Harry Potter and the Flowers of Mimas

Chapter 7: An Unmitigated Load of Bollocks

The Auror's dark eyes scanned the room swiftly. "Where are the others?" he demanded. "Where are Mrs Malfoy and the boy?"

Lucius did nothing but smile at his gaoler's consternation. Snape thought it more prudent to explain. He was about to do so when the upstairs door creaked and Narcissa's voice rang out through the gloom.

"Ah, Mr Shacklebolt, back so soon?" she sweetly said. "How the time's flown." She began to walk gracefully down the stairs, followed by Draco who dragged his feet. "We were just admiring the view from upstairs," Narcissa said airily.

"There's no bits of McNair left," Draco said in a disappointed voice. "How come? The Daily Prophet said that his body got smashed all over the rocks."

"The sea may have washed it away by now," Shacklebolt explained, slightly taken aback by the gruesome query.

Draco plunged his hands in his pockets and hung his head. He did not look happy to be back in his father's presence.

"You need to leave now," Shacklebolt bluntly explained to Narcissa. "I'm not authorised to defer the Portkey's departure time and we'll need to screen you all before you go."

Narcissa sniffed. She muttered something under her breath, which may or may not have been, "Heartless." In a louder voice she asked, "Am I permitted to kiss my husband goodbye?"

"No," Shacklebolt answered. "Now, for your own safety, you'll need to step outside."

Narcissa gave her husband a tiny sad wave and a whispered goodbye before she departed. Lucius murmured, "Goodbye, my love." Draco began to follow his mother, but Lucius called out, "Draco!" The boy turned and fixed him with a surly look. Lucius said sternly, "You've forgotten your birthday present."

Draco stomped to the table and snatched up the book without a word to his father. He left the cell. Lucius shook his head and smiled sardonically at Snape. "Young people," Lucius said, "have so little idea of what is good for them." His grey eyes searched the Potions Master's face, before Lucius added. "I'm grateful that older and wiser heads are ready to lead my son along the path of self interest."

Snape rose and gave a short bow to the prisoner. "I'll try to guide him," Snape said in parting.

Snape, Narcissa and Draco stood on the stair landing while Shacklebolt loosed Lucius' restraints and locked the door. The Auror then led them back to the bright yellow office, where Potesta Tripp greeted them with her customary jolliness.

"Had a good visit, did you?" she asked cheerfully. The question was met with stony silence. Snape noticed that the Wand Checker was no longer on Miss Tripp's desk.

"Maybe I'll do the final inspection of the wands," Shacklebolt said to his trainee, with a hint of weariness in his voice. "You can scan the visitors with the Scrutiny Stick."

While Potesta walked in circles around them all, waving the long golden rod up and down several times and chatting happily, the Auror took Narcissa's wand. He held the tip of it to his own. "Priori Incantato," Shacklebolt intoned softly. A smoky shadow of Draco's head materialised, its hair being magically rearranged by a grooming spell.

"The Wand Checker already recorded that incantation," Miss Tripp said helpfully. "It was made before Mrs Malfoy arrived here." Then she passed the Scrutiny Stick down Snape's left side and the rod began to click frantically. Snape froze. He had not anticipated that Lucius' listening device could be confiscated. Thankfully, Miss Tripp simply pulled a sour face and said, "That'll be your yucky Veneficus Membrane."

Shacklebolt asked for Draco's wand next and repeated the procedure. Narcissa's hand, in ghostly grey form, issued from the end of the wand.

"That's an impressive bit of spell work," the Auror commented. Draco looked smug and appeared quite content to take the credit for efforts which were not his own. "My apologies for the sore fingers, Mrs Malfoy," Shacklebolt added.

Narcissa's eyes blazed with enmity. "It was the most barbaric and unnecessary -" she began.

Shacklebolt interrupted. "On the contrary," he said firmly, "the precautions which we take here are absolutely necessary. Mrs Malfoy, surely you've come to realise that there a great many people, both inside and outside this prison, who bear your husband considerable ill will. It's for his protection as much as ours that we implement such extreme measures."

"And I hope that ultimately you will come to realise," Narcissa retorted, "that an appalling injustice has been worked against my husband. He is a respected and influential man - and when he learns who is behind this monstrous affair heads will roll."

"All done," Miss Tripp chirped, oblivious to the tensions escalating around her. "But, I'm not sure about the book, Mr Shacklebolt. Will we need to hang onto it and check it for jinxes?"

"We've got time to do that now, if you like," Shacklebolt replied. He conjured a screen. "Take the boy behind there," he instructed. "A basic level de-jinxing should do the job." Narcissa opened her mouth to object but the Auror pre-empted her. "We'll need your son to hold the book. He's had the most contact with it, so if the thing is jinxed it may have worn off on him. Mind you, the book's been in the prisoner's cell for some weeks now - I think the risk of any harmful enchantment is fairly remote."

While Shacklebolt had spoken he had edged closer to Snape, so that they now stood quite close beside each other. As Narcissa turned to view the sparks and flares that were shooting over the top of the screen, Snape felt something poking in his side. Kingsley was surreptitiously passing back Snape's wand.

Snape took it and immediately realised what he must do. "Narcissa," he said. She turned and her beautiful eyes met Snape's dark ones. Pointing his wand, Snape hissed "Leglimens!"

Show me Bellatrix, Snape demanded silently. Suddenly Snape's mind was teeming with memories that were not his own. Two little girls in frilly pink robes shrieked with joy as an ancient crone swung an axe. Snape watched their party clothes become spattered with greenish-brown elf blood. A dark haired girl danced around a garden hexing gnomes until the grass was writhing with abominations. A dark haired bride danced a waltz with a muscular man. Show me where she is now, Snape insisted.

Snape found himself standing in the foyer of the Malfoy family manor. He had been there before, but it seemed to be furnished more sparsely than he recalled. He stood before a painting - a landscape of a Muggle church. A woman held a wand to the ornate picture frame and a childish voice sang:

"Mister Root the gardener did tend the bishop's flowers,

Around the park his Lady Dark and he would walk for hours."

The singing stopped abruptly. Narcissa blinked. Her fingers twitched for her wand. Immediately Snape realised that Narcissa was struggling to use Occlumency against him.

Shacklebolt must have seen the woman blinking too. He stepped in front of Snape and, aiming his wand directly at Narcissa's forehead said, "Obliviate."

For a few seconds Narcissa merely looked dazed. Snape handed his own wand back to the Auror, who pocketed it. "My word," Narcissa eventually said with great uncertainty. She rubbed her eyes. "All those sparks are making me dizzy."

Shortly afterwards Miss Tripp and Draco reappeared from behind the screen, both with sooty faces but otherwise unharmed. Nevertheless, Draco was very disgruntled. "I didn't even want the stupid book," he grumbled.

"You're free to go now," Shacklebolt said formally.

Miss Tripp fossicked on her desktop and found the Portkey. As she handed it back to the Potions Master, her eyes widened as though she had just remembered something vital. "Golly!" she gasped. "I nearly forgot! Mr Shacklebolt - we still need to give back Professor Snape's wand."

The Auror made a great show of producing the wand from his pocket and presenting it to the professor. The three travellers then stood in a tight circle, gripping the rusty plate. A moment later, they found themselves in the dingy office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Hogsmeade branch. Narcissa's hand pulled away from the plate the precise moment her feet touched the floor.

"I think a late lunch might be nice," she said to her son, whisking the soot from his cheeks with a gentle wave of her wand. She turned to his teacher and asked stiffly, "I trust there will be no objection if Draco stays with me for a couple of hours?"

"None whatsoever," Snape replied. Given Lucius' attitude, it seemed pointless to argue that Draco's educational progress would be affected if he missed lessons.

Narcissa placed her arm around her son's shoulder and steered him towards the door, leaving Snape to return the Portkey. "We'll see if the Three Broomsticks can serve us lunch in one of their private rooms," she said to Draco. "Away from the riff-raff. And afterwards, I'll tell the innkeeper to prepare one of her carriages to get you back to school."

The Malfoys left without bothering to bid Snape farewell. This suited him perfectly. Snape welcomed the solitude of the walk back to Hogwarts. He welcomed the sight of the two stone pillars topped with winged boars even more. Within the grounds of Hogwarts Castle, Snape felt relieved to be once more under Dumbledore's protection. All that remained of the day's mission was to locate the Headmaster and to make a full report.

* * * * * * *

Harry's head had become inexplicably swathed in burgundy velvet. He struggled to push it off his face. His feet slipped on the polished wooden floor. Somewhere behind him, he could hear large boots pounding on floorboards. The noise grew louder, as though someone was running towards him.

A large freckled hand reached through the mass of fabric and pulled Harry out. "Congratulations, mate," Ron said between panted breaths. "You've found a Portkey. Lucky for you it only took you across the room."

Harry realised that the music box was tangled in the curtain with him. This was how he had been transported to the other side of the greatly expanded Room of Requirement. Ron seemed to be one step ahead of him in the deductive process. He had flicked to the index of Barnaby Wibble's book and was running his finger down the columns of print. "Here!" he said excitedly. "It's in the chapter: Hitching a Lift - How to Apparate if You're Too Drunk, Daft or Doddery."

The two boys sat on the floor and read the author's tips for Apparating with the aid of a Portkey. A photograph of a very inebriated little wizard staggered about the page, which made the chapter rather hard to read even though the method described was quite simple. Apparently, each Portkey left a magical trail, which a wizard or witch could latch onto with the proper incantation. Barnaby Wibble suggested that this was an excellent way to hitch a ride on Ministry of Magic approved Portkeys, to destinations such as Quidditch matches, when the Ministry had not given you prior permission to use them. Mr Wibble enthused that the risk of Splinching was less than five percent, "even when the Apparator is mad as a Jarvey or pissed as a pickled newt!" All that the technique required was intense concentration on the Portkey (to "sense" its magical trail), a rudimentary flick of one's wand and the spell "Consectatus."

"It sounds pretty straightforward," Harry said nervously. "Do you want to go first?"

"No, you," Ron said. He looked apprehensive as well. Harry suspected that his friend was also worried about a one in twenty chance of being Splinched. It would be a difficult injury to explain to Madam Pomfrey.

Ron took the music box and held it to his chest. "How do I get this thing to work as a Portkey?" he asked.

"I think you just want it to be," Harry explained.

"Righto," Ron said bracingly. He announced in a loud voice, "I wish for a Portkey to take me across the- " Ron vanished. Instantly, he reappeared beside the fireplace, hundreds of yards away. Harry heard a very distant voice shout, "Rooom!"

Harry took out his wand and tried to concentrate on the way his friend had just vanished and reappeared. He tried to imagine the forces of magic flinging Ron across the room. He closed his eyes tight and said, "Consectatus!"

Harry heard a tiny popping noise before his feet lost contact with the floor. It was not a jerking sensation, like riding a Portkey. Rather, Harry felt a calming numbness, as though he had gently dissolved into the air. Then he felt the floorboards softly brush his soles again. He opened his eyes and was dismayed. Ron was still far, far away and he was laughing unsympathetically. At first Harry thought he had not moved at all, but then he noticed (to his intense disappointment) that he was perhaps two feet further from the curtains than he had been before.

"Is that it?" Ron shouted, before beginning to laugh again.

"No - wait," Harry replied in embarrassment. "I'll try again."

He repeated the spell. Once more he experienced the enjoyable sensation of becoming so light that it seemed he no longer existed. However, when he rematerialised he had only edged a fraction closer to Ron.

Ron gripped the Portkey and returned to Harry's side. He still wore a wide smile. "Maybe it only works just after the Portkey's gone," Ron theorised. On the count of three, Ron used the music box to take him to the other side of the room and Harry concentrated on following his friend.

This time, Harry moved forward a distance of about two yards. He began to get annoyed with his pathetic efforts.

They tried at least a dozen more times, with Ron criss-crossing the room randomly. Harry found a small piece of chalk on the floor and began to mark his Disapparation and Apparation points. He thought the space between them was lengthening with each attempt. Then he found a tape measure (also conveniently lying on the floor) and checked his last four attempts. He seemed to be improving, but his progress was painfully slow.

Ron had found Harry's earliest attempts hugely amusing but now he was getting bored. "It's all right for you," he said grumpily as he reappeared at Harry's side. "But I'm starting to feel queasy."

"It's not working," Harry complained. "Maybe it was a stupid to try - I'll bet the castle's anti-Apparating wards work in here too."

"But wouldn't that mean you'd be blocked from moving altogether?" Ron asked sceptically. "Perhaps it just takes a while to get the hang of."

"Oh yeah?" Harry's frustration had put him in a nasty mood. "Why don't you try it?"

"Don't mind if I do," Ron replied as he handed the music box to his friend.

Harry travelled with the Portkey to the corner of the room nearest the fireplace. In the distance, he could see Ron take out his wand. Suddenly, Harry heard a loud crack in the air above him. Ron Apparated about a yard above the ground and fell heavily on his backside at Harry's feet.

"Wow!" Ron exclaimed. "Did you see that? That was brilliant! Let's do it again!"

Ron repeated his success several times, each time crossing the room and landing in an ungainly but exultant heap. In the distance, the boys heard the lunch bell ring. "We can keep going, can't we?" Ron asked. Harry was surprised at how enthusiastic his friend was for Apparating - there were not many pastimes that could cause Ron to skip a meal. But luckily, Ron found a cheese and chutney sandwich behind one of the cushions of the couch just after he spoke. He proceeded to Apparate and Disapparate while he ate it.

Lunchtime was more than halfway through when Harry insisted that it was his turn to Apparate again. His insides felt as though they had been tied in a knot by the lurching sensation of so many Portkey journeys. Reluctantly, Ron took back the music box. Harry concentrated on the Portkey, the wand flick and the incantation with all his might. He barely managed to move at all.

"I don't get it," Harry muttered.

"Obviously," Ron said with a grin, as he appeared out of thin air right beside Harry.

"But, how are you doing it?" Harry wanted to know. "I'm concentrating as hard as I can."

"Maybe you're thinking too much," Ron suggested. "I've been fixing my mind on the Portkey, but then I sort of trust it to take me where I want to go." He added airily, "It's a bit like using a Floo. Dead easy."

Harry thought bitterly that this was a simple enough thing for Ron to say. Ron had probably been using the Floo Network since before he could walk. Mrs Weasley more than likely sent her children on errands via the Floo. Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, would have something very harsh indeed to say if Harry ever decided to jump into the fireplace when she sent him to the corner shop for a pint of milk.

Harry tried to Disapparate one more time. He felt the numbness envelope him. He tried his best not to think - just follow. But somewhere in the back of his head the impossibility of what he was doing niggled at his subconscious. His feet found the floor once again and Harry was gratified to see that he had finally gone some distance - even if it was only half way to Ron.

"That's it!" Ron shouted encouragingly. Harry's next few attempts went similar lengths. "You'll be able to Apparate all the way to London," Ron joked. "If you have a week to spare and don't mind making the trip in a hundred thousand hops."

The lesson bell rang. "Can I just have one more turn?" Ron implored. "It'd be good to get my landing sorted out." Reluctantly Harry took the music box, even though he feared they would be late for Herbology. He traversed the room and waited for Ron.

Ron appeared instantly, but much higher in the air than he had before. He fell heavily on the wooden floor, jarring his knee as he landed. For some moments, Ron could do nothing but rub his leg and mutter words that Harry was certain his friend would never say in front of Mrs Weasley.

"We need to get a move on," Harry said impatiently. He did not enjoy seeing his friend hurt but he thought it was all Ron's fault for showing off. Fortunately, Harry noticed two neat piles of parchment, quills and Herbology textbooks sitting beside the door of the Room of Requirement. He handed one of these bundles to Ron, took up his Potions and Apparating books and began to walk as quickly as he could to greenhouse three.

The boys arrived at Herbology just in time but Ron was limping so pitiably that Professor Sprout noticed his discomfort immediately.

"What've you done to yourself, Weasley?" the teacher asked as Ron hobbled in on the end of the line of students.

"Fell down the stairs," Ron lied through gritted teeth. His face was contorted in agony. Harry began to feel guilty for making Ron walk so quickly to lessons.

The Hufflepuff students had already taken their seats on one side of the potting benches. Zacharias Smith leaned towards Susan Bones and said in a stage whisper, "Fell over his own big feet, I'll bet."

"Hitch up your robes," Professor Sprout said briskly. Ron hesitated. "Come on boy," the teacher ordered. "I've got something here that'll help." The teacher brushed back the jungle of foliage growing along the wall of the greenhouse and found a plump, orange pod. She snapped it from its thorny plant. Ron sat down, lifted the skirt of his robes to his knee and pushed down his left sock. Harry was horrified to see that most of Ron's shin was covered with an ugly purple bruise.

"Nasty," Professor Sprout observed as she squeezed the sap from the pod onto Ron's leg. The bruise did not alter, but Ron's expression cleared at once. "You're seeing the work of Nostrum Nettle," she told the class. "It works as a powerful analgesic, not a curative. And the effect is only temporary." She helped Ron to his feet and instructed, "Get yourself to the hospital wing. Ask Madam Pomfrey to charm that bruise away, Mr Weasley. Then come directly back here. I'll have no unwarranted absenteeism from my NEWT classes."

Ron hurried away and Harry sat beside Hermione, who had been observing Professor Sprout's ministrations to Ron through narrowed eyes. "Down the stairs, eh?" she whispered. "Are you sure he didn't fall off a broom?" She opened her books and arranged her writing things neatly in front of her as she continued, barely audibly. "I couldn't help noticing you weren't at lunch."

"We stayed in the library," Harry bluffed. He unrolled his parchment scroll.

"No," Hermione said slowly. "I looked for you there." She sighed. "Honestly, Harry. If Ron's decided to waste the next two years of his education, then that's his choice. But you are taking eight NEWT levels. You can't just go gallivanting down to the Quidditch pitch whenever Ron asks you to."

Professor Sprout cleared her throat officiously, which caused Hermione's lecture to mercifully come to an end. "I wanted to start with something rather topical," she began. Harry noticed that the professor's round face was looking especially serious. Most of the class got ready to write. "But it won't be on your NEWT exams," she added. The students put down their quills.

"Have you learnt much about the moons of Saturn in Astronomy?" Sprout asked. Hermione's hand shot into the air.

A nod from her teacher was all Hermione needed. She spoke quickly and with great confidence. "There are seventeen moons of Saturn," Hermione said. "The largest is Titan, but in order from the innermost to outermost there's Atlas, Prometheus, Pandora, Janus, Epimetheus, Mimas -"

"Yes. Thank you, Miss Granger," Sprout interrupted. "Five points to Gryffindor. You've certainly got a thorough grasp of the solar system," she said with approval. "But, I wanted to focus our discussion a bit more tightly today." The professor drew out her wand and conjured a milk white sphere, which floated above the potting tables. It looked like the moon Professor Lupin had shown the class in third year when he banished his Boggart. However, unlike the earth's moon, the bobbing sphere was scarred by an enormous crater. The hole was nearly as big as the orb itself.

"This is Mimas," Professor Sprout explained. "It has a unique role in Herbology. As indeed does its planet, Saturn. Who can tell me what influence Saturn has on plants and fungi?"

Professor Sprout looked directly as Neville, who normally was the first to come forward to answer the trickier questions in her class. Hermione raised her hand, but the teacher continued to eye Neville, who did not appear to know about Saturn at all. "Now, now," Professor Sprout said pointedly. "Miss Granger has already had her turn. Can anybody else in the class tell me about Saturn?"

Neville was starting to look uncomfortable. Harry thought it was a bit unfair for Professor Sprout to be waiting for Neville to answer, when Neville did not appear to know how. Then something stirred in Harry's memory. He recalled that Firenze had been discussing Saturn that morning, too. Tentatively, Harry raised his hand.

"Yes, Potter," Sprout said irritably. She made it clear that she would have much rather heard Neville's reply than Harry's.

"Er, Saturn makes things grow. When it's bright in the sky - like it is now - it brings an age of prosperity and abundance."

Professor Sprout looked quite impressed. "Very true, Mr Potter. That's another five points for Gryffindor." She turned to the class. "Saturn has a fabulous impact on growth and fruiting. It's better than Mooncalf dung. You'll be noticing all sorts of plants thriving in the next few months, even in the autumn, because Saturn's back with a vengeance in the night sky." As if to prove her correct, the tendril of a Creeping Clawvine reached out and tried to coil around the top of her hat. "Cheeky!" she said with a laugh as she untangled herself.

"Which brings us to Mimas," she continued as she pointed at the image of the white moon with her wand. "Can you all see that huge crater on one side?" The students murmured that they could. "Well, if you ask any astronomer about Mimas, the one thing they'll tell you is that this moon really shouldn't exist at all. A whopping great asteroid made that crater and by all rights should have blown the satellite apart. But, tiny Mimas survived. Nobody knows how."

I guess that makes it "The Moon That Lived" Harry thought.

The image of Mimas vanished. Professor Sprout walked about the class as she spoke, the greenish light from the leafy canopy reflecting on her curly grey hair. "Mimas has a key influence in promoting growth in the kinds of plants which can withstand adversity. Desert plants - succulents and cacti particularly. There's even a class of plants that take their name from Mimas because they only flower when Saturn is at its brightest and Mimas is facing the earth. Does anybody know the name of those plants?" She had stopped just behind Neville's chair and looked down on him sternly. Hermione's fingers twitched, as though she wanted to raise her hand, but she thought better of it and stayed still.

"Come on, Mr Longbottom," Sprout coaxed. "I know that you know the answer to this one."

"Mimbulus mimbletonia," Neville said in a soft voice.

"Mimbulus mimbletonia," the teacher repeated. "Fascinating plants. They grow in the most incredibly desolate places and have defensive systems that are second to none. They can shoot Stinksap. They can lull predators to sleep with the mumbling noise they make. But when they flower they exhibit defensive tendencies that make them one of the most lethal little plants in the world."

"Didn't you have one of those things on the train?" Zacharias Smith asked Neville loudly.

Neville shifted in his chair awkwardly. "No," he muttered. "That was last year. I - er- didn't bring it to school this year."

"Well, that's a relief," Professor Sprout said. She looked as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "Mimbulus mimbletonia is a highly dangerous bit of vegetation at the moment. Maybe I should write to your Grandmother, Longbottom? She'll need to know how to keep your plant isolated until the flowers have come and gone." She began to walk back to the front of the greenhouse again. "It's a shame, really. Those cacti produce some of the most beautiful blooms known to wizardkind. But it's a rare witch or wizard who lives long enough to see them."

"No," Neville said abruptly. "Gran - doesn't have it. My uncle's looking after it."

"The botanist?" Sprout asked.

"Yes," Neville replied. His plump cheeks were glowing brightly. Harry noticed that Seamus and Dean had begun to whisper to each other and were shooting Neville very unfriendly glances. Zacharias was also scowling in Neville's direction.

"Well, he would be well aware of the dangers," Sprout said definitely. She asked the class to open their textbooks and they resumed their study of the germination cycle of Turkish Talking Turnips.

A short while later, Ron returned to greenhouse three and squeezed between Hermione and Harry at the potting bench. Harry suspected that he knew why Hermione turned away from Ron so frostily. However, Hermione's already bad humour was not helped by Ron's rude (but funny) remark concerning her drawing of a turnip.

Hermione was one of the first to depart at the end of lesson, leaving the boys to gather up their things and dawdle to Charms. Neville, Dean and Seamus were not far ahead of Harry and Ron, but Ron ambled slowly. He was trying to copy Harry's notes from the first part of the Herbology as he walked. Seamus and Dean sounded as though they were taking Neville to task about his pot plant, because Neville kept saying, "No, it's safe," in a loud voice. Eventually Neville let Seamus and Dean walk ahead of him and joined Harry and Ron.

"It's pure ignorance," Neville said angrily. "I mean - I've practically raised that plant from a seedling. I know exactly what it's capable of."

"But what if you're wrong?" Harry wondered.

"I'M NOT WRONG!" Neville bellowed. Ron's quill froze in his hand and he stared at Neville in amazement. Then a mischievous smile lit up his face.

"You don't want to bottle up your anger like that, Neville," Ron said jokingly. "Let it out."

Neville's cheeks turned very pink. "I'm sorry, Harry. That's the second time I've lashed out today. And I was just going to apologise for telling you that rotten thing my Gran said."

"Don't mention it," Harry said hurriedly. He thought Neville had no reason to feel ashamed about anything he had said in the dormitory that morning. Harry was also uncomfortable about referring to their earlier conversation in front of Ron, because it touched so closely on Sybill Trelawney's prophecy. But unhappily, Ron's interest was now well and truly piqued.

"What rotten thing?" Ron wanted to know.

"It doesn't matter," Harry said.

"It was just something stupid about Harry's prophecy orb in the Department of Mysteries," Neville said apologetically.

Ron's raised an eyebrow. "Does your Gran know what those things mean?"

"No, of course she doesn't," Harry butted in. "They're mysteries, aren't they? Nobody really understands them, they're just -"

"Balls," Ron interrupted.

"Glass orbs, actually," Neville said in a hurt voice. Clearly, he didn't understand why Harry was reacting so aggressively. But Harry was determined to bring the discussion to a halt. He was simply not ready to reveal to Ron, or anybody else, the contents of the prophecy.

"No, I meant balls. As in bollocks." Ron was wearing a very broad grin. "Think about it. First of all, they're prophecies. And prophecies are the result of the ethereal art of Divination. And if you don't believe Divination's a load of bollocks yet, young Harry, well there's no hope for you." Ron patted Harry's head in a patronising way.

"That's not what all those Death Eaters thought," Neville said seriously.

"Which brings me to my second proof." Ron affected a scholarly tone. "Let's take a look at all the things Death Eaters believe in, shall we?" He tucked his books under his arm and began to count on his fingers. "They believe that Muggleborns are scum who don't deserve to be educated properly. They're not too keen on folk like Hagrid or Firenze either. They believe that people like Lupin should be shunned, hunted and killed. They're particularly keen on killing Harry." Harry gave a snort. He wasn't finding Ron's little joke all that funny. Ron continued undeterred. "So, Death Eaters in general don't have a brilliant track record in believing in things that make sense. If a bunch of Death Eaters believe in a prophecy, then you can bet Galleons to Knuts that the prophecy is an unmitigated load of bollocks."

"Yeah. You're right," Harry said gruffly. He didn't support Ron's hypothesis in the slightest. He just wanted his friend to be quiet.

"But you haven't heard my third proof yet," Ron insisted happily. "This is the best one. Did you know that each of those glass thingies have the initials of the Seer who made them written on the outside?" Harry nodded. Ron went on. "Bill told me that over the summer. Well, he didn't exactly tell me. He told Fleur - but I overheard it." Ron chuckled softly. "Did you notice that the ball you took from the big hall had the initials "S.P.T." on it? I happen to know that "S.P.T." stands for Sybill Patricia Trelawney - fraudulent old bat extraordinaire! So, if you want proof that your ball was bollocks, you need look no further than Professor Trelawney."

To Harry's relief, they had reached the Charms classroom. He was seething at Ron's insensitivity. A hard knot of indignation formed somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Doesn't he understand that my Mum and Dad died for the sake of that prophecy? Harry thought bitterly. Doesn't he remember that, if the Death Eaters hadn't gone after the prophecy, Sirius would be alive?

Harry was too agitated to concentrate on Professor Flitwick's explanation of Engorgement Charms. This ensured that the mouse that fidgeted on Harry's desk stayed mouse-sized the whole lesson. But as he replayed Ron's words over in his mind two things gradually made sense.

First of all, Ron did not know what the prophecy orb contained. He could not be blamed for making light of it. Harry had never fully explained how completely the contents of that glass ball had brought misery into his life.

Secondly, what Ron had said about Trelawney had been right. If Harry wanted to understand the prophecy better, he did not need to look any further than Sybill Trelawney. She was possibly the only person in the world who could tell him what the phrase "as the seventh month dies" meant.

At the end of the lesson Harry helped Hermione carry her badger-sized mouse to the cages. She bristled and turned away when Ron also offered to lend a hand.

Ron frowned. "Is this about your drawing?" he asked. He was carrying his own rat-sized mouse against his chest and gave it a scratch behind the ears. "'Cause maybe I was out of line," he continued. "But, you know, it did look like a -"

"It's not about the turnip diagram," Hermione responded brusquely. "Although I think a silly joke like that is certainly part of the problem." She squashed her mouse inside its cage and slammed the door down hard. "You don't seem to be taking anything seriously, Ron. I know we aren't tested till seventh year, but there's a lot to learn. This year can't be all fun and Quidditch."

Ron hung his head and looked chastened. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I s'pose I should be working a bit harder." Then he inspected the mouse in his hands. "Funny," he said whimsically. "When he twitches his whiskers like that, this little bloke looks just like Scabbers. Do you reckon Flitwick'd let me keep him?"

Hermione shook her head in an exasperated way and took the mouse from Ron. However, Harry was relieved to see that she was smiling. "Let's put him back, shall we?" she gently suggested. "The last thing you need is another distraction."

After dinner they returned to the Gryffindor common room. Ron knuckled down to write his counter-counter jinx essay for Professor Moody, under Hermione's watchful eye. Harry was grateful that both his friends were fully occupied, because he had determined to speak with Professor Trelawney as soon as he could. After a while, he made the excuse of wanting to give back a library book and hurried to the North Tower.

He walked along corridors and up staircases that became more and more deserted. The North Tower was easily the least inhabited part of Hogwarts Castle. Even the torches that burned in the hallways of the other parts of the school were not lit at night here. Harry paced the halls by the light of his wand and listened to his footsteps reverberate in the emptiness. By the time he climbed the narrow spiral staircase the solitude was so complete that Harry fancied he could hear his heart beating.

He reached the small landing at the top of the stair. The light of the full moon streamed through a long, thin window and gave the circular space a ghostly glow. From the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of horse's shadow flying past the tower. He had never known Thestrals to fly so close to the castle before. The nearness of these strange, reptilian creatures made the still night seem even more eerie.

Harry noticed that the silk rope ladder, which Lavender Brown had struggled down that morning, was hanging at an oddly twisted angle. This was because Professor Trelawney had caught the top rungs when she had slammed her trap door. The round door remained firmly shut. Harry began to have misgivings about his quest. Perhaps it would be better to come back in the daytime, or ask Trelawney his question after a Divination lesson next week? He had almost made up his mind to leave when he heard a noise.

In the classroom above him, a woman was wailing.

Harry immediately began to clamber up the silvery ladder, his hands and feet fumbling to find the twisted rungs. When he got to the top, he was not sure what to do. The trap door had no handle, no latch - nothing but a brass plaque that read: Sybill Trelawney, Divination Teacher. But the woman's wailing resumed, this time moaning a sting of incoherent words. Harry vainly tried to unlock the door with a spell. A long moan issued from above. In desperation, Harry held his wand in his teeth, gripped the ladder tightly with his right hand and with his free hand punched the trap door with all his strength.

The door bumped ajar slightly. The wailing and moaning could be heard even more clearly through the gap. Harry pushed the trap door fully open and hoisted himself into the classroom.

Professor Trelawney was slumped in her winged armchair beside the fire. The flames were reflecting off her thick glasses, crystal necklaces and multiple bangles, making her the brightest source of light in the darkened room. She held a teacup in one hand and was waving it to and fro. She sang, in a tuneless but uninhibited way:

"May you fall off your broom, you traitorous scumbag,

May you fall and may you break your head!"

Harry's hand hurt badly. He wanted to leave. The odd way Professor Trelawney was swaying and singing, and the foolish expression she was wearing, made Harry suspect strongly that she was in no state to answer questions. But unfortunately, when came through the trap door the Divination teacher fixed him with her unfocussed gaze. She was now grinning at him. "It'sh you!" she proclaimed joyfully. "I knew you would come."

"Did you, professor?" Harry was surprised.

"Oh, yes. Yesh!" Trelawney said emphatically. "I've been Sheeing you a lot lately." She halted and made a noise that Harry thought might have been a hiccup. "You have so entranced my Inner Eye, that I knew eventually I would meet you in the physh - pishic phishicical realm." She began to giggle at her own incoherence.

"But you've already met me," Harry said warily. He was beginning to fear that coming to the North Tower had been a very stupid idea. He noticed that the floor was littered with broken glass, possibly from Trelawney's tantrum that morning. He doubted that the Divination teacher had spent much time in the physical realm at all that day.

Trelawney ignored him. She began to hum once more as she took a sherry bottle that was standing on the doily-covered side table beside her chair. First she poured the bottle's contents into a teapot. Then she used the pot to refill her teacup and pour a second cup of sherry for Harry. "Will you join me for tea?" she asked daintily.

"No," Harry replied. "I think I'd better go." He turned.

Trelawney shrieked. "An empty cup! A cup bereft of leaves!" Harry looked back over his shoulder to see her brandishing her teacup in his direction. "What more complete an omen of my inescapable blindnesh should I require?"

He was on the verge of reminding her that the reason her cup had no tealeaves was because she had filled it with sherry, when the professor rose and strode towards him. Her shawls trailed along the floor, collecting up shards of glass. She gripped Harry's forearm with fingers so bony and strong that they felt like the talons of an eagle.

"My orb has clouded," she told him hoarsely. "My Sight is dimming. But still I See you, my beautiful boy. My fair one - " Her hugely magnified eyes searched Harry's face. She pawed the air clumsily, apparently wishing to stroke Harry's cheek but failing to make contact. Then a look of confusion and alarm clouded Trelawney's features, as though she was struggling to identify her pupil. "Harry Potter?" she asked uncertainly. Before Harry could answer she cried, "You - are - not - that - boy!"

"No," Harry said nervously. "I'm not." He had been called many things, but he was fairly certain he was not Trelawney's "fair one." "I just wanted to ask a question, professor," Harry continued. "But, if it's a bad time -"

The Divination teacher released her hold. She began to storm about, muttering miserably to herself. Trelawney bumped into one of the shelves that lined the classroom walls and sent half a dozen teapots crashing to the floor. She searched for something on the shelf, throwing a crystal ball down and brushing aside a stack of playing cards. Eventually she found what appeared to be a magazine.

"You have come to mock," the Divination teacher wailed. She turned to face Harry and held the magazine aloft. "To point and shtare at the so-called Seer. Will you, too, tell me that true visions elude me?"

"No," Harry said in a frightened whisper. He backed towards the trap door.

"Go!" she shouted. Harry did not need any further orders. He readily commenced the climb down the silver ladder. "Go now!" Trelawney continued to yell. "My only consholation is that your scorn will be just like you, Harry Potter - short lived!"

Harry's head had just descended below the level of the trap door when the professor threw her magazine at him. It clipped Harry's ear before falling to the landing below.

Once Harry had returned to the landing, he picked up the magazine. It was Witch Weekly. He wondered what it contained that could have so upset his teacher. He could hear Trelawney's muffled sobs above him, however she had stopped rampaging about the room. Harry opened Witch Weekly. By the light of the moon he thumbed through the inconsequential articles, advertisements making outlandish claims and glossy, posed photographs of smug celebrities. Then he saw the main story on the Hot Hexers page. Harry read:

IS MERTON DESERTIN'?

Wizard rock legends, The Weird Sisters, have been flying higher than a Phoenix since the release of their mega-hit, "May You Fall off Your Broom, You Traitorous Scumbag." But an inside source told Witch Weekly exclusively that the band's gilded success is about to vanish faster than you can say "Leprechaun's gold."

It seems that baby-faced cellist, Merton Graves (winner of last year's Witch Weekly Hot Hexing Hunk Award) will be announcing his departure from the band any day now. Citing "artistic differences" as the official reason, our source went on to say that Merton finds it difficult to be taken seriously as a musician when most of his fellow band members would rather pursue notoriety as "brain-dead lager louts."

When asked about the rumours that Graves was actually leaving the group to become a Death Eater, our source said, "That's a load of slanderous piffle!"

The article itself would have been of little interest, except that it was accompanied by a large photograph of Merton Graves. The musician appeared to be young - only a few years older than Harry. Graves pouted, batted his long curled eyelashes and flicked his floppy blonde hair from his face. Harry thought that the wizard in the photograph looked ridiculously effeminate. He wondered if this foppish boy was the professor's "fair one." But it was not just the wizard's youth or lack of manliness that caught Harry's attention. On the picture's forehead, somebody (apparently Trelawney) had drawn an oversized third eye.

This was not the only doodle on the page. Below the story was an advertisement for The Crystal Balls & All Prophetic Training Academy. The governess of the academy, Gertie Pewter P.T. (Prophetic Trainer) claimed that she could work wonders for each and every wizard or witch who suffered from the affliction of "short-second-sightedness." References were available and all enquiries would be treated with the utmost discretion.

Professor Trelawney had scribbled the letter H, in various sizes and styles, all over the lower part of the page. And she had added in a dark, blotchy scrawl the numbers 21, 9, and 12.

Harry had no idea what it all could mean. Did the H stand for Harry? If this was a message, why did those numbers make no sense to him? He quickly leafed through remaining pages of the magazine but it yielded no clues. Above him, the classroom was silent.

He placed a hand on the banister of the spiral staircase and resolved to go back to Gryffindor Tower. Even if Sybill Trelawney had any light to shed on this mystery, she was incapable of shedding it tonight. But as he turned to go, Harry heard a sharp rapping noise. He swung around to see a horse's hoof knocking against the window.

The legs of the horse were pale. The animal took on a blue tinge in the moonlight, but to Harry's confused relief it was obviously not a Thestral. Slowly, the beast descended, as though it was riding some sort of lift on the outside of the North Tower. Gradually, a body drew level with the window and Harry was startled to see that the torso of a man sprouted from between the equine's shoulders.

It was not a horse. It was a centaur - riding a flying carpet. It was Professor Firenze.

He signalled for Harry to unlock the window, which Harry did with fumbling fingers. Immediately after the window opened, Firenze's strong bare arm reached in and grabbed the magazine from Harry. Without uttering a word, the centaur turned to the page that Trelawney had marked. He snorted angrily.

"That belongs to Professor Trelawney," Harry explained. "I was trying to ask her something." He did not understand why Firenze was reacting so aggressively. It was not after nine o'clock. Harry had broken no school rules by visiting his teacher's rooms. He had done nothing wrong.

The centaur stared keenly at Harry with eyes which shone brilliantly blue. "You came here with a question, foal?"

"Yes, I -" Harry realised that he could not repeat his question to Firenze. To do so would reveal that he doubted Firenze's opinion on the meaning of "the seventh month." And it seemed that neither of his Divination teachers took kindly to students who voiced their doubts.

"You wish to know how a prophecy may be fulfilled," Firenze said slowly. Harry gasped. It was as if the centaur had seen into Harry's turbulent mind.

"Yes," Harry breathed.

"And so, you look for answers by hunting down the prophecy's creator? You seek to learn how it was made? You dissect it word by word?" There was a cynical undertone to Firenze's words which Harry recognised was not altogether friendly.

"I thought if I spoke to the Seer -" Harry began to say.

"You stumble into the abyss of human ignorance," Firenze interrupted forcefully. He leant his face through the window and glared sternly. "Harry Potter," the centaur pronounced, "do not fall victim to the folly of your species. They proudly boast to know the future, and that by so knowing they hold the power to shape what is to come. Yet the stars will keep their course - regardless of the paths we insignificant creatures take. You cannot fulfil a prophecy by merely knowing its terms."

"Then - how?"

"To thine own self be true, Harry Potter," Firenze replied softly. "Your destiny is immutable. It may be great; it may be terrible. But your future, and the fate of wizardkind, depends on your actions and choices being truly your own." With these words, the centaur withdrew from the window. He hovered briefly outside the tower, bowed to Harry and then swept out of view.

By the time Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower he was more puzzled than ever. Hermione looked up from her book, Muggle Politics in the Modern Era: Empires of Insignificance, just long enough to remark that she did not think he looked well. Ron was furiously scratching out something on a long piece of parchment, and so did not look up at all. Harry mumbled that he was feeling tired and went upstairs to bed.