Harry Potter and the Flowers of Mimas

Chapter 5: The Rusty Plate

Draco was smirking unpleasantly as he paced the corridor, matching his stride with the Potions Master. The sounds of smashing foliage and furious whinnies were still faintly audible from classroom eleven. "Nice one, sir," Draco said.

Snape inwardly agreed that upsetting the centaur had been an enjoyable diversion. It almost made up for the inconvenience of being harangued by Sybill Trelawney, who had appeared to be either blind drunk or barking mad, when Snape had mistakenly climbed to the North Tower. But setting Firenze's tail in a tizz was not enough to distract Snape from the awfulness of the journey he was about to make.

He handed the boy his traveling cloak. "We'll say no more of that, Draco." Snape whispered in a serious tone. He added in a friendlier voice, "And by the way, happy birthday." They walked into the drizzling rain outside.

"You're a bit later that I expected, sir," Draco remarked in an offhand way. He paused to adjust the hood of his cloak and to survey the sweep of Hogwarts' front lawn, where Madam Hooch was braving the weather to teach the first years how to fly. "Mother's letter said I should expect to leave at half past nine."

Snape bit back a sharp retort. How like Narcissa, he thought, to acquaint her darling son with all her plans, but not inform me until the absolute last minute. "You weren't easy to find," Snape plausibly offered in explanation. "Somebody relocated your Divination lesson."

Draco sniggered. "That was 'cause old Trelawney flipped her wig. You should have heard the daft bint -" he stopped suddenly when he caught sight of the Potions Master's disapproving glare. A student's disrespect towards any Hogwarts professor (with the obvious exception of any professor who happened to be a centaur) was something that Severus Snape did not tolerate.

They strode quickly in the direction of the front gates, past the flying lesson. Some sort of fracas was developing among the first years and Madam Hooch shouted sternly, "I said grip the handle, Miss Floyd!"

Reluctantly, Snape looked over his shoulder to see the littlest Slytherin witch hanging by her pale knees from a school broom. Her two housemates, a pair of weedy wizards whose names Snape could not recall, were trying to pull her down to safety. Mary Floyd's broom bobbed above shoulder height so that her head was level with her rescuers' chests. A ring of boys and girls from the other houses stood pointing and laughing at the sight.

"Not much talent for the Quidditch team there," Draco drawled languidly.

"Not without a few more flying lessons," Snape agreed. They continued walking through the school gates. But Draco had found a topic of conversation close to his heart and began to chatter enthusiastically.

"You know, sir, there's quite a good opportunity to take a new direction with Quidditch this year." Snape displayed no reaction, so Draco continued. "We need two Beaters. Nott says he'll have a go - and I guess he'll be able to manage it if we slip him a cup of Strengthening Solution every now and then. But the person I really think could make a difference is Millicent Bulstrode."

"A girl, Draco?" Snape smiled sardonically. "Is that not somewhat untraditional?"

Draco looked uncomfortable. Clearly, he did not want to be known as somebody who recommended abandoning the arcane and venerable traditions of Slytherin House. "Well, she's fairly huge, sir. And dead butch. I reckon you'd hardly be able to tell she was a girl from the stadium."

"Draco!" Snape exclaimed in mock horror. He continued, with more than a hint of playfulness, "If I was aiming for gender ambiguity, I could have put Blaise Zabini on the team years ago."

Draco chuckled sycophantically. "Yeah, Blaise - that'd confuse everyone. But you ought to consider Millicent, sir. She's excellent at hitting things."

Snape wondered how long it would be before Draco suborned Miss Bulstrode's services as a henchperson, now that Crabbe and Goyle were no longer at hand to offer their protection. He also wondered why Draco had taken it upon himself to map out the future of Slytherin's Quidditch team. Clearly, the boy saw some advantage in doing so. Snape decided to put his suspicions to the test, so he casually observed, "You seem to have put a lot of thought into all this."

"Well, I've been making plans, sir." Draco lifted his pointed chin with pride. "'Cause, it seems to me, you'll also be looking for someone to captain the team."

Snape was not the least bit surprised that Lucius Malfoy's son and heir would take such an opportunity to increase his power and influence. But the blatancy of Draco's approach was disappointing. He determined to put the boy in his place. "No, Draco. Montague's back this year. We already have a captain."

"Montague?" Draco scoffed.

"His parents insisted that the school let him sit his N.E.W.T. examinations again."

"But - but he's been hopeless ever since we found him in that toilet." Draco sounded far less confident. "We'll be lucky if can remember which end of the pitch we're scoring from."

Snape said nothing but increased the speed of his step. Soon Draco was running a few paces behind him, trying to keep eye contact as he negotiated with his Head of House.

"I think I did pretty well in lifting morale last year," Draco continued. "All that stuff about Weasley - with the song and the badges. That was my idea, sir."

"It wasn't so good for morale when you kept missing the Snitch," Snape responded brusquely.

"I know my Seeking wasn't the best last year, sir," Draco said anxiously. "But I can improve." He hitched his robes up around his ankles so that he could walk faster. Snape lengthened his stride but did not reply.

"And I'm getting a new broom this year, sir," Draco said desperately, as he fell further behind his teacher. "A Firebolt. Dad said at Christmas that I could have one for my birthday. He's probably giving it to me today."

"That's nice, Draco." Snape was glad the boy could not see his face. Behind the folds of his dark hood the Potions Master was grinning openly. The thought that Lucius, who was imprisoned in the closest place to hell on earth Snape could imagine and whose legal bills must be crippling, could be at liberty to buy his son a Firebolt, was comical.

"Maybe he can get the whole team Firebolts, sir." Draco's voice was high-pitched and urgent. Snape had half a mind to pity him. But he dared not turn around, because he suspected the sight of Draco might actually make him laugh out loud. "If he got the whole team Firebolts - do you think - you'd give Montague the flick then, wouldn't you, sir?"

Snape stopped walking and, suppressing his smile, turned to face the boy. Draco was panting heavily, his cheeks were atypically flushed, but the biggest change in Draco's visage was in his eyes. Normally Draco's gaze was cold and indifferent. Now his eyes were pleading. Snape realised that even though he could never think of Draco as particularly intelligent, the youth was perhaps not as naïve as he at first appeared. Draco knew, as the rest of the world knew, that the age of the Malfoy family's influence was about to end. So the child clutched at the few paltry trappings of power still within his reach - prefect's badges and Quidditch captaincies.

Snape said solemnly, "If you can supply our team with new brooms, I'll make you Quidditch captain." The boy's face lit up in an arrogant smile. Snape added sarcastically, "Perhaps you'd like me to ensure you become Head Boy, too?"

Draco's face fell. "Dumbledore won't let a Slytherin be Head Boy, sir."

"No, at the moment I don't think that is part of the Headmaster's plans." Snape said nastily.

"Dumbledore's a blood traitor," Draco snarled. "He's filling Hogwarts with Mudbloods and freaks. I don't even know why mother and father make me stay at his rotten school." They had reached a fork in the road where a rustic signpost indicated the way to Hogsmeade. Draco turned and glared at Hogwarts Castle, which was visible across the dull grey lake. Snape looked back as well.

A feeble ray of sunshine struggled through the parting clouds and touched the windows of Dumbledore's office. Snape chose his words with care when he murmured, "We certainly do not share all the Headmaster's views, Draco. But I would still prefer you to mind your language."

Slytherin's Housemaster knew he should rebuke the boy. But how could he explain that, even if Dumbledore stood for none of his beliefs, he could trust the Headmaster with his life? Snape turned his gaze from the distant gleam of the castle's stained glass and he resumed walking. But his insides felt leaden. As he walked on purposefully Snape inwardly relived the day, nearly fifteen years ago, when he had placed his faith in Dumbledore.

* * * * * * *

He had been waiting alone in the Headmaster's office for more than half and hour. The Auror would be here any minute. The portraits lining the walls had not spoken, but the painting of a corpulent, red-nosed wizard that hung behind the Headmaster's desk scowled down at the thin, bedraggled young man. The youth controlled his breathing as best he could, focusing all his attention on the luminous colours of the giant stained glass window. But Snape's terror was evident in every bead of sweat that trickled down his oily nose.

The Headmaster entered the room, carrying a scroll in one hand and, in the other, the largest block of chocolate Snape had ever seen.

"Please eat this, Severus," Dumbledore said. His voice was calm, but there was an undertone of fatigue. Snape looked closely into the old man's clear blue eyes. The Headmaster was worried too, which was never a good sign.

"I don't really like chocolate, sir," Snape said stupidly.

"I was not presenting you with a choice," Dumbledore responded firmly. "I have asked Alastor to come alone, but I cannot guarantee that he will not bring an escort from Azkaban with him."

Dementors. Snape had always kept a safe distance whenever the Dark Lord had used the Dementors to break an enemy's spirit. But now he was being delivered up into their sinister care. Snape broke off the biggest piece of chocolate he could and crammed it into his mouth.

"It would be better if you remain hidden, as well." Dumbledore explained. He opened the breastplate of one of the suits of armour that stood guard beside his fireplace. From it he withdrew a shimmering Invisibility Cloak, which he handed to Snape. "Stay under this, over in the corner if you will. I intend to make sure all our conditions have been understood before I let them take you." Snape took the chocolate and the cloak and moved to the corner indicated by the Headmaster. "And Severus," Dumbledore added, "try to eat as quietly as you can."

Snape threw the Invisibility Cloak over himself and squatted on the floor. He noticed that the fabric was decorated with crests showing fleur-de-lis and lions rampant. They were the Potter family's heraldic symbols. Until that point Snape did not believe it possible that he could feel any more wretched. However, as he took refuge under a cloak that could well have been the mantle of his fallen foe, guilt and self-loathing welled up inside him. Snape felt much, much worse.

Dumbledore sat at his desk and, presumably to preserve the illusion that he was alone, began to work. His handsome scarlet quill scratched over a piece of parchment. Fawkes, who at the time was once again a chick, chirped from a cushion at the bottom of his perch. Every now and then a silver instrument beside the Headmaster's hand whirred mysteriously. Without looking up, Dumbledore said, "I assure you, Severus, in three days time you will be safe."

Snape hardly knew what "safe" meant any more. His life had been a labyrinth of deception for so many months that he could no longer imagine living in safety. But his mouth was too full of chocolate to ask the Headmaster how he could be certain that all would be well.

Dumbledore continued. "Have you given any thought to what you might like to do when all this is over? A clever young man, such as yourself, should choose a career where he can make a difference."

Snape made a mumbling noise, which he hoped indicated that he had no firm plans.

"You are welcome to teach at Hogwarts, if that suits you," Dumbledore offered magnanimously. Snape wondered what the families that had suffered at the Dark Lord's hands would think of the idea. "We have a number of vacancies." The old man sounded sorrowful. Snape realised that the victims of the war had probably included Hogwarts professors as well.

"If that is your wish," Snape attempted to say, but a mouthful of chocolate garbled his words. He tried to swallow some of the distasteful confectionary before he added, "I think I am best qualified to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts."

The empty fireplace burst into emerald green flame. Dumbledore shot Snape a warning glance that he should stop talking at once. Forgetting that he could not be seen, Snape crouched even lower to the ground and buried his head between his knees. He could hear the uneven clunk of the Auror's wooden leg on the stone floor.

"Where is he, Dumbledore?" Alastor Moody growled. Snape raised his face to meet the Auror's dark and beady eyes, which were staring, unknowingly, directly at him.

"Very nearby," Dumbledore replied evenly. "I've merely asked Severus to give us a moment together, so that we may confirm his arrangements."

"I thought we'd agreed - no tricks this time," Moody replied angrily. He looked about the room warily, as though he expected an ambush. "You've been stalling since Hallowe'en. We're all running out of patience."

"Please, take a seat, Alastor," Dumbledore said formally.

Moody poked a chair with his staff and continued to stand, checking over his shoulder at frequent intervals. Snape noticed the raw, gaping hole in the Auror's weathered face where most of Moody's nose had quite recently been. He remembered the night that Evan Rosier had inflicted that wound. "I'll stand," Moody answered gruffly. "I'm not staying long." To his shame, Snape found himself wishing that Rosier had not died before he could do Moody an injury that was fatal.

"As you please." Dumbledore waved a long thin hand dismissively. "But I will require your full attention."

Moody stopped looking about and snarled, "You've got it."

"Severus Snape has agreed to be taken into custody as a sign of good faith." Moody snorted, but Dumbledore continued gravely. "He does not need to accompany you today, Alastor. His hearing has been set for Monday, and on Monday he will be found innocent. He poses no danger to anyone. That young man was indeed once a Death Eater. But he is now no more a Death Eater than you or I." At this last remark Moody cleared his throat ferociously. But Dumbledore stared at the Auror piercingly though his half-moon glasses before concluding, "There is no legal reason why he need not remain at liberty until his case is heard."

"I've got a dozen witnesses who'll tell the Wizengamot different," was Moody's surly response.

"Young Severus has a regrettable talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Dumbledore said placatingly. "And because he understands that his reputation has been so widely brought into question, he has agreed to submit to the will of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But I must make sure we understand where things will go from here." He unrolled the scroll of parchment that Snape had seen before. When Dumbledore handed the scroll to Moody, Snape noticed that it bore an impressively gilded Ministry of Magic letterhead.

"You should recognise Millicent Bagnold's signature at the bottom," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly. "Regardless of any plans you, or even Bartemius Crouch, may have made, I think we would do better to observe our Chief Minister's wishes."

Moody hunched over the parchment and read. "A closed session? What's the meaning of this?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that now, Alastor. Severus has risked his life for us all. If we do not offer him the protection of perfect secrecy, then we will repay him by condemning him to death."

"Who's the Wizengamot's Secret Keeper?" Moody wanted to know. Dumbledore nodded his head significantly.

"You?" Moody sputtered. "You!" He crashed his staff against the floor. "So if he gets off - Scott free," Moody shouted, "the only one in that chamber who'll know - all the foul things that filthy little snake has done - is you?" Despite the fact that Snape was sick to his stomach from hopeless fear and too much chocolate, he nearly laughed out loud at the Auror's apoplectic reaction.

Unfortunately, Moody had a cat-like ability (developed through decades of constant vigilance) to detect even the smallest disturbance. He swung around to stare at the corner where Snape sat. The young man held his breath, but part of his mind gave in to the inevitability of capture. He waited for Dumbledore's signal to remove the Invisibility Cloak.

But before Dumbledore could move Moody pulled an odd device from his pocket. It looked like a glass spinning top and it emitted a tinny whistle. Moody balanced it at arm's length on one of his palms, drew his wand and walked towards Snape. The little machine spun furiously and the pitch of its whistle lifted with every step he took.

"That is quite enough, Alastor!" Dumbledore commanded, rising to his feet.

Ignoring the Headmaster, Moody dropped the machine. To Snape's surprise, it did not shatter. Moody reached out and snatched wildly until he grasped at the edge of James Potter's cloak. Snape clung to the fabric, but the Auror yanked it away.

The look on Moody's face was one of mingled triumph and disgust. He had expected to capture a Death Eater. Instead, he had discovered a skinny youth, crouching on the floor with chocolate smeared all over his face. At that moment Snape highly doubted that he looked much like a threat to wizardkind. He probably more closely resembled a naughty boy, who had been caught gobbling sweets under the dining room table.

"It seems like you've got some friends in high places, boy," Moody said in a sneering tone. He gripped Snape's arm and pulled him up so forcefully that Snape's feet lifted from the ground. In an instant, Moody had extracted Snape's wand from his pocket. Thin, snake-like cords shot from Moody's wand and Snape found himself bound and gagged.

"But, your influential friends won't be much help this weekend." A hideous grin spread across the Auror's misshapen countenance. He bent down and put the glass spinning top, which had stopped whistling, in his pocket. "Dementors tend to treat all of your lot the same," Moody hissed. He jammed a rusty enamel dinner plate, which Snape suspected was a Portkey, between the prisoner's clasped hands.

Dumbledore now stood beside Snape and patted his shoulder with fatherly concern. "It's only for three days, Severus," the old man said reassuringly. "And there will always be a home for you at Hogwarts."

Snape wanted to scream. He wanted to kick and fight and curse Dumbledore for suggesting this idiotic plan. But his whole body was immobilised and his tongue was pushed back against a choking gag. So all he could do was fix the doddering old nincompoop with the most hateful stare he could manage.

Dumbledore did not seem to appreciate how fully he was being loathed. He continued to muse congenially, "You are also more than welcome to teach here."

Moody grunted as his gnarled hand gripped the metal plate. Snape realised he only had seconds before he would be transported to Azkaban. Dumbledore added thoughtfully, "But I'm not sure about Defence Against the Dark Arts. Something tells me... it might bring out... the worst in you."

Snape felt a hook tugging from within his chocolate-bloated belly. He closed his eyes as Dumbledore's office dissolved in a swirl of colours. When Snape reopened his eyes, he stood at the mouth of hell.

* * * * * * *

The Potions Master did not realise they had walked so far in silence until he spotted a smart display of cast iron cauldrons on the pavement outside Dervish and Banges. The rain, which had never been more than an insipid shower, had now stopped completely. Bright puddles shone on the cobblestones like shards of glass.

A fat tabby Kneazle was licking itself on the shop's front step. Draco picked up a wet stone from the gutter and shied it at the animal. "Ha!" he exclaimed. "Nearly got it, sir."

The Kneazle yowled and an elderly wizard in a top hat poked his head up from behind the cauldron display. Fearing that this was the feline's owner, Snape took Draco firmly by the arm and marched him out of view around the corner.

"You would do well to behave yourself today, Draco," Snape whispered angrily.

The boy's grey eyes narrowed. He brushed his teacher's guiding hand away. "I don't know, sir," he said pointedly. "Seems to me I'm not the only one who needs to be on his best behaviour."

Snape did not know what to make of Draco's veiled threat. In all likelihood, the little brat was simply reminding him that they would soon be in the company of Draco's overprotective mother. Narcissa would have something very harsh to say if Snape dared to discipline her darling boy in her presence. But, Snape could not help dreading that Draco's words meant something more. After a moment's hesitation, during which the corner of Draco's mouth curled into an insolent grin, the Potions Master said smoothly, "And we should both remember that we are already some minutes late. We cannot be distracted - let's move on."

They walked briskly past several more shops until they reached the post office. Dodging the owls that were issuing from the post office door at regular intervals, they turned into a side-street. At the top of this small thoroughfare stood a dingy inn, the Hog's Head. On the opposite side of the road stood the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's office. It was an inspired piece of town planning that had placed both these establishments in such close proximity, because the patrons of the Hog's Head were also the chief customers of the Ministry's lock-up.

Narcissa Malfoy was waiting for them at the end of the road, standing with the graceful bearing of one of nature's nobility. She wore a hooded cloak made of a pale blue, glossy fabric that shimmered as brilliantly as the glistening puddles at her feet. Snape thought the overall effect was to make her look like an expertly crafted ice sculpture.

This illusion was shattered when Narcissa spotted them both. She began walking towards them rapidly, with a singularly unfriendly expression on her face.

"What is the meaning of this, Severus?" she asked in the well-modulated tones of barely disguised hostility.

"Forgive my lateness." Snape apologised while he executed a small bow. "I had a small degree of difficulty finding Draco, his lesson was relocated, without notice, and I -"

"You walked!" Narcissa interrupted. Her mellifluous voice had risen in pitch and volume ever so slightly. "In this rain?" She gently brushed the hood of Draco's cloak away from his face and carefully smoothed back her son's hair, as though she was inspecting him for water damage. Without bothering to look directly at Snape, she asked, "Why was a carriage not sent?"

Snape wanted to tell her that they had not traveled by carriage because her pampered princeling was quite capable of making the short stroll to Hogsmeade. He wanted to tell her that it would take ten times as long to catch a Thestral for a carriage as it would for her overindulged progeny to amble to the town. But instead he tried to look contrite and murmured, "A lamentable oversight. I am sorry."

Narcissa sighed as she cupped her hand under Draco's chin. "In the future, kindly remember," she said, her voice dripping poisoned honey, "that Malfoys do not walk."

Narcissa then proceeded to bestow the entirety of her maternal affection on her son, smothering his cheeks in birthday kisses. Snape found the spectacle off-putting, so he walked the remaining distance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Hogsmeade branch office. It had a rather forlorn shop front, neglected, unlovely and possessing none of the grandeur of the government's offices in London.

Snape loitered by the door, perusing the notices that had been taped to the grimy front window. There was a handwritten sign offering a reward for a lost Hippogriff. A curling, yellow bit of parchment (which Snape realised was at least three years out of date) advised the citizens of Hogsmeade that as part of the manhunt for Sirius Black, Dementors would be patrolling the streets after sundown. Next to this notice, a poster showed Sirius Black himself, laughing maniacally, under the caption: Have You Seen This Wizard? The photograph was silent but Snape had an uncomfortable feeling that whenever Black caught his eye he mouthed the word "Snivellus."

Three other signs had pride of place behind the dirty glass. The largest notice, hung in the middle of the window, displayed the Ministry's ubiquitous slogan in flashing orange letters: BE ALERT, BE ALARMED: Dob in A Death Eater Today. Next to it was a poster offering a reward of one thousand Galleons for the recapture of Bellatrix Lestrange, which featured a picture of the witch (prior to her imprisonment and still strikingly attractive) wearing an enigmatic, icy smile. Snape was grateful that she seemed too devoted to catching the attention of another wizard's picture (in the final poster) to notice that Snape was standing before her.

The final notice read:

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

(PREFERABLY DEAD)

YOU KNOW WHO

There was a wizard photograph underneath the caption. This surprised Snape. During the long years of the first war, the wizarding world was so in terror of the Dark Lord that to view his face was almost as much a taboo as saying his name. Yet from somewhere within the Ministry's archives a photograph had been found, probably from the era when You Know Who wielded power by ostensibly legitimate means. It showed a wizard with pale skin and black hair, middle aged, well dressed and respectable. But Snape readily perceived the malevolence showing in that wizard's dark eyes.

The photograph was disturbing. Not only was it, as a means of identifying the Dark Lord's newly risen body, worse than useless. But also, the eyes in the picture followed Snape and stared accusingly no matter where the Potions Master stood. After an awkward couple of minutes, Snape saw that Narcissa and Draco were finally making their way down the street. He decided he would go into the building and ask the staff how long it would be before their Portkey was ready to depart.

Once inside the cramped office, an amply proportioned witch, who was giving the wizard behind the counter a piece of her mind, blocked Snape's path to the front desk.

"A new Bluebottle, mind you," she said in an affronted tone. "With an inbuilt anti-burglar buzzer. What is the world coming to when a witch can't tie her broom up for ten minutes?"

"At the front of the post office, you said?" the wizard's bored voice asked. Snape could not see his face, just the top of a moth-eaten green bowler hat. "We'll need to fill in a lost property form." Snape heard parchment being unenthusiastically shuffled.

"It's not lost," the witch protested.

"Well, have you got any reason to believe it's been transfigured and/or vanished? Or devoured by magical beast? I'll need to get a different form if you do."

"It hasn't been lost or vanished or eaten," the witch said heatedly. "It has been stolen. And it's no wonder, with all those Death Eaters you're letting run about." The witch turned around to enlist Snape's support in her fight against You Know Who's minions. Snape was startled to see that she wore very thickly applied, magenta lipstick. "Just last month," she told Snape angrily, "they thieved my prize Chinese Chomping Cabbage, bold as brass, right out of my back garden."

"Now, Mandy," the office worker said irritably, "you can't keep blaming that on the Death Eaters. Not when we nicked Kev Cavanagh with a dozen preserving jars full of Snapping Sauerkraut."

"Well, I'm here to report yet another theft, young man, so you can stop being so rude." The witch turned her back on Snape once more and pounded the desk with her fist. "I've got a good mind to report you to Mr Fudge." She grabbed a piece of parhment from a bundle on the desk and barked an order. "Just write it down, will you? Name of complainant is Mrs Vanstone. That's V - A - N -"

"I know how to spell your name, Mandy," the wizard said as his quill began to scratch. He added grumpily, "I've had plenty of practice."

The pair had been working through the requirements of the Theft of Property form for a short while. Snape glanced disinterestedly at the notice board inside the office, to which an information pamphlet on first aid for Cruciatus Curse sufferers had been pinned. He began to grow uneasy. He expected the Portkey would have a prearranged departure time. Although missing the Portkey would be a great personal relief he was not sure that Narcissa, or even Dumbledore, would take the news very well. He was about to go and fetch Narcissa and Draco when a trim but frantic young witch in a frilly apron burst through the doorway.

"Mrs Vanstone, there you are!" the flustered girl exclaimed. "Miss Puddifoot said I'd more than likely find you here."

"Lizzie?" Mrs Vanstone sounded confused, until she noticed the new broom that the younger woman was holding. "Oh! That's my Bluebottle!"

The witch in the apron handed the broom to its owner. "You left it propped against your table." She added earnestly, "You wants to be more careful, ma'am, what with all them Death Eaters about."

"That's just what I was saying," Mrs Vanstone pronounced haughtily. She brandished her broom in front of her and began to leave the office, when Narcissa and Draco came through the door.

The wizard at the counter peered around Mrs Vanstone's bulky girth and gave Narcissa a look of recognition. "Hullo, you're that Death Eater's missus, aren't you?" he asked cheerily and loudly.

The expression on the face of Mrs Vanstone changed from righteous indignation to abject horror. The young waitress turned white. They both nervously and silently backed out of the room, giving Narcissa and Draco as wide a berth as they could manage in such a confined space.

The wizard in the shabby hat disappeared under his counter. When he reappeared he was holding a battered, enamel dinner plate. "Auror Headquarters sent this over last night," the man said cheerfully. "It's due to go off any minute now. You just got here in time."

The formalities to authorise the Portkey were rushed through. Soon Narcissa, Draco and Snape stood in a squashed circle, each holding the rim of the rusty plate. Snape was sure that Narcissa's bejeweled, exquisitely manicured hands had never touched so tawdry a piece of tableware before. But to Snape the flaking paintwork and gritty iron felt sickeningly familiar. So too did the pull of an invisible hook behind his navel, which tugged his feet from the ground mere seconds afterwards.

* * * * * * *

Harry had wanted his dormitory to be empty when he returned to get his things. To his disappointment, Neville Longbottom was lying on his four-poster bed, reading a book entitled Muggles for Dimwits. Neville's Mimbulus Mimbletonia was on the floor next to him and one of Neville's hands was draped over the side of his bed patting the plant.

As Harry rummaged in his school trunk he hoped Neville wouldn't be too interested in what he was doing. Unfortunately, Neville first words were, "Hi Harry. What're you up to?"

"Just getting some books," Harry said, which was almost true. He pulled out his copy of his most cumbersome text, Moste Potente Potions. As deftly as he could manage he also found the twins' copy of Snap, Crackle and Pop and hid it in the middle of the textbook. Harry's Pocket Sneakoscope was vibrating so energetically under a pile of jumpers that he thought it might be about to jump right out of the trunk. "I'm going to the library," Harry added.

"I've just been there," Neville said. "It's packed. I thought I'd be able to concentrate better in here."

"Ron's expecting me in the library," Harry said. This was also, he realised to his relief, true. But he hoped Neville wasn't looking his way as Harry rolled up his Marauder's Map and slipped it in his sleeve.

"This Muggle business is really confusing, isn't it?" Neville observed, putting his book aside. "I read in one book that they put petrolian into their cars but this author keeps going on about something called gazzleen. And some of them put bonnets and hoods on their cars. Why do they do that?"

"Er, that's just what they call the front bit. And they put petrol inside."

"It's a bit annoying," Neville said, frowning. "I was looking forward to understanding all my subjects this year - you know, with Potions being finished. But now I've got another thing I can be hopeless at."

"You won't be hopeless." Harry closed his school trunk and turned around, gripping his sleeve to stop the map from falling out. "It's not all that hard, when you get used to it." Harry thought about the disturbing things that Firenze has just told him and added darkly, "It's not as confusing as Divination."

"But if you don't know Divination you can just make it up," Neville reasoned. "It's not as though anybody cares if you actually get something right."

Was this true? Harry wondered. Then he remembered one of the things Professor Dumbledore had said about Trelawney's fateful prophecy. When the prophecy was made, it could have applied as readily to Neville as it did to Harry. Voldemort had, through Lily Potter's sacrifice, marked Harry. Now Harry's future was sealed. But what if Dumbledore and Voldemort had both been wrong and Neville was the baby, born in September, as the seventh month died?

"Neville," Harry asked hesitantly. "When's your birthday?"

"July 30^th," Neville replied, sounding a little surprised to be asked such a thing out of the blue.

"Not September?" Harry asked and then realised it was an idiotic thing to say.

"No," Neville insisted. "It's the day before yours."

"How did you -"

" - know your birthday?" Neville completed Harry's sentence. "My Gran told me." Neville sounded embarrassed as he added, "You're famous, you know."

Harry did not know what the appropriate response to this remark should be. To say "thank you" would sound impossibly big headed. So instead he said nothing, until the pause became painfully awkward.

Neville had been looking at his hands, but he broke the silence unexpectedly. "No, that's not true," he said in a trembling voice. He bit his lip nervously. "She didn't just tell me because you're famous."

"Oh," said Harry. Neville was clearly upset about something.

"She told me - last summer." Neville's tone was faltering. "Because she said your birthday was the reason You Know Who killed your parents. She already knew all about those glass balls at the Ministry - that there was some sort of prophecy."

"She's right." Harry felt strange to be breaking his silence about the prophecy, even though Neville had held the orb in his hands. He was also not sure why news of the prophecy worried Neville so much. Harry did not want to tell Neville what Trelawney had foretold, but he did not want to deceive his friend either. So Harry muttered, "That's why Voldemort killed them."

Neville winced at the hated name. "She told me that Mum, Dad and I went into hiding when I was a baby," Neville said quietly, "because Dumbledore thought that prophecy might have been talking about me. But You Know Who picked you, she said, because your birthday was July 31st." Neville paused. For a horrible moment Harry feared his housemate might be going to cry. But instead Neville continued, in a hoarse, shaking voice, "And she said she wished I'd been born a day later. Because she reckoned what You Know Who did to your parents was kinder than what Barty Crouch and the Lestranges did to mine." Neville's chin was buried so deep in his chest that Harry could not see his face.

"She's probably right," Harry whispered miserably.

"No she's not," Neville said firmly, looking up to meet Harry's gaze with staunch defiance. "She's a nasty old cow." Harry was shocked that Neville would say such a thing. But Neville added sadly, "But she's gone through a lot, Harry. Not just having to look after me. In the first war, she lost nearly all her family and most of her friends. And now You Know Who's back, she's terrified it's all about to happen again."

"It won't, Neville," Harry said simply. He thought, I'm never going to let it happen.

"I know. We're ready this time." Neville had started to stroke his plant again. "I shouldn't be getting so worked up," he said with a shrug, trying to mask the pain that was still in his voice. "This plant won't flower unless I give it a nice calm environment."

"That big bud hasn't opened yet," Harry observed. He was grateful for anything other than Voldemort to talk about, no matter how boring it might be. Instead of large bumps, there was now a ten centimetre stalk with a nobbly bulb on the top of the cactus. Several other stalks had also started to sprout at odd angles. The plant looked like an unattractive grey pincushion.

"No, it's taking its time," Neville said. "Ginny's really annoyed about it. Her essay's due Monday and she wants a picture of the flower. I said she could wait for it in here over the weekend."

"Ron won't like that," Harry said with a smile. Then he remembered. Ron was probably wondering where he was right now. "Er, I should go, Neville."

Neville's picked his book up again and apparently returned to wondering why Muggle cars needed to wear boots. He muttered goodbye as Harry went downstairs.

It did not take long for Harry to walk to the library, but finding Ron once he was there was much more difficult. As Neville had said, the place was packed. It seems every fifth, sixth and seventh year student who had a lesson break (and quite a few who did not) were there, all trying to find out something about Muggles. Eventually he spied Ron, who was sitting on the floor next to a crooked tower of books, reading a copy of Kennilworthy Whisp's Beating the Bludgers.

"You took your time," Ron said. He wore a broad grin as he showed Harry an illustration from the book. "Get a load of this. It's a picture of Meaghan McCormack doing a Starfish and Stick. But she's forgotten the stick!"

Harry watched as the small witch in the illustraion, whom he recognised as Pride of Portree's Keeper, let go of the handle of her broom and plummeted out of the picture frame. "Ouch!" Harry said with a chuckle. Harry then looked around, bent towards Ron and told him quietly, "You do realise, don't you, that you're the only person in here not reading about Muggle Studies?"

"I've got it all under control," Ron said confidently. Then he asked, "So, where are we going? Don't tell me you came in here to study."

"No." Harry said. He flicked open the pages of Moste Potente Potions to show the hidden Apparating book. Ron frowned slightly.

"We can't go to Hogsmeade," Ron said with finality.

"I didn't intend to," Harry said defensively. "I think there might be somewhere in the castle we can use." Ron shook his head definitely. But Harry dropped his voice even lower and stooped so that his mouth was level with Ron's ear. "I thought we'd try a place where we can find whatever we need - even a gap in the anti-Apparating wards. I'm not certain it'll work, but I think we should try the Room of Requirement."

Ron got up so eagerly that he bumped the tower of books, scattering them over a group of Hufflepuffs who were also sitting on the floor. To the sounds of their protests, Harry and Ron scurried out of the library.

Once they were outside, Ron whispered mischievously, "It'll be brilliant if this works! But you know students aren't allowed up there this year. Hermione'll do her nut if she finds out."

"Where is she?" Harry had known all along his plan would not work if Hermione discovered it. He had not expected to give her the slip in the library so easily.

"She's helping Vicky Frobisher and some of the Charms Club in classroom nine. They're trying to do Protean Charms this month, but Hermione's the only one in the school that can manage them." Ron was going up the stairs to the fourth floor two at a time. Harry was a couple of stairs behind him when he noticed the fresh scratches all over one of Ron's hands.

"How'd you hurt yourself?" Harry asked when they reached the landing.

Ron waved his hand airily, as though it was nothing. "Pig," he said. "The feathery git goes beserk when I've got something to send."

Harry simply arched an eyebrow. He knew he wasn't going to have to quiz Ron much further. It was obvious that his friend was dying to tell him something.

"I sent him to get Hermione's present," Ron said happily as he started bounding up the next flight of stairs. "A really good one this year, if I say so myself."

"What'd you get?" Harry asked, knowing that this was exactly what Ron wanted him to say next.

Ron turned and made an expansive gesture with his hands. "Perfume!" he said proudly. "But not just a titchy bottle like at Christmas. I've been saving for this for ages, and when Mum sent me my Hogsmeade Sickles this morning, I finally had enough money. I'm getting her the biggest bottle in the shop." Ron's hands seemed to be indicating a perfume bottle that was roughly the size of a football.

"Will she need that much?" Harry worriedly asked. The only person he knew who used perfume was his Aunt Petunia. From the parsimonious way she dabbed it on her long thin neck he doubted that perfume was something women splashed on by the bucketful.

"Well, yesterday she said she was saving the little bottle for a special occasion," Ron said. "So now she won't have to. She can use it all the time." Ron's logic appeared to be flawless, but Harry still feared it must be wrong. But Ron's large feet had resumed their assault on the stairs, and he called back over the pounding of his boots, "I was getting really worried Mum wasn't going to send me anything. But I convinced her I should buy some more ink and parchment." When he reached the next landing he turned and concluded cheekily, "Which means I'll be borrowing from you when mine runs out."

Harry gave Ron a grin that confirmed that this would be quite all right. But then his niggling doubt resurfaced. Harry asked, "Are you sure Pig's going to be able to carry such a big bottle from Hogsmeade?"

For the first time since they left the library, Ron looked concerned. "Actually, I'm getting it from Diagon Alley," he said. "But, surely the shop'll send one of their own owls." Ron sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He went on, "They wouldn't trust something that good to a rubbish bird like mine."

They had reached the fifth floor landing, where a bust of Polycarp the Polite balanced on a short pillar in an alcove. The fetid smell of Fred and George's swamp was wafting from the east wing and assaulting Harry's nostrils. Harry decided it might be prudent to check their way was clear before they went any further, so he propped Moste Potente Potions against the base of the pillar and pulled the Marauder's Map from his sleeve.

As he did so he was startled by a loud noise. Polycarp the Polite sounded as though he was blowing the noisiest raspberry Harry had ever heard.

"What the -?" Ron exclaimed, as Polycarp's bust left its pillar and rocketed towards Ron's torso. Ron dodged just in time. The bust hit the banister and cracked into many pieces. It was only then that Harry realised the head of Peeves the Poltergeist was poking through the wall in the spot where Polycarp had originally rested.

"If it isn't wee Mr Potty and his spotty Weasel chum," Peeves said gleefully, his broad face nearly split in two by the wideness of his leering mouth. The rest of Peeves slipped through the wall and bounced over to where Ron, still too shocked to swear, was standing.

"What a lot of spotties Weasel's got!" Peeves said in a sing-sing voice. He proceeded to poke his index finger into Ron's cheek. "Spot! Spot! Spotty! Spot!" Peeves taunted. Each time he poked Ron, the ghost's stubby finger disappeared up to its second knuckle.

"Eurgh! Get off!" Ron shouted, attempting very ineffectually to bat Peeves away. "They're not spots. They're freckles!"

Peeves sniggered and sang boisterously:

"Potty's spotty Weasel was running up the stair,

'Cause Spotty's dotty girlfriend was waiting for him there."

"Leave off, Peeves," Harry said forcefully. But Harry realised that there was very little anybody could ever do to control the poltergeist. The only being that could put Peeves in his place was another Hogwarts ghost, the Bloody Baron. And Peeves knew full well that Harry had no way of summoning the sullen sceptre of Slytherin House.

"Bugger off, you bloody fool!" Ron yelled, flailing his arms in every direction at once.

Harry picked up his book and grabbed Ron's arm, hoping that they could get away from Peeves if they just kept walking. But as he took Ron's sleeve, Harry saw that a silvery substance, like metal treacle, was dripping onto him from the ceiling. The weird liquid vanished whenever it hit Ron's robes. Both boys looked up at the same time, to greet the formidable features of the Bloody Baron descending head first from the rafters.

"You're for it now," Harry said triumphantly. The little ghost panicked and fled down the stairs, tumbling several flights. The Bloody Baron's vast silver cape flapped behind him as he swooped away in pursuit.

Ron laughed and made a very rude gesture at Peeve's departing form. Harry was laughing too, but then he remembered why he had stopped in the first place. The Marauder's Map was still rolled up in his hand, rather crushed from when Harry picked up Moste Potente Potions. "Hold this," Harry said as he handed the textbook to Ron. Harry unrolled the map, tapped it with his wand and declared, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

A spider web of fine lines and miniscule words spread out all over the parchment. "What was that last bit Peeves said?" Harry asked as he glanced over the hundreds of moving dots. "About a girlfriend?"

Without hesitating, Ron pointed to a small cluster of specks. "Well, there's Hermione," Ron said helpfully. "She's still with the Charms Club in classroom nine." Ron's finger then snapped back from the page and Harry looked up to see that his friend's whole face had turned the colour of a ripe tomato. "Well - she's, you know, our friend," Ron stammered. "And she's a girl - I guess."

Harry thought Ron was being very silly to get so embarrassed but decided he would not to tease his friend about it just then. He checked the map for Filch, who was in the boys' toilets on the second floor. Mrs Norris was in the Owlery. All the teachers seemed to be in classrooms, except for Professors Snape and Dumbledore who were both represented by small dots outside the border of the map described as "far and beyond the call of duty." Students were either in lessons, or in their common rooms, or swarming like a nest of ants in the library. The map showed that the sixth floor was completely deserted, so Harry and Ron climbed the stairs.

They made it to the landing of the seventh floor without meeting another soul. It was so still and quiet that Harry did not bother to check the map again, he just followed the corridors to the Room of Requirement.

But as the boys approached their destination, Harry thought he could hear a familiar soft humming. He turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt. Sitting on the stone floor under the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy (and singing dreamily to herself) was Luna Lovegood.