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SIYE Time:7:53 on 29th March 2024
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Grey Maiden V: Sacrifice
By Chris Widger

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Category: Alternate Universe
Characters:Albus Dumbledore, Draco Malfoy, Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Remus Lupin, Ron Weasley, Severus Snape, Sirius Black
Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, General, Romance, Tragedy
Warnings: Dark Fiction, Death, Violence
Rating: R
Reviews: 114
Summary: After 13 years, Lord Voldemort has risen again, and set his sights on conquering the Wizarding world. All that may stand in his way is Harry Potter, who must heal, train, and learn the lessons of life on the fly, while friendship, romance, alliances, and his own life hang in the balance. On top of all of this, Harry must cope with the consequences of his guardian’s inevitable fall into Darkness, and a Ministry determined to bury the truth.
Hitcount: Story Total: 92796; Chapter Total: 4761







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Chapter 7: Hope and Memory

Harry shot bolt upright, panting as if he’d just run a marathon. His hand pounded, and he unconscious clasped his hand to his forehead, over his scar. It was at that moment that he really that while he was experiencing a great deal of discomfort, none of it was caused by the thin lightning bolt mark and his shared connection with Lord Voldemort.

That frightened him.

Harry was a loss to understand what he’d just experienced. He was tempted, badly tempted, to write it off as nothing more than one of the worst nightmares he’d ever suffered, but something told him that he was only fooling himself. Something else vehemently denied that a creature such as Kalas could really exist within him, a seething cauldron of hatred and ruthlessness that could transform him into the very thing he sought to destroy.

Harry lay back in his bed, staring upwards into pitch blackness. A cool draft seemed to pass through the dormitory, and he shivered, clutching the sweat-soaked bedsheets closer to his body. A terrible realization came to him. At that instant, with barely a minute of thought, he suddenly knew where Kalas had come from, and where he’d already had a deep and irreversible impact upon Harry’s life.

Kalas hadn’t been born of Tom Riddle’s rotten magic. He’d been born when Harry had finally unleashed the raw power within him for the first time. He’d been born out of necessity, because his ruthlessness and sociopathic personality had been required to ensure Harry’s survival.

He’d be born on that terrible night in Third Year, when Harry, Daphne, and Sirius had found themselves surrounded and overwhelmed by a swarm of Dementors. And when Harry had been driven into submission by the agony of reliving his horrifying past, Kalas had risen to take his place. Kalas had ripped apart Daphne’s barriers, shredding them like paper and allowing his magical core to explode outward with tremendous power, obliterating Dementors by the dozens. Kalas had saved his life, and the lives of Daphne and Sirius. Harry hadn’t been strong enough, too frightened by the impact of his uncontrolled power, wary of another training accident such as the one that had befallen Tonks that past summer.

How do I know all of this? He demanded. How can I know all of this?

But the realizations kept coming, and he was in no position to stop them.

Harry remembered vividly the moments leading up to and just after he’d staged his last, desperate attack against Voldemort in that graveyard. He remembered the pain, the suffering, the fear, the hopelessness. It was the memory of those emotions, of that desperation, - and the desire to never experience it again - that kept him training so hard during the summer. He remembered recovering his sense after being flung through the air, reaching out to touch Cedric’s cold, dead forearm, desperately using the last of his magical reserves to summon the Triwizard Cup to him to affect his escape.

But the key moment of that entire sequence remained a blur to him. At first he’d thought he’d blocked it out; know he wasn’t so sure. What he did remember was a fury, a hatred of Voldemort greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life. At that instant, he wanted nothing more than to wipe the stain of the Dark Lord from the earth, tearing his body apart and shattering his soul, even if it cost him his own life. And Harry remembered that he hadn’t been thinking of Voldemort’s other victims, of the heinous crimes he’d committed over the years. At that moment, his fury had been drawn from his pain and his alone. He’d wanted Voldemort to suffer as he did. And so, in a last-ditch attempt to accomplish that goal, he’d drawn his power in the most powerful Demolition Curse he’d ever seen, just as Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse. It was ironic, he supposed; Harry’s curse would have killed just about everybody - including himself - in the immediate vicinity with terrifying violence, blasting their bodies to bloody fragments. Voldemort sought only to end Harry’s life.

Harry didn’t think that made him as bad or worse than Voldemort, not in the least. Harry had acted out of uncontrolled emotion and was fighting for his life. Voldemort wanted to finish off a wounded animal that he had already devoted time and energy to tormenting and torturing because it made him feel strong. He’d humiliated Harry, not giving him the option of a quick death. Such actions were far worse in Harry’s eyes than his own casting of that Demolition Curse.

But Harry hadn’t escaped unscathed. Kalas said that he fed off of Harry’s negative emotions and use of Dark Magic, becoming stronger every time that Harry lost control of his power. He didn’t see a reason for a creature whose life was tied to Harry’s to lie. For now, at least, Kalas needed Harry.

Am I right to separate the two of us like this? Is Kalas a part of me, or something separate?

He wanted to believe it was the latter. He had a terrible feeling that the truth lay closer to the former.

What can I do?

That was the question. He could tell his friends and mentors, he should tell his friends and mentors. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want them to think that he’d failed, that he hadn’t been able to handle the use of Dark Magic. He needed Dark Magic in a way that couldn’t be put into words. It was essential for his success. He hadn’t been given a choice when he’d absorbed Riddle’s power, and with it his predilection for the Dark Arts. He couldn’t tell Daphne. Not right now, not while her confidence and psyche was so fragile. He couldn’t tell Dumbledore, not after the man had given him his confidence that he was too good and compassionate to fall as Voldemort had fallen. He couldn’t tell Hermione; she’d have a heart attack, withdraw her support for his endeavors in favor of examining the evidence and fully studying the situation to better understand and deal with it. He simply didn’t have time for it right now, and it seemed that Kalas was limited to speaking with Harry in his dreams for now. Somehow he suspected that Kalas’s visits would be few and far between, and considerably less malicious most of the time. He’d wanted to shock Harry, to force him to accept the truth. But he wouldn’t risk depriving Harry of sleep, making him so anxious about his inner demon that he got himself killed…and Kalas with him. Kalas needed Harry alive. That was the clear, inescapable truth. And so far, he was only strong enough to take action when Harry’s regular personality had already been incapacitated. He needed to keep it that way. He needed to be more careful, to better control his emotions, or he risked losing it all. Still, he couldn’t do this by himself.

But who to ask? Who can possibly understand this?

Luna came to mind, but something told Harry that she already knew. In fact, as he mentally reviewed the details of their last conversation, it transformed from a suspicion into a certainly. Luna definitely knew about Kalas. But having provoked a negative response the last time she’d messed with his mind, she’d waited for him to figure it out on his own.

That left, putting Neville and Blaise aside for obvious reasons, and Snape because, well…since his little foray into his Potions Master’s past, he didn’t exactly trust him…Ginny.

Really, I shouldn’t have needed to come up with her through process of elimination, he told himself. She’s my girlfriend, but beyond that she’s a person that I trust. I’ll need to be careful with this. But I can talk to her. I have to.

She’s a Slytherin. She’s a realist. And she doesn’t doubt me as easily as the others. She’ll come to understand, and she’ll help. She’s always been good with people. To top it all off, she deserves it. She’ll never tell me what’s troubling her if I don’t do the same. She’s stuck with me, and she cares about me. I owe her this.


Even with that decision, sleep did not come easily. Eventually, Harry’s exhausted body overrode his racing mind, and he fell back into the abyss.





Later that week, Harry found himself in a situation that felt right, somehow…even if it had taken a freak accident for him to actually find himself in this place, at this moment, in this particular role.

The place was about two meters above the south end of the Quidditch Pitch. The moment was the Serpents’ pre-season tryouts, just after noon on the first Sunday of the term. The role was that of acting Quidditch Captain of the Slytherin House Team.

There really was no way to describe the bizarre series of events, set in motion by Ginny’s mischievous twin brothers, that had led to the reigning Slytherin Captain, Adrian Pucey, to be laid-up in the Hospital Wing, unconscious, the victim of a somewhat vicious prank going rather terribly awry. Fred and George had most likely wished to humiliate Pucey. It was actually a bit of a tradition, Harry had learned from his girlfriend, to prank the Slytherin Captain at some point during the year, normally towards the end of the season, although they seemed to have moved up the timetable this time. There were rules involved, apparently, the biggest being that the prank couldn’t knock the Slytherin Captain out for any actual Quidditch matches. Ginny told him they thought it was unsportsmanlike, a statement that made Harry smile at the irony.

Regardless of their intent, which had been to hang Pucey upside down from the ceiling of the Entrance Hall, spinning slowly in the air, transfigure his clothing into a Gryffindor banner, leaving him otherwise naked, Silence him to prevent him from calling for help, and shave his widely-admired jet black hair, leaving only the shape on an “L” on the top of his head. Ridiculously complicated, grandiose in scale, demanding tremendous talent at casting and manipulating advanced charms, relying on pinpoint timing, and damaging to nothing but their target’s ego, their was no question as to the prank’s perpetrators. Everything had worked just about perfectly, including using the lure of an early-morning romance with an older Slytherin, communicated through a passionate and somewhat explicit letter left under Adrian’s pillow. Well, almost everything. The first to come across Pucey had been Slytherin’s starting Keeper, Tracey Davis, who had a reputation as always being the first to Breakfast. Predictably, she became aware of her Captain’s plight, although she was unfortunately alerted by a glob of Pucey’s spittle landing in her hair, which was just about the only way Pucey could have gotten her attention. She’d immediately attempted to remedy the situation by canceling the Levitation Charm, which had sent Pucey plummeting down toward the stairs. Fortunately, Snape had just emerged from the dungeons. He managed to slow Pucey’s descent enough so that the boy merely smacked his head on the stairs with enough force to knock him out, rather than breaking his neck.

Harry blew hard into his whistle, the high-pitched shrill catching the attention of the myriad of Slytherins flying around on brooms. Besides the team from his 3rd year, which was essentially intact, they had a number of walk-ons, at least a dozen, by his count. A number of them were younger students, including several 2nd years, and a few first years, led by the cold Lysetta Avery, who’d asked to participate, even though they weren’t going to actually make the team. Harry was interested to see what competition this year’s starters might face, and he’d also considered the possibility of a reserve team. Harry was almost certain to take over the Captaincy of the team in his Sixth Year; the only reason Pucey led it now was that Flint hadn’t been all that fond of Harry and picked Adrian as his replacement more out of spite than anything else. Adrian had proven to be reasonable competent, a decent strategist, and a good leader, more than could have ever been said for Flint. Adrian came from a very poor pureblood family, one with plenty of Muggle bloodlines, but both his parents were wizards born of wizards, and that’s all that really mattered in Slytherin. “Alright, Chaser candidates, over here!” he called.

In a few seconds, half-dozen individuals were hovering around him. They included his girlfriend Ginny, his rival Draco Malfoy, Slytherin’s starting Keeper, Tracey Davis, a lanky Second Year named Graham Pritchard, Trevor Warrington, the boy that Tracey had replaced, and a barrel-chested 6th year named Max Fielder. All of them were competing for two spots; Pucey wouldn’t have taken himself off the team under any circumstances, and Harry didn’t have the authority to do it for him. He also respected Adrian, not as a friend, but as a teammate who worked hard, even if he wasn’t the most agreeable sort.

“What do you want us to do, Harry?” Ginny asked immediately. She gave no hint of their relationship; both of them understood that she’d have to earn her spot on the team; Harry couldn’t give it to her for personal reasons. They wanted to make it clear to the others that they had as much of a shot as anyone else.

“We’re going to run some drills,” Harry replied. “First I want to judge your accuracy and ball-handling. You’ll be given the Quaffle and given five shots on goal. Davis,” Harry said.

Tracey looked up at him. “Since you were our Keeper two years ago, you’ll be the Keeper for this drills. When it’s your turn, Warrington will defend the hoops.” Harry clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to do and I want to be finished by sundown.”

Harry hovered near the goalposts. Hermione sat in the stands, holding a clipboard, quill in hand. She’d absorbed enough knowledge about Quidditch over the years to be of some help in this capacity, and Harry had told her exactly what to look for. He wanted to do this right, to make sure that he could justify his choices to Pucey when the boy actually woke up…whenever that was. He hadn’t just suffered a fractured skull and concussion; his magical core had essentially shorted out from the collapse of the Twins’ magic when Snape had attempted to cancel all of the spells simultaneously. He’d live, and there wasn’t likely to be permanent damage, but Harry suspected that Fred and George would be spending a good deal of quality time with Argus Filch in the near future.

Harry watched intently as each prospective chaser took their turn. He saw some things he liked, other things he didn’t. He noted things such Pritchard’s exaggerated windup and slow release, Draco’s tendency to “aim” his throws which practically telegraphed his intentions to the Keeper, Ginny’s hesitation as she carefully considered which hoop she wanted to aim for, Fielder’s lack of balance on his broom, which resulted in more than one poorly-aimed shot, Warrington’s complete inability to manuever, Tracey’s lack of arm strength, and several other glaring flaws in technique or strategy. He also noted the terrific velocity on Ginny’s throws, Draco’s skilled broom-handling, Fielder’s ability to deceive the Keeper, Pritchard’s self-confidence despite being the youngest of the group, and…well, Harry was stretched to come up with positive observations when it came to Warrington. Tracey was excellent, her form almost flawless, except for an overly complex side-arm throwing motion that could be fixed. Harry held off judgment for now, although his lack of faith in Warrington’s skills as a Keeper were only confirmed when he failed to block a single shot, moving too slowly to keep up with Tracey’s well-aimed throws.

The day wore on. Slytherin didn’t normally hold open competition for every spot, but Harry wanted to put the best team on the field that he could. Gryffindor, so he’d heard, was determined to dethrone the Serpents this year because they would soon lose their starting Beaters. They still hadn’t found a Seeker. Ron had been little more than a stopgap after McGlaggen’s disastrous trial, but Ginny’s youngest brother had apparently decided to try something else. Ravenclaw’s team was young but enthusiastic. Hufflepuff probably wouldn’t be a factor in the Quidditch Cup, still lacking leadership and experienced talent. Harry watched the over two dozen of his classmates display their skill (or not). Finally, it came down the Seeker competition. Harry flew over to where his classmates had gathered, some on the ground with brooms under their arms, others hovering just a bit above the pitch. “Alright, it’s time for the Seeker trials. Anybody interested in challenging me step forward, please.”

As Harry had anticipated, he got a lot of blank stares. Harry’s success as a Seeker was almost unparalleled in team history. As much as Flint tried to avoid giving him his just due, anybody who’d watched any of his Quidditch matches knew exactly what they were up against. “Come on,” Harry urged them. “I’ll give you a fair shot. I’m not trying to embarrass any of you. Even if you don’t…”

Ginny stepped forward, a hard, determined look in her eyes. “Anyone else?” he asked, somewhat taken aback by the intensity of her gaze.

Graham Pritchard also stepped forward. Tracey Davis followed a few seconds later. The half-blood girl was a good all-around Quidditch player, capable of playing just about any position but Beater with reasonable success.

Harry gestured for them to follow him, and led them to the other side of the pitch. “We’ll line up here. We’ll use a real Snitch. I’ll release it, and we’ll wait two minutes. Once that time is up, we’ll all go looking for it. If someone beats me to it, we’ll do another competition.”

“Nervous about losing your spot, Potter?” Tracey asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have to allow for random chance, Davis,” Harry replied. “And considering my track record, I think it’s fair that I make my replacement beat me twice before I relinquish my position.”

The three were silent, which seemed to communicate acceptance, or at least resignation. Harry opened his palm, and the Golden Snitch shot into the distance. Magical wards kept it from leaving the perimeter of the stadium, which kept the action on the field of play.

Harry waited, checking his watch until two minutes had elapsed. All four of them were lined up, sitting on their brooms, ready to take off. Harry swung his arm down. “Go!” He kicked off the ground a split second after the others, but his Firebolt’s superior acceleration quickly made up for it and then some. All four of them began patrolling the field. Harry abruptly dove hard at the ground, weaving and bobbing. To his chagrin, no one bought it this time. They’d seen too many opposing Seekers plow into the ground over the last few years. Harry banked away, gaining altitude, searching for the Snitch. He saw Pritchard take off after something, but before he’d even swung his broom around, he’d either lost sight of the Snitch or realized that he’d never seen it in the first place. Harry executed a long, slow turn to the right, looking back to see Ginny shadowing him. Tracey and Pritchard seemed to be taking their chances. There were several more sightings and brief pursuits, but none of the others seemed able to keep their eye on the Snitch. Harry was no different, seeing a glint of gold more than once, but losing it, most recently when Davis had cut across his field of vision. With the light fading, Harry was going to have to call it off soon; it was impossible to find the Snitch in the dark, no matter how skilled a Seeker was.

As it was, he needn’t have worried. Swooping around one last time, he spotted the Snitch no more than ten meters away. Five seconds later, and it was struggling to escape his closed fist. The others had already noticed what had happened, so Harry blowing his whistle was a tad redundant. Still, it created an element of finality. Harry flew to the ground, trying to appear as modest as he could manage. He gathered all of them together. “Alright, so that’s settled,” he said. “Thank you all for coming and participating. I saw a lot of good things today, and I’ll remember them for the future even if I don’t put you on the team this year. I’ve got a few decisions to make, and then I’ll post my preliminary list tomorrow evening. It’s possible that Adrian might veto some of my decisions, but I don’t think it likely.”

With that, the group broke apart, heading to the changing rooms in small groups. Tracey Davis remained. Harry stared at her. “Davis. You have a comment?”

“You’re not going to give me a Chaser spot, are you?” she said, sounding quite confident she already knew the answer. “I’m the starting Keeper again.”

“You’ll find out when the others do,” Harry replied quickly. “You did a good job out there, but I need to look at the whole picture.”

“In other words, I’m still Keeper because I’m the only one at all qualified for the spot,” Tracey replied curtly. “I guess I can live with that.”

Harry didn’t reply. Tracey gave him an exasperated look, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the changing rooms.

Harry felt Ginny come up to stand beside him. “She’s right, isn’t she?” Ginny asked.

“Of course she is,” Harry said. “Tracey’s not the brightest student in the class, but she’s never been accused of being stupid. And the reasons for my choice are the ones she guessed at.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I agree with your choice. She’d made a good Chaser though. And probably a better Seeker than I would. Her vision and awareness of her surroundings is a lot better than mine.”

“You didn’t follow me when I tried that fake,” Harry pointed out.

“Of course I didn’t,” Ginny replied. “How many times have I seen you arrange a meeting between Ron and the ground? Too many to count. How many times have I seen you actually catch the Snitch after that kind of dive? Never. I played the odds.”

Harry chuckled. “I hadn’t even thought of that last angle.”

“You tend to chase the Snitch higher into the air. You also tend to change altitude constantly, so you can adjust either way if you catch sight of it. I’m not completely blinded by your good looks when I’m watching you flying, Harry,” Ginny replied, grinning impishly.

Harry smiled back at her. “We should go back inside. I see Hermione left.”

“I sent her back,” Ginny said, her smile fading. “And we’re not going back inside. Not yet. We’re going for a walk.”

Harry tried not to let his surprise show. “Can I at least put away my broom first?”

Ginny nodded. “Meet me out here in twenty minutes, changed and ready to go.”

“Yes ma’am.”

After changing and quickly showering, Harry rejoined Ginny at the center of the pitch. She wore a jumper and jeans now, and her still-damp hair clung to the back of her neck. Harry, who’d never really developed much of a fondness for Muggle clothing, wore dark blue robes over a jumper of his own. “Where are we going?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” Ginny replied, sounding unconcerned. “Come on.” They linked hands and set off down one of the paths. There was an awkward silence for a time, as both of them considered what to say. Harry was just about to ask that they stop so that he could tell her about his dreams, but Ginny beat him to it. They had reached an old tree, overlooking the lake. They’d been walking for about ten minutes, without a word being spoken between them.

Ginny slowed her pace, and Harry quickly did the same. She lightly pulled him over the tree, and sat down, leaning her back against it. Harry took a seat beside her, and Ginny shifted, lying her head on his shoulder. Still looking away from him, she said, “Harry, what’s wrong? Something’s bothering you, and you haven’t said anything about it to anyone.”

Harry tried to find his voice. “About that…Ginny, you have to understand…”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, turning her body so that she could look directly into his eyes. “Harry, I don’t want excuses. I don’t need them. This isn’t the first time you’ve hidden something from me. But whatever it is seems to be really bothering you, and I can’t help but be concerned. You can tell me anything, Harry. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Harry replied quickly. “I…I had this dream a few nights ago. Only I’m not sure it was just a dream. Okay, I’m certain it wasn’t just a bad dream.”

“Was it V-voldemort?” Ginny asked, a slight stutter in her voice. Like most wizarding children, she’d been taught never to speak the name of the Dark Lord, a habit she’d worked to change over the years.

“No,” Harry replied. “No, it wasn’t.”

Ginny frowned. “Then, what…”

Harry took a deep breath. “I need you to just sit back and listen. I’ll tell you about it, but I’d prefer you just let me talk about the whole thing before you ask any questions or pass any judgments. Can you do that for me?”

Ginny nodded, although her eyes betrayed a touch of trepidation. “Go on, then.”

Harry nodded his thanks, and began describing his dream. At several moments, Ginny looked like she badly wanted to say something, but held back. When he finished, he was shaking, badly. His cheeks flamed with embarrassment, and he ducked his head. Ginny was having none of it, and wrapped him in a tight embrace, which helped to calm his body and mind. Eventually, when she felt it was no longer necessary, she let go. She stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing. “Well?” Harry asked.

Ginny took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t understand what’s going on. You’ve got to tell Dumbledore about this, Harry, he’s the only one that can help you…”

“No!” Harry shouted. Ginny jerked back in surprise.

Realizing his mistake, Harry clumsily reached out and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “But you’ve got to understand, Ginny. I can’t tell Dumbledore. Not yet.”

“But why?” she asked. “Give me a reason and I’ll at least understand where you are coming from.”

“Dumbledore gave me what was essentially a vote of confidence this summer. He told me that because I my compassion, my capacity to love, if I stayed true to the Light, or at least the cause of defeating Voldemort, I couldn’t fall as he did. He told me that despite my growing knowledge of the Dark Arts, and my desire to learn more and become more powerful, he trusted my integrity and my intentions. That kind of endorsement is not given lightly, Ginny. What would he say if he knew I had this…this thing inside me, this part of me that represents everything that I fear I might become. That I was wrong to believe I had resisted the call of the Dark, the call to dominate, the call to embrace my anger and hatred. How could he trust me to continue along the path I have chosen?”

Ginny’s face was white, but she nodded tightly. “You’re right,” she said quietly. At the incredulous expression on his face and subsequent protest, she quickly silenced him by placing a finger on his lips. “I’m not saying that because I don’t want to argue this with you, Harry. I can’t…I know what Dumbledore’s approval means to you, means to the cause itself. It isn’t just about your self-esteem, it’s about your reputation as a person that the Light families would follow and serve.”

Harry nodded. “I don’t know what to do, Ginny. I’m scared. I’m not afraid to admit it. Not to you. I don’t want to know Kalas, to understand Kalas, because the only way to do so might be to embrace that part of me, and that is a choice I simply cannot make. I can’t take that risk.”

Ginny grasped both of his shoulders. “Harry, I…I…” But she couldn’t say it. I love you was something that many couples exchanged, even young ones that didn’t really mean it because they couldn’t possibly know what love was. But they had already decided that they couldn’t treat this as just a normal teenage relationship. Not with everything that was on the line.

Harry smiled fondly at her. “I know, Ginny. I know, and I feel the same way. Exactly the same way.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. She wrapped her arms around him and he did the same to her. “Thank you for understanding, for being here for me,” he whispered into her ear.

“I know you, Harry. I know you better than I know anyone. And this Kalas isn’t you. He isn’t the Harry Potter that I’ve grown to know and…care so bloody much about,” Ginny replied, a fiery edge to her voice. “We’ll keep this a secret for now. Just…just be careful. Fight your negative emotions. Control them; don’t let them control you. Don’t let him win.”

“I won’t, Ginny,” Harry said. “I promise, I won’t let him hurt you, hurt anyone that I care about. I’d die first, and him with me.”

“It won’t come to that,” she said firmly. “You’re stronger than he is. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You won’t give in.”

They held each other for some time. They laid back as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, pressing against each other for warmth as well as for comfort. Harry gently stroked his girlfriend’s downy hair, letting the feeling of his fingers sliding through it distract him from everything that was on his mind. The stars came out, and Ginny found herself telling Harry some of the stories that her oldest brother Bill had once told her about the Constellations. Harry listened politely, but his attention wasn’t as much focused on her words as it was her presence, lying beside him in the moonlight. They remained there for hours, eventually requiring Warming Charms to prevent themselves from freezing. Finally, both of them felt that they’d done all they could, and the rose as one and head back for the castle. It was as relaxed as Harry had felt in ages. He vowed to spend more time with Ginny. It wasn’t just that she deserved it, though there was no doubt she did. It was also that he’d very badly missed the constant interaction they’d enjoyed in the time leading up to the Third Task the previous term.




Harry tried very hard to resist the urge to punch Blaise in the face, as he continued to whine about the poor mark he’d received on his terribly botched potion. To be fair, his criticisms of Snape as a poor teacher, who gave them instructions but nothing in the way of useful advice, an understanding of the context or importance of the potions they brewed, or (Merlin forbid) positive reinforcement, were as deserved as they were accurate. But this was the fifth year he’d taught them, and Harry had hoped that Blaise might have gotten over the fact that Snape was a miserable excuse for a human being by now. No such luck, unfortunately.

Blaise trailed behind him as he stared straight ahead, mentally determining his homework schedule. “…the git’s downright malicious,” Blaise complained. “I mean, he practically sabotaged your potions back before he figure out you weren’t just a clone of your father that had the gall to get himself Sorted into Snape’s House. He terrorizes Neville, I’ve never learned anything useful from him, and he’s destroyed any ambition I might have had to continue my studies in Potions. I’m half considering bombing my O.W.L. so I don’t have to put up with him on an everyday basis anymore.”

Harry finally stopped, his patience at the breaking point. “Blaise,” he said in a disinterested voice that he used when he was irritated. “May I remind you that you did nothing to help me when Snape was sabotaging our potions. And since when have you ever cared about Neville? Also, you might learn something useful from him if you listened to what he wrote when he graded your essays instead of just complaining about your marks and disregarding his comments out of spite. Finally, I’ve never heard you admit the slightest interest in Potions, in or out of Snape’s class, and at the rate you are going, you won’t need to make an effort to bomb your O.W.L.”

Blaise considered his words. “First, Harry, I apologized for not acting in First and Second Years. More to the point, you accepted my apology. Second, I’ve cared about Neville since I’ve gotten to know him as a friend, and wish I’d taken the effort earlier instead of just laughing at his clumsiness. Third, I’ve shown you my essays, and you’ve seen that Snape writes far more snide comments about my incompetence and lack of aptitude for his subject than useful corrections, and that he’s refused to meet with me because he doesn’t like me. And fourth, I take pride in doing well in school, Harry, and I’m legitimately concerned that if Snape doesn’t make any effort to teach us anything I might not make it into N.E.W.T. Potions, something that would be a great personal disappointment as well as a disappointment to my family.”

Harry stared back at him. Blaise had managed to defuse each and every one of his arguments, and done so while maintaining his composure and using logic instead of subjective anecdotal examples. “Alright, then. I’m sorry. And I won’t say I don’t disagree with you. But complaining about it won’t change anything. Snape’s under Dumbledore’s protection because of what he did for the Order during and after the war. His aid was vital in rounding up a lot of the Death Eaters still at large, and locating and freezing Voldemort’s assets. He’s a bastard, but he’s an accomplished bastard. He’s also one of the best Potions Masters of the last century. He’s not just some teacher; he’s a talented, experienced, and brilliant individual, a pioneer in his field. So considering that, as well as the fact that there is nothing we can do, I’ve chosen to put up with him and see if I can’t exploit the situation to my benefit. If that means forgetting the hell he put me through for two years than so be it.”

Blaise shook his head. “I’ll never understand how you do that.”

“I don’t get it either,” Harry admitted. “I just do it because I don’t think I have any real choice.”

“But then why..?” Harry cut him off. “What is it?”

“Listen,” Harry whispered. They could heard arguing up the corridor. The voices sounded angry, but were high-pitched and juvenile. Harry didn’t know what made him run around the corner, wand drawn, but he soon found out.

Peter Lowry, the shy, frightened-looking boy from the Sorting Ceremony, was backed up against a wall, looking like he might wet himself. Surrounding him were four younger Slytherins, including First Years Lysetta Avery, Hazel Parkinson, Maximillian Yaxley, and a 4th year, Henry Harper. Avery and Harper had their wands drawn. Harry listened to what the sharp-tongued First Year was saying. “…how dare you even intrude upon our world, with a parentage like that!” she screeched. “Not only Muggles, but the religious sort! You know what they did to us, don’t you? Your kind burned witches at the stake, and no matter what those history book’ll tell you about Freezing Charms, many of our kind were murdered by fanatical scum like your ancestors.”

“They didn’t just burn us, either,” Harper added in a sinister whisper. “They hung us, snapped our wands and then snapped our necks. Sometimes they beheaded us. Didn’t always happen on the first try. There was also drowning. And you have the stones to get your puny arse sorted into Slytherin, you useless coward? You don’t deserve to even be here.”

Harry had heard enough. Anger surged through his veins, and ignoring Blaise’s noises of protest, he stalked toward the little gathering, eyes blazing. “Leave him alone,” he hissed.

Lysetta, a short girl with cold dark eyes leered at him. “None of your business, Potter. This little traitor here is just getting what he deserved.”

“Just like your father, eh?” Harry asked, refusing to hold back even though his target was just eleven years old. “Bloody Death Eater got exactly what he deserved too. Harper,” Harry said, freezing the older boy in his tracks. “What exactly are you doing here? Picking on a First Year because a Second Year’s too much for you?”

“Never you mind, Potter,” Harper growled.

“I mind. Now get before I hex the lot of you,” Harry ordered. “Trust me, Snape likes me a lot more than he likes any of you. He’ll believe my side of the story. Leave. Now.” For emphasis, he spun his wand around in the air, tracing a flame around him in a wide arc. It had the intended effect, and Peter’s would-be assailants fled. Harry watched them go, and then noticed Lowry trying to slip away, unnoticed. He almost succeeded. “Peter,” Harry said quietly. “Come over here. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy, scrawnier than most his age, and a bit short too, cautiously looked back at Harry, who had put away his wand and now stood in the middle of the corridor. “Peter,” Harry said again. The name seemed odd on his tongue, probably a reflection of Harry’s memories of the traitor that bore that same name. Harry took in the boy’s appearance for the first time. His blue eyes were nearly hidden by the bangs of his unkempt brown hair, and Harry saw suspicion and fear in them. His robes were clearly second-hand, and his hair looked unwashed. “My name is Harry. I just want to help.”

Peter’s body relaxed a bit, though his face remained tensed, his eyes scanning the area around them like a pair of searchlights. “Peter,” Harry said for the third time.

“I guess I should be thanking you,” the boy said in a quiet voice. “They won’t leave me alone.” His accent was hard to discern, though Harry thought he might have lived in London at one point or another.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Harry told him. “I’ve been in your situation. I do what I can to prevent others from suffering as I did.”

Peter didn’t respond to that. Something about the eleven-year old, who, without the robes, resembled an alley rat more than anything else, was calling to him, to his magic. Harry really had no business providing comfort to a boy he didn’t even know. But that wasn’t going to stop him. If anything, his rabid curiosity wasn’t going to let him allow this boy out of his sight before he figured out what was so enticing about him. Most would be repulsed, or indifferent.

If anything, his appearance just makes this whole thing more interesting.

“You’re Muggleborn, aren’t you?” Harry asked.

Peter nodded cautiously. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m a half-blood, myself,” Harry told him. “My mother was Muggleborn.” There was something strange - and wonderful - about talking to someone that had absolutely no idea who he was, what he had done, and what he had to do. It was deeply refreshing.

Peter merely nodded. “Can I go now?” he asked, looking around the corner.

“If you’d like,” Harry said. “I won’t insist that you stay here. But I…”

“Goodbye, then,” Peter said, and disappeared around the corner.

Harry sighed. His curiosity would have to wait, it seemed.

“Potter, what the bloody hell was that about?” Blaise demanded from behind him.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Harry admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”

“You’re mental. Completely nutters.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Blaise.”




“Run this by me again,” Hermione said. “You want my help with what, exactly?”

“I need you to talk to a Muggleborn boy I met.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “And you are incapable of doing this without my help because…?”

“I think he might open up a bit more to you.”

“Right,” Hermione said, keeping a straight face. Ginny looked very puzzled off to his right, but didn’t say anything. They were in their usual corner of the Library, where Hermione, Neville, and - somewhat surprisingly - Luna, had been doing homework. Or, more accurately, Hermione had been doing homework, and Luna had been - let’s face it, there’s no other word for it - flirting with Neville, who was extremely confused about the whole thing. Than again, Luna’s interpretation of flirting was quite different from any other he’d seen, so it was hard to blame him. Blaise had followed Harry from the dungeons, not saying a word, but not needing to; he’d already made his opinion on the subject quite clear.

“Harry, I’m really not sure I follow,” Ginny admitted.

“I need to know more about this boy,” Harry insisted. “I don’t know why, but there’s something…off about him. No, that’s not the right word,” he said, shaking his head in frustration.

“That’s good, because I’d be a tad alarmed if you started accosting every young boy that felt off to you and started demanding they tell you their life’s story,” Blaise said dryly.

“Is there something wrong with him? How did you meet him?” Hermione, at least, was making an effort to get on the same page as her best friend.

“Well, when I found him he was being bullied, but that’s not…” He stopped. Looking back on it, the reason he’d gotten involved in the first place had been that Peter was being harassed by his schoolmates. He hadn’t noticed the strange draw on his magic until after Avery, Harper, and the others had fled. “Okay, I suppose that is why I acted in the first place.”

“What exactly did you do?” Ginny asked.

“Just scared off Avery’s little sister, a few other First Years, and that bloody idiot Harper from your class,” Harry said. “They were harassing him, attacking him for being of Muggle parentage. They were also making reference to some other element of his background, although I’m not sure what. I tried to get him to stick around, but he ran off as soon as I let him,” Harry explained.

“Why did you try to get him to stick around?” Hermione asked.

“I just have this odd feeling about him,” Harry said. “It’s hard to put into words. But I need to know what’s causing it, what makes him special.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “What else do you know about him?”

“Very little. He didn’t look very good when I saw him. Clothing’s worn; probably doesn’t come from money, doesn’t look like he’s gotten much sleep lately, looks a tad malnourished.”

“Let’s see…who does that remind me of?” Hermione asked rhetorically.

Harry frowned. “Did I look that bad?”

“Worse,” Hermione told him. “You looked half-dead most of the time.” She looked down. “I’m sorry for not realizing what that meant earlier.”

Harry waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “We’ve been over this. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, and I won’t have you feeling guilty about the whole thing. You learned your lesson, and you more than atoned for it during the rest of the year. Let it go.”

Hermione nodded. “Alright. But you haven’t. First Neville, now this…”

“Is there something wrong with wanting to help those who’ve been abandoned and left by the wayside for reasons beyond their control?” Harry argued hotly. “Maybe it isn’t the most Slytherin thing to do, but…”

“I understand,” Hermione said quietly. “We all understand. So, what exactly do you want me to do? Are we going to hunt him down or something?”

“No. I’ll let him come to me. I just need you to be comfortable talking with him.”

Ginny looked at him curiously. “Do you really think that will help? Do you have any intent of keeping up with him if he turns out not to be special after all?”

Harry glared at her. “That’s not a fair question. And he is special. If I’m wrong, I’ll keep an eye out for him, try to make things easier on him. I’m not out just to use him for my own benefit.”

Ginny nodded. “Then I think it sounds like a good idea. I didn’t mean to offend you, Harry. But that question needed to be answered.”

“Well, it’s been answered,” Harry replied.

“Alright, so we just wait?” Hermione asked. Harry nodded.

“We wait.”





The wand motion was exaggerated, throwing the spell off target and negating some of the initial power. The result was a very weak Stunning Spell, one that would probably have to hit you in the neck to have any chance of knocking you out. If you got hit on the leg, the worst you’d have to deal with was some temporary numbness. Stunners worked by overloading the nervous system and causing it to crash, plunging the target into unconsciousness. It was affected the system for only a second, so it couldn’t kill (well, it was said that you might be able to paralyze someone if you stuck your wand into the back of your target’s neck and hit them right on the spinal cord, but even that was unconfirmed, and of little practical value). In any case, Dean Thomas’s spell failed to meet ever her lowered expectations.

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas,” she said politely. “You can go back to your seat now.”

They were practicing Stunning Spells, which was about the most harmless form of combat-suitable magic in existence. She was appalled by the fact that with the exception of Harry, Neville, and Hermione, who had done training on their own, and a few of the Slytherins that had no doubt received private tutoring, the class was incapable of performing this simple bit of magic. Four years of disrupted, inconsistent, and all-too-often useless Defense Against the Dark Arts classes had created a bunch of 5th years that knew barely a fraction of the defensive magic that the average student in her year knew by that point. They weren’t prepared for the O.W.L.s, much less a fight with Death Eaters who wanted to kill them quickly and move on to their next victim.

She’d chosen the order of students randomly, and Harry was next. His effortless Stunner stuck the exact center of her target, and the magical power meter she’d cobbled together recorded the strongest blow yet. Parvati Patil came next, with an effort that just barely exceeded that of her Gryffindor classmate Thomas in power, and completely missed the target. She forced a sympathetic smile, and told the girl to sit down.

When it was over, she could not help but be disappointed. Taking Harry’s words to heart, she’d attempted to make up for her overbearing first performance. As much as she wanted it to be different, these were innocent, naďve teenagers, not eager and skilled Auror cadets, as she’d instructed the previous year. There she’d been able to be open and honest, giving praise when it was deserved and harsh criticism when it was warranted. She was expected to do no less. Scrimgeour had made it clear to her that he’d accepted her help in training his Aurors with the utmost reluctance, and that he was terribly concerned by the utter lack of readiness within the ranks. Fudge had been cutting their budget for years, and it showed. These new Aurors were nothing compared to the brave men and women Daphne had fought with and commanded, many of whom hadn’t survived to see the war’s end. Her unit in particular had an appalling attrition rate, as Auror Enforcement Group #12 was often the first called upon when word of a Death Eater raid reached the Ministry. They’d found themselves in more than one ambush. They preserved, but their had been a terrible cost. Emily. Deborah. Henry. Derek. Wendy. Kevin.

Those were the names of the Aurors she had seen killed before her very eyes, during a series of brutal engagements in the summer of 1980, when Voldemort had begun striking openly at wizarding communities. They’d never known when or where the enemy might strike, and they’d taken to sleeping in their battle armor, spending far more time at Auror Headquarters then at home. A few of them had been married and a few of their husbands, wives, and children had been killed over the years. There were others besides those six, but those were the ones that had been with her since the beginning. She had not been the only survivor of the original group. Alex Kingsbury had been crippled in the winter of 1980 and ended up moving to South America with his 2nd wife. She’d neither seen nor heard from him since. He hadn’t been in good shape mentally. Two others had made it through from the unit’s creation in 1978 to its dissolution in 1981. Their names had been Alice and Frank. And it wasn’t exactly fair to count them as survivors given the fate that had befallen them following the fall of Voldemort.

Letting the memories of the past drift away, she addressed the class. “While some of you have made progress, and are to be commended for that, more than a few of you did not meet my expectations for this exercise. But that is not really your fault, so don’t let that get you down. With the exception of Professor Lupin, you’ve had very little in the way of competent instruction. We, the adults, have failed you in that regard. I intend to do what I can to remedy the errors of my predecessors. I warn you that I will expect a lot from each of you. I will insist that you pay your lessons your full attention, that you put time and thought into your nightly assignments, and that you come to me at once if you have questions or concerns. I will be in my office most evenings, and I’d welcome company.”

There was a short silence, and then Hermione’s hand shot into the air. No surprise there. “Miss Granger?”

“Professor Dressler,” Hermione began, addressing her with the respect due her position, and not as the surrogate mother of her best friend. “I’d like to offer a suggestion.”

Daphne nodded. She noticed Harry sitting up, his emerald eyes shifting to his friend, though his head didn’t move. Increasingly of late, his movements, like his behavior, had become subtler, more restrained. Daphne knew Harry well, well enough to know what that meant. Something was bothering him, and until he could better understand whatever it was, he would remain cautious and contemplative. When Harry was anxious, he tried to make himself invisible to others, so that they failed to recognize and potentially exploit his moment of weakness. When he was confident and excited, he took risks, and showed all the daring and boisterousness of his Gryffindor father. It was in those rare moments and those moments alone when Daphne caught a glimpse of the spirit of James Potter which resided in his son’s cunning and ambitious personality.

Spurred on, Hermione pressed forward. “I believe that if we’re going to learn all of the spells and strategies that you feel we’ll need to have a chance to…survive,” she said, finally deciding on the proper word, “we ought to get in a bit of practice outside of class. We can’t practice dueling on our own, obviously; it’s against the rules. But if we created some sort of club, or extracurricular organization…”

The corners of Daphne’s lips pulled up into a smile. Harry’s eyes lit up like a pair of beacons. “A fine idea, Miss Granger. I do understand that you already have many demands on your time,” she told the class, “but I would like you to tell me when you are free. The time we set aside will be used exclusively for practical work; we’ll leave the textbook out of it. I also believe that if you have an opportunity to work exclusively on your spellcasting outside of this classroom, we’ll have more time to devote attention to preparing for the O.W.L.s, which a number of you have expressed concern about.”

There was some murmuring among the students, which she tolerated. She waited patiently for the whispered conversation to subside, and then spoke. A few hands were raised.

“Mister Finnegan?”

“Professor, this sounds an awful lot like that dueling club Lockhart set up in Second Year.”

“It might bear some similarities,” Daphne admitted. “Hogwarts has a long and proud history of competitive, regulated dueling. It was discontinued, not for the first time, shortly before the war broke out in the late 70s. I don’t intend to ask the Headmaster for his permission to re-found it, not after the events of last year.” She was referring, of course, to the spectacular duel between her ward and Draco Malfoy, which was held against Dumbledore’s strongest wishes. Literally minutes after Harry had emerged the victor, the Ministry had passed a law prohibiting any further duels between Hogwarts students, no matter what the circumstances. “This won’t be a competition. It will be a learning experience. I don’t want any of you to get hurt, and I want you to enjoy it. I won’t turn you loose without instruction, I’ll try to match you up with partners of similar ability and strength when dueling is involved, and I’ll offer advice when I can. Miss Patil?”

“Will we receive marks based on our performance?”

“No,” Daphne replied. “This will be an un-graded exercise, assuming I get the go-ahead from the Headmaster. It’s meant to be for your benefit. I realize that the competitive nature of teenagers might make it difficult to do so, but I ask that you keep in mind that you all have plenty of room to improve, and early failures and successes are not indicative of your ultimate potential. Some of you have more experience or private training than others.”

Theodore Nott lazily raised a hand. Daphne called on him.

“Will you be demonstrating any of the Dark Arts?” he asked.

Damn you, she silently cursed, caught off guard by the inquiry. Her brief pause just intensified the curiosity…and anxiety of her students. “I will not be teaching you anything classified by the Ministry as Dark Magic,” she said finally.

Nott gave her an innocent look of confusion. “But Professor,” he said politely, “you didn’t answer my question. I felt it went without saying that you wouldn’t be schooling us in the Dark Arts. But given your…reputation, should we be prepared to see spells used in the course of your demonstrations that we are not to attempt ourselves?”

“It is possible,” Daphne replied, fixing the Slytherin with a hard look. “However, our environment will not be a battlefield, and there will be no need to display the full extent of my repertoire. I am a former Auror, and licensed by the Ministry to use Dark magic in service to the Light,” she continued. Her cold stare dared Nott to bring up the fact that her license, issued over fifteen years ago, was probably expired, even if it had never been officially revoked.

He took the hint. “Thank you, Professor. I simply wished to know what to expect.”

“Of course,” Daphne replied, though she couldn’t help but let a chill into her voice. Nott worried her. The nephew of an incarcerated Death Eater couldn’t be anything but bad news.

The bell rang. Daphne assigned her class to read another excerpt from Moody’s book, and to give them times when their schedule might allow them to meet and practice their spell casting. She’d been hoping for such a suggestion for some time, ever since Harry had mentioned his desire to see all of his classmates receive some additional - and badly needed - training. Hermione had finally given her the opportunity she’d been hoping for. She didn’t want to appear too aggressive, too reckless. She’d made that mistake already, and Harry’s assessment of her first class, although somewhat gentle, had still awoken her to the fact that teaching students at Hogwarts required a very different approach than the one she’d used to instruct Tonks and the other Aurors the previous year.

Once they were all gone, even Harry, she gathered her notes and headed for the Staff Room. She felt a bout of dizziness coming on, along with a touch of nausea. She might have gone to Madam Pomfrey had she not already discovered that her condition was well beyond even the skills of Hogwarts’ capable Matron to treat. There was nothing to be done, really. Her body was beginning to fail her, bit by bit, just like her mother’s old friend had predicted. It was tolerable for now, but things could only get worse. She hoped only that Harry would not learn the truth before the end, that he would not be troubled by his inability to help her until it was far too late. Just as Melinda had sad, she’d brought it upon herself. You reap what you sow,the woman had told her, aptly using a common Muggle expression to sum up her very magical plight.

I’ve probably got less than a year left at this point, she thought as she walked down the corridor. If Melinda was right - and she hadn’t been mistaken yet - she might not see Harry 16th birthday. It saddened her, yet at the same time she was relieved. She often feared she’d become a crutch that Harry had gotten accustomed to resting his weight on. She’d already fought her war. Every mentor had to step aside sooner or later. She’d given Harry a pleasant childhood, done her best to help him through the trials of his Hogwarts years…with erratic results, to put it politely. More accurately: I’ve fucked up royally. More than once.

But despite it all, Harry was alive, strong of magic and character, surrounded by loyal friends and lies, and no longer ignorant of the path Destiny would have him walk. Despite all of the struggles, despite all of the pain, she could be content that she’d done the best she could. Her job wasn’t over yet, but her role in this epic tale was coming to an end, faster than she might have wished. There was so much she wanted Harry to know, to understand. So many memories that she could not, try as she might, put into words that came close to doing them justice.

She had reached the Staff Room, and pushed open the door. It was empty, and she made her way over to a comfortable red armchair, sinking into the cushions. She saw that the House Elves had put out a fresh pot of tea, and she got up to pour herself a cup. Sitting down, she picked up the Daily Prophet that lay on the table in front of her, perusing the headlines. Nothing of real interest, not even an inane column by Skeeter. Daphne smiled with pride as she remembered the way Harry had manipulated the vindictive and sharp-tongued journalist, embarrassing Fudge and repairing his reputation at the same time. Fudge had made the monumental mistake of refusing to grant Skeeter an interview so that he could respond in kind to Harry’s attacks, instead issuing a number of statements through the Ministry. The fact that he even responded to being called out by a teenager lent Harry additional credibility, and his unwillingness to grant a personal interview made even his most ardent supporters wonder if he didn’t have something to hide.

The door swung open, and Snape swept into the room, black robes flapping behind him. His look of contempt and disdain only got fouler when he caught sight of Daphne. He stood there, glaring at her, as Minerva came in, walking over the tea tray and pouring herself a cup before she seemed to even notice them. Snape broke eye contact, and in so doing, abandoned the half-hearted, frustrated attempts to break Daphne’s resilient mental shields. It was a little game they played, unbeknownst to everyone else, with the possible exception of Dumbledore, who would not have approved in any case.

What was certain, however, was that none of them knew the real story behind the mutual hatred between the Grey Maiden and Hogwarts’ resident Potions Master.

“Good day,” Minerva said to them. “How have your classes gone?”

“Just two students sent to the Hospital Wing, and three melted cauldrons,” Snape replied offhandedly. “Hufflepuffs, of course. Minor injuries, I’m told.” He seemed entirely unconcerned with the wellbeing of the students in question.

“I see,” McGonagall said. “And you, Daphne?”

“Quite well so far,” she replied, talking a sip of her tea. “Hermione Granger gave me an interesting idea I’d like to pursue further with the Headmaster.”

“A very bright girl, she is,” Professor Flitwick squeaked, as he joined them. “I can only hope that one of this year’s batch of First Years turns out like her. She picked up the Levitation Charm faster than any witch or wizard not of pureblood birth I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, she has a phenomenal memory…and an utter lack of sense when it comes to Potions,” Snape interjected, obvious irritated by the praise being piled on Hermione, whom he was not very fond, thinking her an arrogant know-it-all.

“And who would you say was the strongest student in your Fifth Year class?” McGonagall inquired with a touch of forced politeness.

“Elisha Moon, without question,” Snape said. “She has the flair of a veteran Potions Mistress, and all of Granger’s brains without the ego.”

“Really?” Flitwick asked innocently. “She’d had her struggles in Charms. Actually, she was one of the last students to perform a Levitiation Charm, if I remember correctly. She and Neville Longbottom struggled terribly, I’m afraid.”

“No surprises there,” Snape muttered under his breath.

“I’m quite pleased to report that Mister Longbottom has made simply astounding progress of late,” Flitwick continued.

“He’s found some people that like and accept him,” Daphne replied.

“Don’t be so modest to leave your ward unnamed, Dressler,” Snape said, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “He should be recognized for his success in what seemed to be a hopeless reclamation project. It remains exactly that in my class, of course.”

“Certainly not in mine,” Professor Sprout chipped in cheerfully. “I daresay Neville’s got a future in Herbology. An excellent memory for the material, and a good pair of hands on that boy. Nice and controlled, firm without being too gentle.”

If Snape looked disgusted during the discussion of Hermione’s virtues, he looked like he was going to be physically ill as the teachers continued to compliment his least favorite student.

“He’s made some progress in Transfiguration as well,” McGonagall said proudly.

Snape got up abruptly. “I left a Potion to boil. Excuse me.” He nearly bowled Flitwick over in his haste to leave.

Professor Sprout looked puzzled. “Was it something we said?”

Daphne snorted into her tea. They looked at her, and she gave them an innocent gaze in return.

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