually meant, Harry nodded dumbly. Ron and Hermione had been listening, of course, and appeared shocked. Hermione actually clapped her hands to her mouth, leaving Ron to ask the most pertinent question.

"Why should we be on our guard when we've got a bunch of teachers who are all in the Order?" he asked Kingsley, in equally hushed tones. Tonks looked uncomfortable.

"There are things going on that just don't add up at the moment," she whispered back.

"Our sources have been giving us some erroneous information at times," Kingsley added. Harry raised an eyebrow at them.

"You mean Snape," he stated, rather than asked.

"We don't know anything at the moment," Tonks said, but she didn't meet Harry's eyes. Kingsley looked darkly at her.

"No, we don't. So don't go hanging the man just yet," he said.

Harry stepped off the Knight Bus feeling a lot less secure than he had fifteen minutes ago. Ginny and Hermione were deep in serious conversation, which Harry correctly assumed involved Hermione explaining the details of Kingsley's words to the now pallid Ginny.

"Bloody hell!" Ron managed to gasp. "It's worse than I thought!"

Harry had to admit Kingsley had made him a little more fearful, but he couldn't say he was surprised. He had seen the reports of attacks, heard the rumours of Voldemort's followers, and remembered the subtext Hermione pointed out in the Daily Prophet. It all had added up to one thing: Voldemort was organising attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns, the Order were staving them off, and the Ministry were struggling to keep up. Oh, and there was that little thing about him being the wizarding world's last hope, which was mildly disconcerting to say the least.

"Well, not really 'mildly'," Harry thought, "more 'enormously'."

"Yeah," Harry managed to say aloud, looking up at the grey sky. They dragged their trunks to the school gates in silence, until they bumped into Neville outside the entrance to the Hogwarts building. Literally, as it turned out, for both parties nearly spilled the contents of their trunks from the force of the collision.

"Oh, sorry, Harry!" Neville said, helping him to lift his trunk up off the floor.

"It's okay," Harry replied, "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"I dunno, Harry, you've been away with the fairies most of last term- perhaps you should make your New Year's resolution to pay more attention to your surroundings," Ron laughed. Harry pulled a face at him.

"Yeah, yeah..." he replied, in mock sulkiness. Truthfully, he felt concerned that even Ron had noticed how distant he had been in recent weeks. Perhaps he should just tell them both about the prophecy, it would certainly take a weight off his mind. He remembered the old adage- a problem shared is a problem halved. Then he revised the old adage- a problem shared is gossip.

"Oh, Harry, Ron, what's the new password?" Neville asked them. Ron and Harry glanced at each other.

"Erm..."

"We're not sure."

"Well, if you'd bothered to ask me," Hermione said from behind them, "You'd know the password was 'Queerditch Marsh', wouldn't you?"

The painting swung away, and the door to their common room opened. Hermione stepped inside, dragging her trunk alongside her and headed straight up to the girls' dormitory to unpack, Crookshanks following loyally behind her. Ginny looked at the boys, said something about 'girl troubles', and quickly followed Hermione up to their dormitory.

Ron turned to face Harry and Neville with a look of utter bewilderment.

"Girls!" he sighed. "What are they on?"

Seamus, who was sat in the common room playing Exploding Snap with Dean, shrugged.

"Maybe it's the same thing as Dean?" he replied. "I mean, honestly, what is so funny about 'Queerditch Marsh'?"

Harry and Ron shrugged, despite Harry having noticed Dean begin to crack up laughing as soon as Seamus had uttered the first syllable of 'Queerditch'.

"Have you guys unpacked already?" Neville asked. Dean nodded.

"Got here an hour ago, mate. What else was there to do?"

Harry, Ron and Neville mutely decided to do the same, and dragged their trunks up the stairs to their dormitory. Neville pushed the door open with his trunk, and let Harry and Ron struggle through before dragging it away towards his bed.

"What's this?" Harry heard Ron say. He turned to ask him what he was talking about, when he saw a rolled-up parchment on his bed. On glancing at Ron, he had evidently received a similar note.

"Oh, it's from Roger Davies... It's our Quidditch practice times!"

Ron's grin at receiving this information soon disappeared under a frown.

"How many times a week? How does Roger think we'll find time to practise this much?"

Harry read the timetable himself. Twice a week didn't seem that awful to Harry, until he saw what times they were going to be practising at.

"Six o'clock in the morning!" Harry heard himself shout in disbelief.

"I know, mate, I shouldn't have to see a clock ever show that time in the morning," Ron replied, shaking his head. Neville, who Harry noticed had been scanning through a copy of the Daily Prophet with considerable vexation, now began practically rolling on the floor with laughter at their indignation, before calming down and wiping his eyes.

"Well, they do say it's the sport of warlocks," he giggled.

"Yeah, warlocks who don't have homework... Hey! Do you think that's the real reason we're getting so much work to do? So that the teachers can be sure we won't get much time left over to practise?"

Harry looked at his Quidditch practice timetable again.

"They are a crafty lot," he said, absently. Ron scowled, and made a great show of setting his alarm clock to go off at five in the morning.

"Well, if that's the way they want to play, then they'd better be prepared," he announced, as though he was about to adopt it as a call-to-arms.

Harry merely smiled, and continued to unpack his belongings.

The next morning, Harry and Ron returned from Quidditch practice exhausted, their scarlet robes covered in mud and sweat.

"Ergh," Ron moaned, looking down at himself. "We look a right sight. Plus we must smell like the inside of Filch's broom cupboard."

Harry sniffed at his robes, and found he had to agree with him.

"Roger's a slave driver!" Ron continued.

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again; he's worse than Wood ever was," Harry agreed. Ron laughed.

"Fred and George said he was a right nutter about it, too."

"Still, it was a great idea, getting us to play against the reserve team," Harry pointed out. Ron nodded.

"Yeah, even if we did have to spend another two hours of our lives with Malfoy," he grumbled. Harry sighed.

"Trust him to manage to knock me off my broom under the muddiest area of the pitch. I know it was only a few feet or so, but still," he grumbled, picking a bit of dried mud off the hem of his robes. Ron snorted.

"You think that was bad? What about when I took a Bludger to the head and crashed into the mud next to the hoops? All Roger could say was 'Get up! I've heard stories of Beauchamp's Beating skills; that's nothing compared to what she might throw at you, so get used to it!' I think he's been listening to her goading for too long."

"And yet you had to laugh when he was on his soapbox about it, didn't you?" Harry teased. Ron smirked.

"Well, come on Harry, talking about her Beating skills? I'm surprised I managed to stay up on my broom after that clanger!"

Harry fought to suppress the hideous mental image that sprung to mind when reminded of his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and the sexual connotations of her Quidditch playing position, and happily succeeded, though the thought of Professor Beauchamp reminded him to look at his watch.

"We've got Defence Against the Dark Arts in two hours," he pointed out on looking at his watch face, "I suppose we ought to get cleaned up."

Ron nodded in agreement.

"I think I might just use the Prefect's bathroom." He glanced furtively around, then continued. "Come up to the common-room in fifteen minutes, and I'll sneak you in if you like. They're so much better than the other ones!"

"Yeah, cheers Ron," Harry replied, truly grateful that he was friends with a prefect willing to bend the rules. "I'll see you in a bit."

Ron turned around and headed up the nearby staircase towards the fourth floor. Harry went to ascend the staircase too, but suddenly realised he had left his school-bag in the changing rooms, so had to back track along the route he had walked with Ron down the underground corridor that adjoined the Hogwarts castle to the changing rooms under the Quidditch pitch to get there. On approaching the changing rooms, he saw a blonde-haired boy wearing green Quidditch robes, who Harry correctly identified as Draco Malfoy, leaning against the wall of the changing-rooms, blocking the path of another student.

"Look, what happened last term..." Draco appeared to be struggling with his words. "It shouldn't have happened. We were stupid..."

"What do you mean 'we'? I think you'll find I was not an active participant," the girl replied, with an edge of frostiness to her voice, which Harry found all too familiar. He did a double take at the girl obscured by Draco to confirm his suspicions. He couldn't believe it. What in Merlin's name was going on?

"I just wanted to say," Draco continued, clearly ignoring the response he'd received, "that I'm... I'm..."

"Oh come on, Malfoy, you've nearly got a full sentence there, keep going."

"Shut up, Granger! I'm trying to think!"

Harry heard Hermione snigger.

"That's a new one for you, isn't it?"

"Look!" Draco was sounding increasingly irritated. "I didn't come over to you to argue, I just wanted to say that... the incident was regretful, and I hope you can find it in your heart, or whatever it is you've got, to... not tell anyone."

"Fine." Hermione sounded bored.

"Because it's embarrassing."

"You're telling me!"

"And I still hate you," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Glad to hear it."

"Good!" and at this, he walked away up the underground corridor to the Hogwarts building. Harry saw Hermione roll her eyes, check her watch, and peer round the changing room door.

She almost screamed when Harry tapped her on the shoulder.

"Oh, Harry! There you are!" she replied, once she had calmed down, though she still appeared a little nervous.

"I didn't know you were waiting," he commented. Hermione smiled at him.

"Well, I wanted to know how you and Ron's first practice went. Where is he?" she asked, peering over Harry's shoulder as he entered the changing-rooms.

"Went to get cleaned up in the prefect's bathroom," he replied, reaching under a nearby bench in the changing-rooms to retrieve his bag. He walked out again.

"Anyway," he asked, "what's going on with you and Malfoy?"

Hermione turned an odd shade of white.

"Nothing! What makes you think there's anything going on?" she asked, a little shrilly.

"Erm, because you were talking to him about five minutes ago?" Harry replied, sardonically. Hermione blushed a deep red.

"That, that... that was nothing important," she stammered, looking at her watch again. She laughed a little manically.

"Oh look at that! I've got Arithmancy, can't be late, see you in Defence class!" she shouted, running up the underground corridor before Harry could even think about catching up with her.

Having showered and having eaten a hearty breakfast, Harry made his way to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom for his first lesson of the day feeling pretty good. Well, providing he didn't think about his exchange with Hermione earlier. What was going on? He knew she had a rather annoying habit of keeping secrets from him and Ron, but this one was altogether more disconcerting.

"Oi, Harry, wait up!" Ron called, running to catch up with him. Harry slowed down his pace, and the two met up just before reaching the classroom.

"Do you know what we're doing today?" he asked. Harry shook his head.

"Something about different defence styles, I think," he said, opening the door.

The desks and chairs of the classroom were nowhere to be seen. In their place was a huge foam mat. A bunch of Gryffindor students were milling around, looking bewildered. The Slytherins appeared to find the whole thing rather amusing.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, warily. Hermione, who was standing with Neville, shrugged.

"No idea," she replied. Pansy Parkinson giggled.

"Ooh, that'll be a first," she sneered, to the amusement of the rest of the Slytherins- with the exception of Draco, Harry noticed, who appeared to be a little nervous. Hermione ignored them.

"Professor Beauchamp didn't explain. She just said she'd be back in a minute," she added.

As if on cue, Professor Beauchamp entered the classroom.

"Are we waiting for anyone else?" she asked, glancing across the classroom before shutting the door.

"Right," she began, and the class fell silent. "Today I want to teach you some rudimentary non-magical defence skills."

"Non-magical defence?" Ron whispered to Harry, as though the words were oxymoronic.

"So, first of all I'd like you to put your wands away, and take off your shoes and socks," Beauchamp ordered, with a clap of her hands. The class obeyed, amid tittering and quiet discussion. Once they were all settled, she began to pace the length of the mat, and Harry noticed she was bare-footed too.

"Are we all ready? Good, good. Now, today I want to teach you some Muggle defence manoeuvres. Does anybody here know what I'm talking about?"

The class looked blankly at each other. Hermione raised her hand.

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Do you mean martial arts?" she asked. Beauchamp clasped her hands in silent prayer.

"Thank God for that! Someone knows what I'm taking about. Now, contrary to what the name implies, martial arts have nothing to do with painting. It is an all-encompassing term used to describe many styles of fighting and defending that have usually originated in the Far East. Some use weapons, many use fists and feet..."

Harry saw that Draco's hand was up in the air.

"Yes, Draco?" Beauchamp sighed.

"Why exactly is it going to be useful to learn Muggle defence?" he asked, with obvious distaste. Many of the Slytherins, and a few of the Gryffindors, seemed to agree with him. Beauchamp smiled evilly.

"Oh, I'm so glad somebody asked that!" she replied, raising her eyebrows. She looked hard at Draco.

"Well, seeing as you clearly need convincing, can I use you in a demonstration?" she asked. Draco looked at Crabbe and Goyle for support, then replied, "I'd rather not, seeing as I don't know what you're going to..."

"Draco, you misunderstand me. The request was just me being polite. I was actually demanding you help me in a demonstration," she interrupted, breezily. The Gryffindors sniggered, and Draco walked up to face Beauchamp. She bowed, and he did the same.

"Right, face me with your wand... oh, I told you to put them away, didn't I? Here-" She handed Draco a long dark wand. "use mine. Now, attack me."

Draco looked as though someone had just smashed a Bludger into his face.

"Huh?" he managed to reply. Beauchamp sighed.

"Just do it. Anything you like."

Draco raised the wand.

"Rictu..."

"Sinistra; Expelliarmis," she countered, swiftly, and the wand flew out of Draco's hand into her own. She put it on her desk and walked towards him until they were only an inch apart.

"Right, so now you have no wand, and no weapons, and I'm still going to attack you. What are you going to do, huh? What are you going to do?"

Draco looked dumbfounded, but then, so did the rest of the class. Beauchamp smiled.

"Exactly. You've got nothing left, except maybe to run, but you don't want that to be your only hope."

She picked her wand up again and handed it to Draco.

"Right, I'd like you to attack me again, in your own time," she requested. Draco nodded. After a few moments pause, he shouted, "Rictu..."

Before he had got the words out, Beauchamp had pushed his wand arm away with her left arm, stuck her leg under his right leg, causing him to lose his balance, at which point she grabbed his right arm and twisted him forwards so he was facing the mat, pinning his arm to his back and pushing down on his back with her knee. The class gave various gasps of astonishment, except for Draco, who appeared to be choking.

"Oh, sorry, Draco," Beauchamp said, loosening her grip a little.

"So," she asked the boy struggling under her weight, "see why it's useful now?"

Harry saw Draco nod, and Beauchamp helped him to his feet, and thanked him for helping her demonstration.

"So you see, class, it's always useful to have a little extra arsenal under your belt. Chances are any wizard attacker you may come across has never heard of such defence, much less mastered it, so a few choice disarming and defence manoeuvres can come in very handy."

So Harry found himself facing Neville and practising how to throw and unbalance without using magic. It proved difficult, as Neville was certainly about a third heavier than he was, but he was beginning to get the hang of it, when Beauchamp tapped him on the shoulder.

"Harry, could you work with Ron for a bit? Neville, if you work with Dean..."

They swapped partners, when Harry saw Beauchamp place a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"Hermione, would you partner Draco for a while?" she asked. Knowing the request wasn't open for discussion, she nodded and turned to face Draco, neither looking particularly pleased with the situation.

Ron looked at Harry in horror.

"What is she playing at?" he mouthed at him. Harry shrugged, but he couldn't help but feel concerned, and probably didn't pay as much attention to throwing Ron over his shoulder as he should have. Not that it mattered, for Harry saw Ron was scrutinising Hermione and Draco as much as he was. More worryingly, Harry noticed as he glanced at the lanky frame of their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher as she walked between groups, correcting and offering hints, Beauchamp appeared to be paying Hermione and Draco almost as much attention as he and Ron were.

Professor McGonagall walked into their lesson sometime near the end, and watched the groups of students hurling each other over their shoulders, or causing each other to fall over, with obvious curiosity.

"I say," she commented, loud enough for the class to hear, "in all my thirty-nine years of teaching, I have never witnessed this in a Defence lesson!"

"Ah, well." Beauchamp grinned. "The times, they are a-changin'. They are actually learning a very important skill- just ask Draco," she joked. The class giggled. McGonagall raised an eyebrow, but said no more. Beauchamp clapped her hands.

"Okay, that's enough for today! I would like an essay about the benefits and disadvantages of Muggle defence and how we might be able to implement it on my desk for this time next week, and I trust you've all completed last week's homework assignment."

The class grumbled at the mention of homework. Beauchamp smirked.

"Ahh, that's what I like to hear- the sound of infectious enthusiasm," she said. She looked at McGonagall pointedly, and they both made their way outside.

"Well, that was odd," Ron commented. Neville grinned.

"It was fun, though! Muggle defence... I never thought it took such skill! I'd always imagined it just involved hitting each other with fists until one of you fell over," he replied.

"Here," Ron shouted, "Hermione, are you okay?"

"Fine," Hermione replied, curtly, before walking briskly away. At first Harry thought her behaviour odd, until he saw a giggling Lavender and Pavarti nudge each other and look in her direction before quickly following her out of the classroom.

"Do you think she's all right?" Neville asked. Harry nodded.

"If Lavender and Pavarti had given me that look and giggle, I expect I'd be running out of the classroom too," he replied. Ron looked at him and rolled his eyes.

"Harry, you haven't even got your socks on yet!"

Harry looked down at his bare feet and realised Ron's point.

"Look, I'll catch you up, okay?"

"Sure, I'll see you in the common room," Ron replied, leaving with Neville whilst Harry sat down to pull on his socks and lace his shoes.

After a few minutes, Harry walked out of the classroom, and heard Professor Beauchamp talking in concerned tones to Professor McGonagall in an empty classroom next door.

"...Well, after what Filius mentioned happened in his Charms lesson, I must admit I was a little concerned. He has been acting rather oddly," he heard Beauchamp state. "His grades have been lower than I would expect from his previous marks, too."

"Hmm." McGonagall sounded perturbed. "Are you sure that's why? It's been no secret that Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy dislike each other. Do you not think he might be trying to get to them through Miss. Granger?"

Beauchamp laughed harshly.

"Not a chance, Minerva," she responded. "He spends most of his lessons staring at her in a 'nothing says I love you like a heartfelt restraining order' way, rather than the 'I want to humiliate you and your friends' classic we all know and love. Also, I put Draco and Hermione together for this class, just to see how he behaved towards her. It's pretty clear; he's a little preoccupied by her. I'm a bit concerned. I know he's had a tough time of things, what with his father going to Azkaban and all... I think he might be... rebelling."

"Rebelling?" McGonagall sounded unconvinced.

"Rebelling. It's a classic response to a sudden, unexpected shift in a relationship dynamic, which would be the sudden removal of his father, I suppose. What better way to rebel against your blood-proud family than become interested in a Muggle-born?"

"What do you suggest?" McGonagall asked.

"Just keep an eye on him," Beauchamp replied. "I'm sure it'll pass without too much incident."

"I'll let Severus know, he is his Head of House..."

"Oh, don't bother- he already knows. He was the one that confirmed my suspicions, actually. Poor bloke, last thing I'd want to have to listen to is a barrage of adolescent woes, cloaked in poorly hidden subtext. I don't know how you Heads manage it!"

Harry walked quickly away before he heard anything else, as he had heard quite enough for one day, thank you. The very thought of the words 'Draco', 'preoccupied' and 'Hermione' being strung together in the same sentence, well, he did not like the sound of it one little bit. He rushed up to Hermione, who was engaged in polite conversation with Lavender Brown.

"Hermione," he breathed, "can I have a word? In private?"

Lavender giggled, said goodbye to Hermione and walked off almost instantly. Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation at her, but as she had turned away, she did not see. Hermione, however, did.

"Harry? What's the matter?" she asked. He looked straight at her.

"Hermione, I need to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth."

"Okay," she replied, in a wary voice.

"What's going on with you and Draco?"

Hermione spluttered with laughter.

"What?" she asked, apparently highly amused by the notion. Harry exhaled sharply.

"I'm not suggesting that!" he replied, "I mean, him talking to you in the changing rooms earlier. What was it all about?"

Hermione avoided his gaze and turned a deep shade of red.

"Harry, it's nothing to worry about, honestly..."

"Then tell me!"

"It's... well, it's really embarrassing, to tell you the truth."

"Hermione, I'm your best friend, in case you had forgotten!"

She looked at him, and sighed.

"All right, but you've got to promise not to tell anyone, not even Ron."

"Promise."

"It happened in the library."

"What did?"

"What Malfoy did..."

Harry felt himself colour up in anger.

"What did he do?" he half asked, half demanded, "Did he call you something dreadful? Did he hurt you? Curse you?"

"He kissed me."

"Did he..." Harry paused for a moment, wondering if his ears needed checking.

"Pardon?" he asked. Hermione sighed in irritation.

"I said, he kissed me," she replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Who did?" Harry asked.

"Malfoy."

"Malfoy did what?" Harry asked again, in bewilderment.

"Oh, for heaven's sake get a grip, Harry!" she replied, sharply.

Harry had to fight the urge to laugh. It didn't make any sense.

"Why?" he managed to ask, after what seemed like an eternity of silence. Hermione shrugged.

"How should I know?" she snapped.

"Well," Harry said, tentatively, "you were there at the time."

Hermione sighed.

"I haven't got a clue. It happened in the library when I was trying to look up the Beauchamps', and all I know is that he begged me not to tell anyone, and I promised I wouldn't. It's hardly like I want anyone to know about it anyway," she confessed.

Harry sighed angrily.

"So that's why you haven't been to the library on your own!"

Hermione looked at him oddly.

"Well, would you?"

Harry could see her point.

"What did you do?" Harry asked, suddenly curious. "Did you curse him? Or slap him like you did in third year?" His eyes narrowed for a moment. "You didn't kiss him back, did you?" he asked suspiciously. Hermione laughed.

"Of course not!"

There was a pause.

"I kind of did none of those things."

"Well, what did you do, then?" Harry asked. Hermione looked at the floor.

"I sort of, stood there, hoping he'd go away," she said, quietly. Harry eyed her incredulously, at which her eyes widened.

"I thought he'd gone insane!" she exclaimed. "You know what they say- don't make any sudden movement or eye contact..."

Harry felt a sudden surge of anger.

"That git! Just wait'll I get my hands on him," he spat, storming off with the intention to find Draco and perform more hexes on him than he even knew existed. Maybe he could remember that 'reverse flow' one Beauchamp used on Snape...

All his thoughts of revenge were for nought, though, as Hermione swiftly grabbed his arm.

"Harry, are you channelling Ron or something? You aren't supposed to know. He made me promise, and I think he feels ashamed enough about the whole incident. Can't you just drop it?" she pleaded. Harry made to argue with her, but the look on her face softened him.

"Okay, okay," he managed finally, "I'll leave it. But the second he so much as glances at you..."

"Fine, that'll do for me. Listen." She changed the subject with such speed; Harry was shocked out of his anger.

"Hmm?"

"Would you come with me to the library? I'd quite like to continue researching Beauchamp and her mysterious missing memories. You never know, if we can find those European records, it might help her with her cure, if they state what caused her memory loss."

Harry sighed. Going to the library straight after a lesson wasn't his idea of fun, but having forced Hermione to tell him what she had, he felt guilty enough to agree.

"...And nothing in the Bulgarian records- perhaps they'll be in the French ones..."

Hermione was flicking adeptly through a stack of hospital records, looking for a 'Beauchamp, P.' but apparently without much success. Or, to put in more accurately, too much success to be of any use. There were literally thousands of Beauchamps in France, according to the records Hermione was perusing. There had been a moment when she had excitedly grabbed Harry's arm so hard, he was sure she would leave bruises, but her excitement waned when she saw the first name was 'Porphyria'.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, in a whisper. "Porphyria was Beauchamp's aunt. She told me during an Occlumency lesson when I saw one of her memories."

Hermione looked vaguely interested.

"Well, if she has records in France, it's likely that Professor Beauchamp must do too..."

Harry, meanwhile, was busy looking through a selection of back copies of the Daily Prophet, seeing if he could find any mention of that daughter of Snape's. He finally came across a paper dated 1^st November 1981, which bore the headline 'The Boy Who Lived! You-Know-Who is No More!'. He glanced swiftly over the page, not really wanting to read about how his parents 'tragically died at the hands of You-Know-Who' nor how 'their little boy somehow survived, killing him in the process'. He cared even less that Nigel Davenport of Avesbury believed that Voldemort had perished due to the one-year old Harry having used an ancient and dark curse upon him that no other wizard had even attempted since 1872.

"People are stupid," Harry muttered under his breath, before finishing the article and seeing at least seventy-two references to brave Harry and not one reference to the six-year-old girl that died in Godric's Hollow.

Putting it back in the correct slot in the never-ending drawer that contained the back issues (Harry noticed the drawer was indeed never-ending when he tugged hard at it to make it open, and it flung him halfway across the library as the drawer tried to extend out into the corridor), Harry's attention was caught by another article, dated a month later.

'Mystery Girl Awakes From Coma!' screamed the headline, though Harry had to turn to page nine to get the full story. What he read stunned him.

"Hermione!" he hissed, getting her attention, "Listen to this!"

"What is it?" she asked, looking up at him from her record list. Harry cleared his throat.

"It says here that a young girl, who cannot be named for legal reasons, suddenly awoke from a coma on the 30^th November 1981. They asked the healer in charge, and she believed that the girl had shown all the effects of having been hit with the Killing Curse..."

"But that's ridiculous!" Hermione spluttered. "She'd be dead!"

"That's what the Daily Prophet says," Harry replied. "Made the healer out to be a right basket-case... Anyway, she says..." Harry cleared his throat again to read out the passage. "'...the girl was stone cold dead, and we had been preparing her body for her funeral that past month, as per the ritual of Draconis- we were told that she came from one of those sorts of families. I was about to head up to the mausoleum in order to place her into her coffin, when I heard a terrible scream. Anyways, I ran up the stairs, in the direction of the noise. It was coming from the mausoleum. I opened the door, and that little dead girl, whose body I had been watching over for the past month, was sat up in bed, looking around in utter horror. I nearly fainted on the spot, but the little girl looked at me and asked, 'Where am I?' so I told her, you're in the hospital- didn't want to frighten her by mentioning we were about to bury her in half an hour. She nodded quietly, then said 'I'm hungry. Could I trouble you for a sandwich?', calm as you like. I nodded, and went to make probably the strangest sandwich I had ever heard of: horseradish...'"

Harry heard a sudden crash, and he heard Hermione swear for the first time ever. She had knocked over the St. Mungo's record cards she had been re-examining for the fifth time.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, dropping to her knees to pick up the cards. "Now they're all in the wrong order..."

She continued to grumble, mentioning that she had found an 'S', even though she was looking at the 'B' section, when she suddenly let out a gasp.

"Oh look! There's an admission for Snape," she pointed out to Harry, who laughed.

"I wonder what he spent time in St. Mungo's for?" he wondered aloud. Hermione quelled his imagination by a simple tut.

"No, it's not Professor Snape, this entry is for a P. Snape, not an S. Snape..." she suddenly stopped.

"What is it?" Harry asked. Hermione frowned.

"Do you know when the first new moon after October 31^st 1981 was?" she asked. Puzzled by such a statement, he leant over to the Almanac on Madam Pince's desk and flicked a few dozen pages back.

"30^th November," he replied, "Why?"

Hermione gestured for him to read the record card in her hand, so Harry complied, leaning over her shoulder to read it.

Miss P. Snape:

DoB: 22/08/1975

Admitted: 00:31, 01/11/1981

Pronounced Dead: 00:31, 01/11/1981

Cause of death: Killing Curse, instant.

Additional Notes:

01/11/1981- Ritual of Draconis performed. Relatives kept away from the body until the burial at the next new moon.

12/11/1981- Asphodel flowers left for her by an unnamed man; placed them in her hands to complete requested ritual.

30/11/1981- Patient screamed, got out of bed and complained that she was hungry. I asked her if she knew who she was and she said her name was Persephone. That was all I managed to get out of her, she appears to have forgotten everything. Gave her a sandwich, and she appears absolutely fine and unharmed, save for the amnesia. Have contacted listed next of kin, Mrs. P. Beauchamp is on her way to collect her. Recommend course of memory therapy, most unusual case indeed!

Harry and Hermione looked at each other in shock.

"So... so that means," Hermione managed to stumble. Harry said nothing; he merely sat down on the cold stone floor where he stood.

"Professor Beauchamp, Miss P. Snape, they're one and the same!" she exclaimed. Harry let out a sigh.

"She's Snape's dead daughter, the one who meant he would never return to Voldemort," he finished. Hermione clucked.

"Well, how many other children can he have knocking about?" she asked rhetorically.

"I really don't want to think about it," Harry replied, "Snape reproducing? That has to be bad news. Who was the lucky lady?" he asked, with a hint of a sneer. Hermione shrugged.

"Doesn't mention any woman, except for Porphyria," she replied. "Oh, Harry, do you think she knows?"

Harry looked down at the record card. He doubted very much that she knew, and doubted even more so that she'd be pleased her own father was a Death Eater.

Chapter Eighteen: Beauchamp's Secrets

By the time Harry got to the common room, Ron had clearly been there for hours, and everyone else had gone to dinner.

"You took your time, where have you been?" he demanded of Harry. "It can't have taken you that long to tie your shoelaces. Now if you were Crabbe or Goyle, I'd understand..."

"We've found out something. About Professor Beauchamp," Harry explained. "Oh, and Professor Snape, I suppose..."

Ron looked aghast.

"Luna wasn't right, was she?"

"Huh?"

"About them, you know... seeing each other?"

Hermione frowned.

"Have you been reading my copy of 'An Awfully Big Adventure'?" she asked. Harry didn't have a clue what she was going on about, and judging by the look on Ron's face, he was equally baffled. Hermione merely tutted.

"Professor Beauchamp. She's Snape's daughter," she announced. Ron looked more baffled than when Hermione had asked him whether he had been reading her books.

"How's that possible? She's dead!"

"Who, Beauchamp?"

"No, Snape's daughter. Killed by... by Voldemort," Ron breathed heavily. This having been the first time Harry noticed Ron call Voldemort by name, he was deeply impressed.

"She got better, I guess," Harry replied, and proceeded to tell Ron the story that he and Hermione had pieced together in the library. When he had finished, Ron looked positively green with horror.

"So," he reiterated, "Beauchamp can't remember anything before waking up in a hospital bed at the age of six, where she knew her first name, but nothing else. She had ended up in that hospital bed because she had been hit with the Killing Curse in Godric's Hollow a month previously, where she was being hidden by Harry's mum to protect her from any Death Eaters' who might have found out about Snape spying?"

"That's about the shape of it," Harry replied. Ron continued to look horrified.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he said, quietly. Both Harry and Hermione looked at him.

"No, what?" he asked. Ron's face broke into a small grin.

"My brother fancies Snape's daughter!" He began to laugh. "How twisted is that?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, Ron, how is that important?" she snapped. Ron widened his eyes at her.

"It's very important! If only I could tell him..." he trailed off, clearly regretful that he had to keep quiet about the whole affair.

"There's Dean too, he thought she was reasonably cute," Harry added, unable to resist sniggering. Hermione gave them both a reproachful look.

"Have either of you thought about what we should do?" she barked. Ron shrugged.

"What do you mean?"

"Should we tell her?" she asked, in an altogether softer tone of voice.

"About Snape? Why would she want to know?" Harry asked, nastily. He couldn't help but think that, were he in the unenviable position of having Snape as a parent, he would rather not know about it.

"Harry's got a point," Ron added. "Sometimes, ignorance is bliss."

Hermione sat down in a chair, and rested her chin on her hands.

"Oh, this is just awful!" she moaned. "I know we shouldn't say anything, but just think of poor Snape!"

Harry saw Ron look askance at Hermione, and found himself staring at her in much the same way.

"Poor Snape?" Harry asked, incredulously. "What do you mean, 'poor Snape'?"

"Poor, my arse!" Ron added, whilst folding his arms sulkily. "He's a git!"

"He's a git," Hermione sighed, "that's been grieving someone who isn't actually dead."

Harry suddenly thought of something. The memory of Beauchamp's he had seen during their last Occlumency lesson before the Christmas holidays, where Karkaroff had been arguing with Porphyria, whom Beauchamp referred to as her aunt...

"Why was she was the next of kin on the St. Mungo's record, and not Snape?" he asked, having quickly told Ron and Hermione of the memory he had seen. Hermione frowned.

"She must have known Professor Beauchamp was Snape's daughter, why didn't she tell anyone?"

Ron shrugged.

"Beats me. Here, Harry, didn't you say Karkaroff told this Porphyria that he knew tales of her brother that would make her hair curl?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, quietly, "I guess she's his sister. If her surname's Beauchamp, I suppose she married."

Hermione clicked her fingers.

"Of course!" she exclaimed. Ron looked up at her.

"What?" he asked. Hermione sighed.

"I've just thought- Dumbledore didn't really believe Voldemort had gone for good, right?"

"Yeah, so?" Ron retorted.

"Well, suppose Beauchamp's Aunt Porphyria thought the same thing. I expect rekindling the link between the ex-Death Eater and the daughter would be the last thing you'd want to do if you were in her position. If Snape thought she was dead, and Beauchamp couldn't remember her father, it would be easy to keep it that way, and thus keep them both out of harm's way," she explained. Harry couldn't help but be impressed.

"For fifteen seconds worth of thinking, that's a pretty good suggestion," he replied. Ron snorted.

"Assuming, of course, that Snape's sister knew what her brother was up to," he replied. Harry shook his head.

"From what I saw of her in Beauchamp's memory, I don't think you'd run the risk of her finding out through other sources. She had a fierce temper on her," he replied.

"There's just one other thing that doesn't make any sense," Ron added, his brow furrowed in thought.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"Your mum. What has she got to do with all this? Dumbledore said she was Beauchamp's Secret Keeper, but why bother if she had an aunt who was clearly more than capable of looking after her?"

Harry shrugged. Hermione looked up at them.

"I suppose if Voldemort or any Death Eaters found out what he was doing, they would most likely come after his family. Porphyria's relation to him doesn't seem like a secret. I'd imagine your mum wasn't known to be a friend of his- she'd be perfect. I mean, who would suspect she was looking after Snape's daughter, of all people?" she said, looking at Harry.

"True, especially seeing as he and my dad hated each other," he agreed.

Suddenly, Ginny and Dean came blundering into the common room.

"Hey, are you guys coming to dinner?" Ginny asked, looking red in the face. Hermione got up out of her chair.

"Yes, we are, Ginny- could we have a word first?" she asked, taking Ginny's arm in her own and walking them both out of the common room.

"Ooh, who's being secretive!" Ron goaded as the two left. He looked at Harry.

"Wonder what that's all about?" he commented. Harry shrugged.

"No idea," he lied. He was fairly certain it had something to do with Draco, the library and Harry having found out about it, but he daren't tell Ron. Not only had Hermione made him promise not to, but he also has a fairly vivid mental image of what Ron would do if he did find out, and Harry was pretty certain it would get him expelled. Instead, he got up and followed Dean and Ron to the Great Hall for dinner.

Potions class the next morning was an expected disaster. Harry couldn't concentrate on a thing. Snape was being his usual contemptible self, docking house points from Gryffindor because Harry kept staring into space during his introduction to Aging potions. He was grateful when the practical work started, for he had come very close to blurting out in the middle of class the story of Snape and his daughter, courtesy of Steve, the savage brain area. As he ground his poppy seeds, he began to accept he could do nothing but hate the man, and concentrated on imagining the seeds in his pestle and mortar were his Potions professor.

Crack! Harry dealt his seeds a blow with a deft thrust of his right wrist.

"Miss Bones, you're dissecting the spleen from a murtlap, not preparing blowfish..."

Crunch!

"Mr. Macmillan, it's been said that humans only use around five percent of their brain matter at any one time, and in your case I suspect that number is much lower- your potion is supposed to be green and viscous at this stage, not red and watery..."

Crunch!

"Ah, Draco, excellent work..."

Harry's poppy seeds nearly flew out of his pestle and mortar from the force at which he tried to crush the remaining seeds.

"Ow, watch it, Harry!" Ron hissed, as a few seeds hit him in the eye.

"Sorry," Harry whispered back, scooping any other wayward seeds back into his hand and throwing them in the cauldron.

"Right, what's next?" Ron looked up at the board. "Hellebore, I think- No, wait..."

Harry haphazardly threw a handful of hellebore leaves into their cauldron, which made an odd hissing sound on contact with the solution already present. Ron sighed.

"We're supposed to stir it seven times in an anti-clockwise direction first," he explained. Harry found himself shrugging in apathy.

"Oh well, who cares," he replied. Ron looked at him as though he had just gone mad, and began to cough loudly. Harry ignored it.

"What? It's just Potions! Since when have we ever given a toss? We'll get lousy marks whatever we do."

Ron looked more agitated, and coughed some more, looking at Harry with widening eyes.

"I wonder what Malfoy does that gets him such good marks- maybe Snape is trying to appease his father? Perhaps he pays him off, or something," he continued, Steve dominating over the proceedings in his head.

Ron continued to stare at him, wildly.

"The greasy old f..." Harry continued, until Ron interrupted him.

"Harry!" he hissed at him. Too late, he realised why.

"He's standing right behind me, isn't he?" Harry more stated than asked, whilst turning around to face his Potions Professor, who looked angrier than Harry could ever have imagined.

"Morning, sir," Harry said defiantly, looking straight at Snape without actually making eye contact, fully aware of Snape's Legilmency skills. The hook-nosed man glared at him ferociously.

"What are you doing, Potter?" he asked, in a voice far too calm to be sane. Harry shrugged nonchalantly.

"Making an Aging Potion, sir," he replied, glaring back at him. Snape's lip curled in contempt.

"Then you won't mind me asking why you are throwing ingredients into your cauldron as though you are making a casserole!" he spat. Harry looked mutinously at him.

"Same reason I did this," he replied, grabbing a bottle of hanabi essence and attempting to pour it into the hissing solution of his cauldron. Snape looked alarmed, then grabbed Harry's wrist deftly, wrenching the bottle clean from his hands. He put it down and grabbed Harry roughly by the collar of his robes.

"What do you think you're doing, you stupid boy!" he snarled, baring his yellowing teeth.

"Like I said..."

"Detention. My office. Tonight," he replied, in little more than a whisper. Harry nearly rolled his eyes, but on seeing Snape's murderous glare, managed to control himself.

He was saved from Snape's full wrath when the door to his classroom swung open, and he saw Professor Beauchamp was standing in the doorway. She gave a little cough, and Snape looked up at her.

"Good morning, Professor," he said, seeming to forget about Harry and striding towards the door.

"Good morning," Beauchamp replied, looking a little paler than usual, Harry thought. As his desk was fairly close to the classroom door, he managed to catch their whispered conversation.

"I take it the potion didn't work- you'll be wanting to try it with Rhodiola rosea? I must say you could pick more convenient times to ask me than during the middle of my..."

Beauchamp hushed him.

"No, Severus, the potion worked fine. I woke up this morning, and could remember everything. That's why I'm here."

Snape looked nonplussed. Beauchamp rolled her eyes a little.

"I need to talk to you," she explained. Snape looked up at her.

"Well, go on then," he replied, with some impatience. Beauchamp looked up and made eye contact with Harry, who quickly pretended to be enthralled by his belladonna roots.

"Not right now- I think we ought to discuss it in private, after your lesson. I'll wait," she replied, conjuring up a reclining chair and sitting down on it. Snape visibly sighed with irritation, and went back to watching over his class like a particularly hungry bird of prey.

Having calmed down, Harry apologised to Ron and attempted to fix the damage he had done to their potion. Sadly, it was all for nought, though they did managed to get it the correct colour. The problem was that generally, one should be able to scoop up a potion with a ladle into a goblet, rather than pulling the ladle out of a cauldron with the entire potion stuck to it like a grim imitation toffee apple. Harry tried to fit the solid mass into a flask with little joy, so instead he chipped off a sizeable amount of the potion and managed to jam it into the neck of the flask, before putting it on Snape's desk and leaving without so much as a sideways glance at him. Not that Snape was paying him much attention, for Harry noticed he was busy ushering Beauchamp out of his classroom as well.

"My office, Professor?" he offered, holding the door open for an agitated Beauchamp to walk through.

Hermione glared at him as he left Snape's classroom.

"Honestly, Harry!" she exclaimed. "What were you trying to do?"

"You're beginning to sound like Snape," Harry muttered, before trying to push past her. Hermione grabbed his arm swiftly.

"Hanabi essence is really flammable- if you'd dropped some into your cauldron with all those ingredients, it would have blown the classroom up!"

Harry shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he muttered, "I wasn't thinking straight."

"Well, I had just about noticed that," she replied, but her tone of voice was softer.

"Yeah, mate," Ron added, having just entered the conversation. "What was up with you back there?"

"I dunno, he just makes me so angry!" Harry replied, clenching his teeth through the last three words.

"We've got Charms next- old Flitwick can't possibly make you angry," Ron said with a smile. Harry exhaled loudly.

"That's true."

"I wonder what Beauchamp wanted to see Snape about?" Hermione mused. Ron shrugged his shoulders.

"Can't be all that important, they're teachers," he answered, blithely. Harry shook his head.

"I heard Beauchamp tell him the last potion worked, and she has her memory back. I think we all know what they're going to be discussing."

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"Oh, how awful for them both!" she exclaimed. Ron smirked.

"How awful for Beauchamp, you mean. Imagine waking up to remember Snape's your father!" he retorted, albeit in hushed tones.

"Wonder how they'll both take it?" Harry thought aloud.

After their Charms lesson, Harry, Ron and Hermione made their way to the Great Hall for dinner.

"Goodness, look at the time," Hermione said, glancing at her watch as they walked. "I hope we're not too late!"

"We won't be," Ron replied, "we've got to dinner later than this before."

On entering the Hall, they saw Ginny sat at the Gryffindor table with Luna standing next to her, apparently deep in conversation. Dean, Neville and Seamus were sat on one side, with Lavender and Pavarti on the other.

"Hi," Harry offered to the congregation sitting at the table. They acknowledged his greeting with one of their own.

"How was Potions?" Neville asked. He seemed to rather enjoy Harry and Ron's accounts of Potions class now that he was no longer taking the subject. Harry groaned.

"Harry nearly blew up the classroom," Hermione remarked.

"It could have happened to anyone," Harry retorted, and proceeded to tell Neville about his and Ron's solidified Aging Potion, which he had scraped into a flask to increase the probability of Snape marking it. Neville and Dean seemed to find this hilarious. Ginny, however, merely turned to face him and said.

"Oh, so maybe that's why we didn't have Snape for Potions today."

"Huh?" Ron managed, through a mouthful of Shepherd's Pie.

"Well," Ginny explained, "we trouped down to the dungeons, only to find Snape's classroom locked. We waited ages. Eventually, we gave up, and went to leave, but then McGonagall rushed down the stairs, apologising for the delay, but she would have to cover our lesson for today. I hope you didn't annoy Snape so much that he had an aneurysm, Harry," she joked.

Luna suddenly turned her head to face Harry and Ginny.

"That was what happened in our Potions lesson this afternoon, too- not the aneurysm bit, though. Professor Flitwick covered it. There were a few moments when I thought he might fall into Snape's cauldron during the demonstration," she giggled.

Harry was about to protest that he had nothing to do with Snape's absence from lessons, when he heard Dennis Creevey excitedly chatting to his brother Colin.

"Well, she wasn't there today, so we had Dumbledore take our lesson instead! It was brill!"

"Wow, you had Dumbledore for Defence!" Colin asked, clearly impressed.

Hermione put her fork down quietly.

"Well, that explains that mystery," she commented. Harry and Ron looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, they've obviously got a lot to talk about," she replied, pointing surreptitiously at the High Table, where Snape and Beauchamp were conspicuous by their absence. The other professors seemed to have noticed their disappearance as well, for there were plenty of curious glances at the empty seats and concealed whispering. Only Dumbledore appeared immune; he was engrossed in a letter, his expression becoming increasingly troubled as he read.

Ginny looked across at Hermione and sighed.

"So, it's true then?" she asked. Hermione nodded.

"Yep, it's true."

"What's true?" Neville asked. Hermione, Ron and Harry exchanged worried glances. Neville grinned.

"Oh, I see- one of your many little secrets. It's okay," he added, before they could protest, "I think some of your secrets should probably remain unknown to us."

Dean sniggered into his pumpkin juice, and Neville tried and failed to keep a smile off his face. Ron looked at them blankly.

"What are you two on about?" he asked. They looked at each other.

"Oh, just that me and Dean know you're very close-knit friends..."

Dean couldn't contain himself, and began to properly laugh at Neville's comments. Harry eyed them both suspiciously.

"Are you two okay?" he asked. They nodded.

"Fine, fine... really, don't worry about it Harry- ask us no questions and we'll ask you none in return," Dean replied. Hermione rolled her eyes and continued to at her apple crumble. Harry was halfway through his before he realised the time.

"Damn! I've got to go to Snape's detention," he announced, stuffing as much pudding as he could into his mouth. Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

"What did you do?" she asked, cynically. Harry shrugged.

"Told you- I nearly blew up the classroom. Accidentally on purpose. So, detention," he replied. Ginny looked up at him.

"How can you accidentally on purpose nearly blow up a classroom?"

"Well, I tried to tip something into my cauldron that I shouldn't have, and Snape went nuts and gave me a detention. Turns out the thing I tried to tip in it would have blown up the classroom if I'd succeeded. I didn't know," he said, looking at Hermione, who appeared to believe him. "I just wanted to annoy him."

"And now you get to annoy him for a whole evening," Ginny remarked, sarcastically. Harry looked back at her.

"Yeah, yeah- I admit my plan was flawed," he replied, before swallowing one last mouthful of pudding, standing up and heading towards the dungeons to Snape's office.

It felt colder down in the dungeons than Harry thought it had ever been before, as he dawdled down to Snape's office at a speed that ensured he was procrastinating over attending his detention, but wouldn't actually end up late and thus incur yet another punishment.

Snape's office door was shut. Harry thought this odd- usually if he was expecting a student to attend a detention he had set, he would leave the door open. Unless he had gone off somewhere, in which case Harry had no choice but to wait. He briefly considered just leaving, and commenting to Snape that if he can't keep his appointments, then why should he, when he suddenly heard raised voices from behind the door.

"What?" a female voice sounding familiar to Harry said, incredulously. He quickly identified it as being Beauchamp. He heard Snape mutter something that Harry couldn't make out, owing to the thickness of the door.

"You can't not tell him!" Beauchamp shouted, in disbelief. "He has to know- if it was me, I'd want to know."

"Of course- and how exactly do you propose I tell the boy? In case you hadn't noticed we share a certain animosity... You'll have to do it."

"Me?" Beauchamp sounded indignant. "Why me? He's going to go nuts, and it isn't like this is in any way, shape or form my fault. It's all down to you. And her."

She sounded slightly contemptuous of Snape's suggestion, whatever it was.

"If you told him, it would be far less of a slap in the face than if I did," he explained, though there was vexation in his voice.

"You coward!" she spat.

"Coward nothing, it's the truth, and you know it," he replied, though his voice sounded more tired. Harry heard a loud sigh.

"Fine. You're right, annoyingly, but I'm still not happy about doing your dirty work."

"I appreciate your concern..." Snape tried to reason, but was interrupted by Beauchamp.

"Well, I just hope the major heart attack he has when I share this with him is an amusing one!" she ranted.

In his puzzlement over the exchange he had just heard, Harry almost forgot to knock on the door. Quietly, he rapped his knuckles on the door to Snape's office, and heard an angry, "Who the devil is that?" followed by the creak of a chair, and footsteps stalking towards the door. It opened with a sudden movement and a rush of cold air. Snape looked more sallow than usual, and tired. He glanced at Harry, and his eyebrows met at the centre of his forehead as he frowned.

"What do you want, Potter?" he demanded.

"I came for my detention," he replied, as inoffensively as he could. Snape glared at him coldly.

"I'm busy. Come back tomorrow," he ordered.

"But, sir..."

"Do as I say, Potter!" he practically roared, before slamming the door in his face. Harry stared at the wrought iron work adorning the heavy oak door for a moment.

"Well," he said to nobody in particular, "I'll just be going then."

He turned to find the stairs to the ground floor, when he had his second unpleasant meeting of the day.

Draco Malfoy.

"Watch it, Potter," he sneered, as they collided with each other.

"Watch it yourself, Malfoy," Harry retorted, trying very hard not to belt him across the face with his right hand, which was now balled into a fist.

"What are you doing down here anyway, Potter? Remedial Potions again?" He shook his head. "How you got onto Professor Snape's Potions course is beyond me..."

"Not that's it's any of your business," Harry replied, "but seeing as you seem so interested in my life- I went to a detention that didn't happen."

Draco looked surprised, but said nothing. He walked past Harry towards Snape's office.

"I wouldn't bother if I were you, he's busy," Harry shouted after him. Draco took no notice, and Harry was treated to the rare sight of Snape shouting at Draco, and slamming his office door for the second time in five minutes.

"Told you," Harry shouted back to a stunned Draco, before ascending the staircase to the ground floor.

He reached the second floor and the staircase moved suddenly, making his usual path to the Gryffindor tower impossible so he backtracked down the corridor to find another stairway, passing the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office as he did so. He heard footsteps behind him, and voices that sounded familiar to him.

"... Porphyria, please remain calm for a moment..."

"Calm," the woman replied, savagely, "calm! How can I remain calm, Professor," she hissed, "when the only blood family I have left are suddenly in grave danger! All because of a potion- she really doesn't know when to leave things alone! If she hadn't owled me asking about these new memories, I wouldn't even know! I'm just relieved you replied to my owl so quickly..."

Harry recognised the woman's voice, and turned around to get a look at her. He recognised the pinned back dark hair, hooked nose and tanned skin of Beauchamp's aunt staring back at him.

"What is it, boy?" he snapped at him, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Porphyria, please," Dumbledore soothed, trying to placate her. "It's quite alright; hello, Harry," he said to Harry, who smiled.

"Hello, sir," he replied. "The staircase moved..." He began to explain, but Dumbledore held his hand out to quieten him.

"Please, you don't have to explain why you are walking around in your school." He smiled. "This is Porphyria Beauchamp- she's an alumnus of Hogwarts."

The woman appeared to have composed herself, for she managed a smile and greeted Harry civilly. Harry said hello back, though he couldn't shake off how similar she looked to Snape in the flesh, except older and darker.

"Harry, I heard from your friends earlier that you were supposed to have a detention with Professor Snape- has it finished already?" Dumbledore asked. Harry looked up at him.

"He postponed it. He's busy at the moment- I think he might be talking to Professor Beauchamp. It's all rather odd, he's usually very particular about these things," he added, hoping it would make him appear more like someone who didn't know anything about the relationship between Snape and the two Beauchamps. Porphyria frowned at him, and Harry thought it best to run along and find a staircase that would take him to the Gryffindor common room. As he walked away, he could hear Porphyria Beauchamp's distinctive voice.

"I would be happy to stay here overnight if you think they aren't ready to talk to me, Albus. My husband François will be arriving shortly, though..."

"Accommodating him won't be a problem, Porphyria. We just want to get things sorted out for everyone involved," Dumbledore replied, before their voices were lost in the distance Harry had put between them as he raced up the stairs to his common room.