The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301

Chapter Twenty-Seven

May passed, one balmy day after another, with the scent of roses in the air and the kiss of summer on one’s cheeks. For the Seventh Years, however, it might just as well have thundered and lightninged and rained every day. NEWTS were almost upon them and they passed each day in a haze of classes, reviews and lectures from the teachers on the importance of the exams.

“NEWTs are to OWLs,” Professor Flitwick said, “What crawling is to running. I am certain each of you will do marvelously.”

The only subject Harry was performing marvelously in was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Between classes with Professor Snape, extra lessons with Professor Dumbledore and weekly Saturday practices, it seemed as if he spent all his time in battle and as if no part of his brain were left to concentrate on anything else. In his other classes, he could not seem to keep straight whether he was in Transfiguration or Charms.

As if to underline his inattention, he turned the transfigured the raven he was supposed to be charming to sleep into a teapot. Potions class could not have been worse. On the very last Potions class ever, Harry forgot to add the right proportion of sulfur to his Marvelous Magical Exploding Mix and his cauldron achieved only the tiniest of burps when Fred ignited it.

Malfoy’s, on the other hand, exploded with the hugest bang and George was moved to say, “I never thought I’d admit it, Malfoy, but you do have a talent for this don’t you?”

Malfoy came up with an expression that was half-smirk and half-contempt. “Perhaps I’ll open up a competing shop,” he said with his old nasty drawl.

“Down Knockturn Alley, maybe,” Ron said. “You can sell all the poisons you like there.”


Luna continued to regard him in that peculiar way she had: intent, yet dreamy; without embarrassment; oddly shrewd. "You've gotten thinner again," she announced. "You need to eat more."

A brief hoot of laughter escaped him before he could think. "You sound just like Hermione and Ginny. They're always hovering over me trying to get me to eat more."

"Why's that funny?" she asked. Harry flushed slightly.

He could hardly tell her that it was funny to hear something so prosaic and everyday from Looney Luna. "If you don't mind," Harry said humorlessly, "I want to be alone."

Disregarding his request, Luna waved her wand so that the dim rosy light brightened. "You're walking more and more in the other world," she announced. "The light shines through you even more, Harry."

"What's the point of this rubbish, Luna?" Harry asked. "I don't need this tonight."

Luna sighed, as if she were hugely disappointed. "I thought," she answered, "that you might have seen something more about the other side since you nearly died again in the veela circle. I wanted to know if you saw your Mum and Dad or Stubby Boardman."

"Stubby Boardman?" Harry repeated. Then he recalled that Luna had called Sirius that. Abruptly, he said, "If you mean Sirius, no I didn't. And I didn't die and I haven't seen anything and I don't know anything more about what death is really like than I ever did."

"But you're not afraid of it," Luna said frowning. "You wouldn't keep risking yourself if you were."

Harry just stared at Luna. It occurred to him that she must have been nerving herself up to talk to him about this for some time, Ever since March, when he had gone into the Forest. He looked at her huge blue eyes, which were misting over with real tears, and saw that all of her oddities and mistiness were focused on her mother, whom Luna had seen die.

He said, very gently, "I'm sorry. I asked Nearly Headless Nick about it once, you know, but he didn't know what really happens after either."
He did not add, because he thought it might harm her, that even Sirius, who was dead, and not a ghost, had not been able to tell him anything. Life was a mystery; death was a mystery. "The only answers," he said, "are after you die, and I think we should be careful of something Professor Dumbledore once warned me."

"What's that?" Luna asked.

"Not to become so lost in wishes and dreams that you forget to live."

"So you come here instead," Luna answered, "to escape your nightmares?"

"To escape from Voldemort," he said. "It's the only way I can, without dying."

"It's the only way you can escape from You Know Who without dying?" Luna echoed. "What if he dies?" she asked after a moment. "Can't you escape him then? Or will he haunt you even as a ghost?"

Harry's stomach dropped at the thought of an evil ghost Voldemort haunting his remaining days. He shook his head wearily and answered, "He already haunts me."

Luna's eyes widened, so that you could see the whites all the way around. She whispered, "Two Fates approach: Two Houses, each alike in power, yet unequal in spirit shall contest for the one life that divides them and unites them. Throne-less the Dark Lord's heir waits. Where is the Lion's? Let the Lion yield when the serpent strikes; he shall overcome like the lamb, and the serpent's venom shall be drawn and his bite be toothless."

"What the devil are you playing at?" Harry bellowed. "That's not funny!"

Luna blinked and said, "What's not funny?" Then she blinked again and said tearily, "I'm really sorry, Harry. Sometimes life's just so sad and awful and it's hard to go on."

"No," Harry said quietly as pity struck him, "I'm the one that should be sorry. I shouldn't have barked at you like that. It's easy when you're unhappy to think you're the only one who's got any problems." He hesitated and added, "If it makes you feel any better, Luna, there's something after, I just know that. You heard the voices behind the veil, too. I heard Sirius there when I went to the Ministry of Magic."

"I know," Luna said. "Well, it was all over the school that you had seen something there, in the Department of Mysteries." She smiled suddenly, with a cool amusement that was unlike her usual misty air and said, "It makes everyone even more scared of you, you know. To be a great wizard, great enough to defeat You Know Who, and to be gifted with true sight as well, it's almost too much."

"I am not a Seer," Harry said testily. "I've never seen a damn thing in the crystal."

Luna smiled again and said, "I saw you sleeping there, with the Sword of Gryffindor in your hands. You'll be all right, Harry. I'm sure you will."

Harry stared after Luna as she walked out of the Room. She was undoubtedly the oddest person he had ever known, but there was no doubt either, that she meant well. He shook his head and transformed and tucked his head under his wing with the faintest trill of relief.

***

Hermione woke as the first fingers of light drew the dark from the sky. She tried to recall why she should be so full of jitters and then the recollection that NEWTs began on this day, in only three hours, shivered through her. She scrambled out of bed and stood under the shower muttering spells to herself. Had anyone else been awake, she was sure they would think her quite mad, but then few of the others had the same pressure she did to succeed. Once again, the anxiety made her mouth go dry and her heart race. She was mudblood. She knew it shouldn't matter, but it did. In the real world, things like that mattered. When it came to getting hired, they might give a job to a pure-blood over her, even one whose scores were not so good. She pushed away the thought of the applications Cambridge and Oxford that her Mum had sent in her last letter.

Dear Hermione,

I know you are set on having a job in the wizard community, Hermione, luv, but never rule out alternatives. Sometimes, a disappointment can lead to something much, much better. It sounds like a cliche, and it's nothing you want to hear now, but it's true, nevertheless. Your Dad and I love you, and we know you'll do brilliantly.

Love,
Mum

P.S. Will you come home for a few weeks this summer? We miss you.

"I will do brilliantly, Mum," she thought. "I will." She seized her stack of notes and hurried down to the great Hall for an early breakfast. The only other person already there was Ernie Macmillan. He was hunched over his notes and mouthing spells, a bowl of porridge turning to paste at his elbow. Hermione poured a cup of steaming black coffee and focused her attention on one last review.

She ignored every sound and every hello until a voice said, "If you drink any more coffee, Hermione, you'll be shaking too much to hold a pen."

Ron yawned widely and filled a plate with eggs and bacon and toast and kippers and fruit. It was amazing how much food he could out into that lanky body and nothing seemed to spoil his appetite except for the anticipation of a quidditch game. Hermione glanced around and saw that the entire Hall was now full and it lacked only fifteen minutes to nine o'clock, the start of their first exam.

"Where's Harry?" she asked.

"I dunno," Ron answered. He swallowed his toast and frowned. "He was up when I got up. I thought he might be down here, but he's not."

"Did he ever go to sleep last night?" she asked. "You don't think he's gone off and..."

"Challenged You Know Who?" Ron paled and cursed. "It'd be just like him, to figure we'd be too preoccupied to notice and stop him."

Hermione cursed, too, and Ron gawped at her. She stood up and swept her notes into her bag. There was one place she’d have to check first before going to Professor Dumbledore in a panic. In her haste to collect everything, she knocked half her outline to the floor and she cursed again, even more vigorously, as she knelt to pick up the fallen papers.

“You have been over-doing things,” said a familiar voice. She looked up and saw Harry standing right there looking quite bemused. His jet-black hair was still damp, but already it had begun to fluff out. He looked perfectly calm and more rested than he had in weeks. For one moment, she felt utterly furious with him. How dare he look so cool when she’d been in a panic over him only seconds before?

“I have not,” she snapped back. “I was coming to warn you the exam is about to start and you were late.”

He regarded her quite calmly, so calmly that she was sure her guess about where he had been was correct. He only ever had that detached inhuman look when he’d transformed. “Ten more minutes,” he answered. “Time enough for some coffee and toast.” Lazily, he drew his wand and flicked it, and her papers soared back up to the table in a neat stack. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and buried his nose in his cup, avoiding her annoyed rendition of The Look.

Deprived of her target, she concentrated her glare on Ron and said, “Why’d you get me in a panic over nothing?”

Ron gawped even further, but he only muttered, “I’m always to blame,” at her concentrated glare.

Her hands shook slightly as she shoved the rest of her notes in her bag. An elegant hand laid itself over hers, stilling the shaking. “There’s no reason for you to be nervous, Hermione,” Harry said, “you could teach Transfiguration. Everyone else will be wishing they could look inside your head and read the answers there.”

Ron nodded in agreement, but didn’t dare to speak. She swallowed and concentrated on being angry, as she was sure she would cry if she relented.

“I’m not nervous!” she snapped. “I’m annoyed at you for being so inconsiderate. You should have told us where you were! We thought…” She was further enraged when Harry merely looked calmly at her and filled in her sentence. “You thought I’d gone off to challenge Voldemort without telling you.” For once, she found herself speechless. She glared at him again, sure that he must have read her thoughts and feeling this was the lowest use of his Legilimency skills possible.

“Well, the least you could do,” Ron said quietly, “is promise us you’ll tell us if you do, and promise you won’t try to leave us behind.”
The calm of his face changed subtly and the green eyes were more unreadable than they’d ever been, but whatever response Harry would have made, promise or not, was never uttered.

Professor McGonagall called out, “All students please step away from the tables as the exam is about to start. As you are aware, you will be handed out anti-cheating quills and we are expecting every student here to remember that honesty is more important in a Hogwarts student than grades.”

***

Harry thought he had never been so glad of an interruption in his life. There was no way he would make that particular promise, not when he knew, as surely as he knew anything in the world, that Voldemort would kill his friends first and would revel in doing it in front of him. He looked at the test paper in front of him and found that every bit of nervousness he’d felt had fallen away. It was as though all his anxieties and fears about the exams, about getting a job, about the future, belonged to another Harry.

Someday, tests and jobs might matter again; just now, they were merely chores to complete, of no greater import than the many ones he had endured at Aunt Petunia’s behest. If anything, they were less trying, as they did not involve digging up the garden or painting the fence or any of the innumerable, laborious tasks he had done, often in the hot sun and without even the benefit of a cup of coffee.

The examiner, Professor Marchbanks, said in her wheezy old voice, “You may begin.”

He turned over the paper and read the first question. “What is the definition of magic?” With a quirk of the lip that could almost be a smile, he began to write.

At lunch break, Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Ron hastily interrupted her.

“We’re not going over the exam, Hermione. I don’t want to know if you remembered the exact wording of the difference between vanishment and banishment or the spell for conjuring stuffed quail with apricot sauce.”

She looked at Ron with the wounded look of a rejected puppy and Harry said even more hastily, “Here, drink some tea and eat a sandwich. Have some chocolate, too, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Chocolate’s bad for your teeth,” she answered.

Harry refrained from grinning at Ron. He was certain Hermione would never forgive either one of them if he did. Instead, he applied himself to his lunch and ate second helpings of everything. It was amazing, he reflected, what a difference proper night’s sleep could make. He decided, there and then, that he’d have to find a way to slip off again at night for the remainder of the term. If he had to be Dumbledore’s weapon, he would be the fittest and best tooled weapon he could be.

After lunch, they lined up to take the practical portion of the test just as they had done for their OWLs. The examiners were even the same. Professor Tofty was there and Professor Marchbanks. But instead of Professor Umbridge lurking about, there was another man from the Ministry whom Harry had never met.

When they called his group, he entered the classroom along with Parvati and Padma Patil. Professor Tofty beamed at Harry, his wizened face wrinkling in a thousand tiny creases.

“Harry Potter,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s see what you can do.”

The new man said in a stage whisper, “That’s not really him, is it? The Boy Who Lived? He looks quite ordinary, like just another teenager.”

Harry felt himself flush with annoyance. Parvati giggled and Padma snorted softly. Professor Tofty, however, seemed torn between amusement and exasperation, or at least, that’s what Harry thought from the deepening of the old wizard’s extensive map of wrinkles.

“It’s quite possible to be extraordinary and perfectly normal at the same time,” Tofty said. “Just look at Dumbledore, after all.”

Harry didn’t need the wizard’s doubtful expression to think that perhaps Professor Tofty was getting past it. He was perfectly sure he would never be anything as extraordinary as Dumbledore and Dumbledore was hardly what Harry would call normal. Brilliant, yeah. But definitely eccentric. Harry ignored Parvati’s and Padma’s whispers and pretended he hadn’t heard any of it.

He waited until Tofty said, “We’ll just start with conjuring, shall we?” and concentrated on performing each spell properly. His teacups came out just right, but peculiarly, they had the exact Spode pattern of the ones that Aunt Petunia kept in her china cupboard and only used for her best company. He was able to relax after that, and comfortably performed each spell, vanishing a porcupine, conjuring an armchair, and transfiguring a rock into a ginger cat. The cat meowed loudly and bit the third examiner, after which Professor Tofty smiled happily and sent him off.

“You don’t think they’ll take points off for the bite?” he asked Ron later. He made sure to mention this part only after Hermione had announced in a relieved fashion that she thought she might have passed and had buried her nose in her Charms notes for the next day’s exam.

“I dunno,” Ron answered. “But that’s not as bad as me. My rock turned into a dog, but it meowed and I think they heard it.” He grinned at Harry after a moment though and added, “I don’t suppose you accidentally did a switching spell and summoned Crookshanks in place of the rock?”

“Don’t be silly,” Harry answered. “You’d have to do simultaneous banishing and summoning spells to bring that off.”

“I bet Hermione could do it,” Ron answered.

“I could do what?” Hermione said waspishly.

“Anything,” Ron answered.

Harry bent down and pretended to pick up his napkin to keep her from seeing him grin. The change from a furious glare to a melting smile and back to a furious glare was too funny. He just didn’t want to be the one Hermione glared at. She’d be bound to start lecturing him on something if she did: like making promises he had no intention of keeping.

The rest of the week passed in a weird, jerky fashion. They would study frantically until nearly midnight each night and during the day, the exams would pass, either with terrifying rapidity, because there wasn’t enough time to recall all the answers, or with just as frightening slowness, because the spells being tested were ones that were terribly difficult.

But every night, Harry slipped away to the Room of Requirement and transformed, so that for a few hours, he could leave behind the buzz in his scar and the stomach twisting feeling that another was watching from behind the wall in his mind, and waiting, just waiting, for an opportunity to knock it down. He resisted the temptation to tear down the wall and strike first, certain that his watcher was hoping for just that very thing. He knew, too, that his nightly transformation and escape puzzled the watcher, which made him all the more glad of its sanctuary.

The following week, they had just three exams left: Care of Magical Creatures, Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. The written part of Care of Magical Creatures was quite easy. They had to describe the characteristics and care of a number of large creatures including unicorns, griffins, thestrals and hippogriffs. The practical part was easy. Hagrid had brought back his Hippogriffs – but not Buckbeak, as he was still theoretically outlawed – and they had to demonstrate that they could care for and control them. Harry bowed to his, an unusual white one with a black tail and black markings on its white wings. He thought at first that the hippogriff wouldn’t bow back, but after a moment, it blinked its bright blue eyes and bowed.

To the side, Hagrid smiled at Harry and Harry could only feel relieved that Hagrid hadn’t tried to bring Norbert to the test. When Hagrid made a flapping motion with his hand, Harry nodded and whispered to his Hippogriff, “Let’s fly, shall we?”

The white eagle’s head dipped and the Hippogriff bent its horsey knees. Harry mounted the Hippogriff and it took off. The air was cool up high and Harry would have like nothing better than to transform and fly on his own, but he had better sense than that. When they landed, Professor Tofty and Professor Marchbanks had their white heads together and were chittering madly away, though Harry wasn’t close enough to catch their conversation. He was surprised when no one else wanted to actually try to fly their’s, not even Ron or Hermione.

Draco Malfoy could be heard to say, “Show-off,” but Seamus said, “Better him than me. I never did like the look of those talons.”

“Yeh did real good,” Hagrid said after. They had gone to his Hut for a cup of tea, although none of them were particularly eager to drink or to eat the rock-hard cakes Hagrid had made. It struck Harry that this might be one of the last times he got to come to Hagrid’s Hut, to visit, to talk about school, to receive his giant friend’s fierce approval. All of the worries he had thought he had left behind came rushing back. Where would he go after school? Would Dumbledore want him to return to Privet Drive? If he did, would Aunt Petunia take him back? And did Harry have any business even asking her to, after Uncle Vernon had died?

“I’m going to miss you awfully, Hagrid,” he said. He was astonished to find it had slipped out like that, without his ever intending it.

“Nonsense,” Hagrid answered. “It’s not like we won’ be seeing each other none. Yeh’ll be workin’ with the Order, an’ I’ll be by ter see yeh as often as I can.”

“I will?” Harry said. He straightened up and stared at Hagrid. “How do you know? Did Professor Dumbledore say something to you?”

“Stands to reason,” Hagrid answered. “Yer already a sworn member. The professor’s been keepin’ yeh at school to get yer trainin’, but yeh’ll be done and passed your NEWTs and I can’ say we’ve ever had a better wizard come outta here, Harry.” Hagrid’s whiskered face was split with a large smile and he beamed at Harry. Then he turned hastily to Hermione and Ron and said, “Tha’s no offense ter either o’ yeh, ‘cause each of yeh is the best at somethin’ here, too.”

“What about us?” Ron asked. “We can work for the Order, too, can’t we?” Hermione nodded and Harry had to force himself to stay quiet and not to shout, No, don’t.

“Don’ see why not,” Hagrid answered. “Ye’ll both be of age and fully trained wizards too. I can’ see Dumbledore turnin’ yeh down.”

“If my Mum doesn’t make him,” Ron said gloomily. Harry looked at his hands and wished with all his might that the Order were nothing more than a club for wizards and not a not-so-secret band of wizards dedicated to fighting Lord Voldemort. He remembered all too clearly the day that Mad-eye Moody had shown him a picture of the old Order. His Mum and Dad had been there, and the Prewetts, and the Longbottoms and others. And most of those people were now dead, except for the Longbottoms, who were still immured in St. Mungo’s and knew nothing and recognized no one, not even their son.

Harry’s resolution to eat better went out the window that night. He picked at his dinner and managed to avoid Hermione’s forthcoming lecture by slipping away to sit by Ginny for a while. Her sixth year friends regarded him with round eyes and seemed unsure whether to break into giggles or to flee. He smiled at them and tried to act like he was as ordinary as he knew he was and as meek as any lamb. He wasn’t sure why, but this tactic failed miserably. One of them dropped her mashed potatoes on her lap, and another forgot to sip her pumpkin juice and spilled it all over the place. Then she burst into mortified tears.

Feeling perfectly awful, Harry cleaned up the mess with a vanishing spell, but that appeared to terrify all of them. As one, they leaned away from the table and smiled at him in terror. Ginny drew him away and after making sure they were out of earshot, said giggling, “You should see your face.”

“What’s wrong with them, anyway?” he asked testily.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just you.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” he protested.

“You don’t have to,” she answered. “You’re you, Harry Potter.”

“I’m perfectly normal and ordinary,” he growled. “You know that.”

“You are perfectly, erm…” She glanced this way and that, and kissed him instead of completing the sentence.

"You'd better not let Mum see you do that," Ron said.

"You'd better not talk about it then," Ginny answered.

Harry wondered with irritation when he was ever going to have a quiet life. Probably never, he reflected. Trelawney would say it was his destiny, that he had been born under an evil star. He was inclined to feel it must simply be his own fault, somehow, though he couldn't say what he could do to change things. Or rather, he knew, but couldn't see how.

The next day, Harry woke up with the gloomy certainty that he would fail the day’s NEWT, which was in Potions. Not only was it his least favorite class, but also although he had enjoyed having Fred and George as teachers, he felt terribly unprepared for the exam. His anxieties found no relief when he entered the Great Hall at exam time and saw that Professor Snape was proctoring the exam along with Professor Marchbanks. The very low buzz filled the Hall as students whispered to and fro about Snape’s presence and he caught bits of conversation,

“You don’t think he’s had a hand in the test, do you?” … “I’m bound to flunk, I can’t remember anything about Shrinking Potions,”… What are the ingredients in the Draught of Peace, and why didn’t I take a draught this morning?”

Harry shook his hands a bit as they felt oddly numb and tingly at the same time and his ears seemed to have a permanent buzzing sound in them. Even after the students hushed to perfect silence at a single word from Snape, the faint buzz remained. The buzz reminded him of the sound that had been in the background of all his uneasy dreams the prior night.

He had tried to sneak out to go to the Room of Requirement, but he had been unable to escape from Ginny’s watchful eye. She had seated herself next to him in the common room and she had insisted on testing him, assuring him that he would feel very much better about the exam if he would just study methodically. He hadn’t liked to tell her that he found her presence terribly distracting and he kept missing the questions or getting the order of potion recipes wrong because he would start watching the light as it shone in her bright red hair or start thinking of things he shouldn’t be thinking of at all.

A test paper appeared before him, face down. Its creamy parchment color ought to have soothed; instead, he found himself wishing the paper were purple or blue or any color but parchment. He was greatly tempted to rip up the paper and proclaim himself done with school as Fred and George had done. It was only the thought that he would have to face the sight of himself in the Daily Prophet the next morning if he did that kept him from abandoning everything.

“You may begin,” said Professor Marchbanks in her ancient wheezy voice. Harry took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was only taking a test, not fighting Lord Voldemort. A tiny voice in his head said fighting Voldemort would at least require a skill he was good at. The uncomfortable voice of truth, however, replied that he was simply being an idiot.

He nerved himself up to read the first question and saw that it was something he could answer: “Describe the exact recipe for the Draught of Peace and its effects.” That wasn’t too bad. He began to write and felt, at the end, that he might have scraped by with a pass. At exactly noon, Professor Snape collected the exams and announced, “You have exactly one hour and half for lunch. Please report back in your assigned groups to the classroom indicated on the chart. The practical portion of the exam will commence then.”

At lunch, Harry tried to eat, but every item on the table looked like an ingredient for a potion - a particularly nasty potion, naturally. Hermione also picked at her food and kept diving into her bag to review her notes over and over again.

“I dunno what’s got you so worried,” Ron said. “I thought this morning’s test was easy. Fred and George were right. They asked about the Draught of Peace and the Draught of Living Death. And everything else was on Snape’s comprehensive essay.”

“There’s just one thing you’ve failed to notice,” Hermione said sharply, “if the draught of Peace and Draught of Living Death were on the written portion, which Potion will we have to brew in the practical part?” You could have shoved an entire apple in Ron’s mouth, his jaw hung so low.

Harry pushed his food away strode out to the courtyard for some air. The sky was a clear, pure blue and small wisps of clouds floated by. High up, a dark shape soared and plummeted and a streak of red light spat from it. Harry realized it must be Norbert, hunting. He hadn’t seen Norbert since he had gotten the dragon back up out of the ice and he could only feel grateful that the Care of Magical Creatures exam hadn’t included handling a dragon. He grinned to himself and thought that really, for a dragon, Norbert wasn’t so bad. He wished that Norbert would make Snape his dinner and that the second half of Potions would be cancelled as a result.

No such luck materialized, though, and Harry soon found himself nervously entering the doorway of an empty classroom on the third floor. Except that the classroom wasn’t entirely empty. There was a bubbling cauldron already full of a gloppy kind of potion. He thought in a panic that the worst was about to happen: they would have to figure out what the mess was and fix it. The third examiner, the one whose name he’d never bothered to remember, was there and so was Professor Snape. Harry turned and saw that neither Parvati nor Padma looked altogether happy either.

“Your practical exam is composed of two parts,” the Ministry examiner said. “You will be expected to recognize the potion and to add the ingredient that will activate it properly. We will then observe the result when you take the potion. If you have added the correct ingredient, the result will be immediately obvious.” The potion bubbled and glooped inside the cauldron. It had a rather nasty odor too and he thought he ought to know what it was, but he couldn’t think of it just then.

“How do we know the potion was made properly up till now?” Padma asked.

Harry was keen to know that himself. He was relieved when the examiner answered, “Professor Snape made it,” and then for some reason, he was more worried than ever. Would Snape have made a bad batch just so he, Harry, would fail the exam? He wouldn’t put it past Snape. It didn’t matter that they were supposedly on the same side. Harry had never stopped loathing Snape and he was certain Snape felt the same about him.

“Miss Padma Patil,” the examiner said. “You will go first.” Padma paled and stepped forward. Harry was surprised to see that she looked quite anxious. Padma was a Ravenclaw and one of the cleverest of their year after Hermione. Before she could say a word, the classroom door opened up and Professor Dumbledore entered.

“Is there a problem, Headmaster?” the Ministry examiner asked.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore answered. “I always observe some of the exams as you should recall. It’s part of my job,” he added smilingly. “Quality assurance, you know.” His blue eyes were particularly twinkly and Harry felt relieved to know he was there.

The examiner looked almost affronted, but he waved at Padma to take her turn. Padma stared at the bubbling mess and burst into tears.
“I don’t know what it is,” she sobbed, and she ran from the room. Parvati looked after her twin in distress and then stared angrily at the examiner.

“We’ve never made that potion,” she said. “It’s not fair!”

“You only have to recognize the potion,” Snape said calmly. “It is something you were taught about.” A faint glint of satisfaction lit his black eyes and he said, “Anything you’ve learned is fair game for a NEWT, as you well know.”

Harry looked at Professor Dumbledore and saw that the blue eyes were no longer so twinkly. Parvati stared at the glop in the cauldron and said, “I have no idea.” Unlike Padma, though, she stalked out angrily. Harry thought he could practically see the steam whistling from her ears.

“You’re next, Mr….erm,” the examiner said, waving his hand at Harry. He watched Harry eagerly and Harry had the odd fancy that the Ministry man would like to see him fail. Snape had no expression at all and Dumbledore looked simply serene.

He looked at the bubbling goo and thought that Mad-eye Moody would lecture him for hours for taking anything to drink or eat which he was not one hundred percent certain was safe. The potion bubbled again and Harry could feel the examiner watching him expectantly. The reminder of Mad-eye was very strong; so strong that he suddenly knew exactly what the potion was, though he hadn’t seen any of it in three years.

Trying to keep the grin off his face, Harry said, “I believe I know what it is, but I’ll need to borrow something for that extra ingredient.” He looked from the examiner, who had rather ugly, mousy brown hair, to Snape with his greasy, black hair, to Dumbledore with his silvery-white hair and beard.

“If I might just borrow a strand of your hair, Professor Dumbledore?” he asked. Dumbledore’s eyes turned extra twinkly again. He plucked a single silver hair off of his purple robes and handed it to Harry.

Harry took a beaker and dipped it into the cauldron and then added the hair to it. The potion turned a funny bluish-silver color and he drank a gulp down before he could think twice about it. His stomach rebelled and he nearly threw up, but he was sure that vomiting on a ministry official, or even Snape, was not a good idea. His face shivered and his hands twitched. After a minute, though, he was able to stand up straight again.

He looked calmly out of his glasses, which no longer corrected his eyes properly, so he looked over the top of them at the examiner and said,
“It’s polyjuice potion, of course.”

The examiner mopped his forehead and said, “One of them is bad enough, but two!”

Harry looked at Dumbledore and saw that Dumbledore was watching him very intently. He smiled at Dumbledore and said, “It must look quite odd to see yourself in a student’s robes, sir.” He could feel his eyes start to twinkle just like the Headmaster’s. It made him chuckle a little, as he’d never realized one could actually feel one’s eyes twinkle like that.

Dumbledore looked at him more thoughtfully than ever and said, “It does look odd. I should lend you a set of robes and we can confuse everyone more thoroughly than Fred and George Weasley.”

Harry understood suddenly what Dumbledore was thinking and said hastily, “I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir.”

“No?” asked Dumbledore.

“No, sir,” Harry answered. “I think what you’re thinking of would be a very good way for you to get killed.”

The examiner’s head was bobbing from one to the other, but Professor Snape had a look of sudden enlightenment. “It could work,” he said softly.

“I won’t have it,” Harry said firmly. He left the room as quickly as he could and ascended the stairs to the seventh floor. It was not as easy as he would have expected. His legs did seem to get tired and he found himself more out of breath than he should have been. He looked at the wrinkly old hands and stroked his beard, thinking that if he ever did get to be a hundred fifty years and more, he would not be having a beard.

Harry gratefully opened the door to the Room of Requirement thinking he would be able to hide there until the polyjuice potion wore off. To his astonishment, Professor McGonagall and Professor Tofty were already there, seated in deep, cushiony armchairs and drinking tea out of blue willow teacups that were just like the ones Mrs. Weasley had in her kitchen. The two Professors jumped up at the sight of him, and then collapsed back down again. Harry blushed with embarrassment and turned even redder when Professor McGonagall laughed – no, make that giggled.

“It’s us, Harry,” McGonagall said, “Hermione and Ron.”

Professor “Tofty” chortled and said, “I can’t believe you got to be Dumbledore. It’s really brilliant. You do realize what fun we could have if we had the right robes?”

“You are a Headboy!” Hermione/McGonagall said.

Harry gawped at her and finally laughed. It was amazing, really, how exactly like McGonagall she sounded.

“Do you think anyone else figured out what the potion was?” Harry asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ron/Tofty said. “I bet we’re the only students who’ve ever actually seen a real batch of polyjuice potion, much less even taken it.”

Hermione/McGonagall looked as though she were processing the data from a thousand books in one second. Harry could almost see the thoughts connecting. “I wonder,” she said, “whether this was Snape’s idea of how to fail Harry, or a way of undercutting Fred and George for being so popular as Potions teachers.”

“Both,” Harry answered. “I bet. I bet that’s why Dumbledore showed up at my exam. He wanted to make sure Snape didn’t play any funny games with me, more than he did with all of the students.”

“I dunno,” Ron/Tofty said doubtfully. “I know you hate him and he hates you, but he’s never actually tried to kill you.”

“And he’s never missed a chance to get me in trouble, or take points off, or try to see me suspended or expelled,” Harry retorted.

“It is odd, though,” Hermione/McGonagall responded. “It’s rather peculiar that he should have chosen the one potion we three alone would most likely know and no one else. Does he know that we made it?”

“Well, how?” Ron asked.

“How about when he was giving Harry Occlumency lessons?” Hermione suggested. “He could have seen it then.” Harry shrugged. He didn’t greatly care whether Snape had done it to get at him or not. All he cared about was that he’d never have to take another Potions exam again.

“I forgot how brilliant the transformation is after you get over wanting to puke,” Ron said. His thin white hair was thickening and turning red, his stooped back was straightening and when he stood up, he seemed to grow alarmingly taller all at once, until he was altogether Ron again.

To Harry, the change was somehow both enlightening and deceptive at once. How was it, he wondered, that one could change and grow old and become another person and yet be the same person still all at once? His glasses, he realized, were now the correct prescription again and he felt, mostly, as if a great weight had lifted off of him. Was that part of what being old was then, feeling the weight of gravity more and more each year? Or had he, somehow, acquired the Headmaster’s other burdens for a brief while?

“Have a ginger newt,” Hermione said, waving her hand at the plate of biscuits on the table. Her hair had returned to its normal mass of curls and her eyes had their usual brown instead of McGonagall’s beady black, but Harry felt as though Hermione had retained a part of the teacher’s personality.

“No, thanks,” Harry started to say, but she interrupted him and said, “Don’t be absurd, it’s not like they’re poisoned or anything.”

Harry sighed and took a ginger newt and exchanged a long-suffering glance with Ron. He refrained from saying that he really didn’t care for ginger much.

***

Hermione had the oddest feeling that they had, somehow, had a tiny little window into a possible future. Not that it was exact, and it wasn’t one that she would have imagined at all. She mused that it could nevertheless be a possibility, however remote: Harry as Headmaster, herself as the Transfiguration teacher, and Ron, in the family tradition, a life-long servant of the Ministry of Magic.

Relief that they had gotten through all of the Potions NEWT lasted through dinner. Then nerves and reality sank back in. They had their Defense Against the Dark Arts NEWT the next day, and though she was confident that they had learned as much as any Hogwarts students ever had about dueling, she was not at all sure that their eccentric curriculum had prepared them for NEWTs. She noticed that Harry had started picking at his food again and wondered if Voldemort was up to something.

She saw that Ron was watching him covertly, too, and that Ron had also noted the number of times Harry had rubbed his forehead. A feeling of foreboding swept through her. Tomorrow would be their last exam. In less than three weeks, they would graduate from Hogwarts and leave its shelter forever. And Harry would no longer be under the constant supervision of Albus Dumbledore and inside the greatest, most protected magical stronghold in the world. And Voldemort must know that, too.

All around them, seventh years were still complaining about the Potions practical. For once, Hermione had no interest in boasting that she had found the exam quite easy. She knew perfectly well that the only reason it had been was because she and Ron and Harry had broken the school rules in their second year, stolen supplies from Professor Snape’s cupboard and brewed the restricted potion themselves.

She waited until Fred strolled over to twit Ron on his performance in Charms the previous week before saying quietly to Harry, “Are you going to the, erm, you know where, to rest tonight?”

He glanced at her sharply and with more than a little dismay in his green eyes. “How’d you guess?” he asked.

“Yesterday morning,” she answered quietly. “Ron told me you were already up when he got up and you had never gone to bed the night before. I guessed then.”

Harry frowned at her and the faint shadows under his eyes darkened. “Does he know?”

She shook her head and said, “He’s going to be angry, you know, that we kept it from him and didn’t teach him, too.”

“Only if he finds out,” Harry answered, “and I’d rather he didn’t.” His face tightened so that you could see the hollows under the cheeks and he added, “The fewer people who know the better.”

He slipped away shortly after nine, and Hermione felt horribly guilty when Ron noticed and she answered, “He went to the library to look something up. Then with an even greater feeling of guilt, she said, “Why don’t we take a quick stroll around outside. As Headboy and Headgirl, we ought to round up any stray students who haven’t come in yet.”

He dropped his notes with a sigh of pleasure and said, “That’s a great idea. I could use some fresh air, too.”

In the morning, Hermione dragged herself out of bed just before dawn. The other seventh years were still sleeping, all of them showing the effects of strain and fatigue that were the inevitable result of what had felt like a ten-day marathon. Parvati was sprawled across the top of her covers, her Defense notes crumpled under her cheek. Lavender had hung amulets and numerous beads, in lavender amethyst and rose quartz, all about her bed and they tinkled a bit in the faint draft that seeped in through the windows.

She dressed hastily and packed her bag with every note and every Defense textbook she had. Once again, Ernie Macmillan was the only other student awake. He had his nose buried in his notes and was muttering feverishly to himself. Even as she looked though, his head slumped down on his papers and an involuntary snore buzzed softly from him, or so she thought, until she noticed a bumblebee flitting up high near one of the arched and leaded windows.

Thinking the poor bee had got trapped in the Castle, she flicked her wand and opened the window so that the bee could get out, but it didn't seem to notice. Shrugging her shoulders, she opened up her notes and books and began her final review for her final exam for her final year at Hogwarts, trying not to think that what perhaps were the best years of her life were about to end. She ignored the other students as they drifted down and only broke her fierce and absolute focus twice: once to pour some coffee when breakfast appeared, and once to scan the room to see if Harry or Ron had arrived.

At eight o'clock, Hermione gathered up her books and headed for the seventh floor to check on Harry. She nodded to the few other students she passed, and found that the seventh floor was quite deserted. She entered the Room of Requirement thinking that Harry would already have left as it lacked only an hour until the exam was to start. However, under the window, a large red bird was perched, its golden tail feathers drooping and its head tucked up under a wing.

Softly she said, "Harry! Wake up, Harry! It's past eight." The bird stirred on its perch but did not wake. More loudly then she repeated, "Wake up! You'll be late for the exam!"

This time the bird lifted his head and regarded her with sleepy green eyes. He blinked once and then tucked his head back under his wing as if he were truly a bird and exams were a matter of complete indifference, a thing outside his ken altogether.

"Harry!" she said with exasperation. "Wake up or I shall..." She couldn't think what to threaten a bird with. Perhaps she would have to transform herself: it would serve him right. The bird lifted his head again and gave a brief trill. The red gold feathers fluffed out on his head, and in the clear morning light, the lighting bolt marking stood out.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, though she had done nothing and the bird fluffed himself out even more and shook his head. The wings spread wide and with a smooth sweep, the bird took flight, hovering in the air, then rising toward the window where he stopped on the ledge, poised as if to go.

"Get down," she said severely and she was more than relieved when he did, sweeping toward the floor and then transforming before he had quite touched the floor. The taloned feet turned into shoes, the wings shrank in, and the body elongated.

Harry regarded her with that bird-like gaze and said, "Is it time, then?"

"Almost," she replied. "You can still get some coffee and breakfast."

When he said nothing, she said more sharply, "I should think you'd be starving. You hardly ate last night at all."

"I'm fine," Harry said defensively.

"Of course," she said tartly, refraining from pointing out that the very fact that he had had to turn into a bird to get any sleep meant he was far from fine. He gave her a warning look as if to say I know what you think and don't bother saying it and then stalked toward the door. He had taken no more than three steps, though, when he stumbled and froze. His face paled to a waxy-white and his scar appeared to turn almost livid.

A faint cry escaped him as he crumbled to the floor into a tight fetal ball and clutched at his scar with his long fingers digging into his jet black fringe. Hermione dropped her bag in a panic and knelt to reach out to him. He was rocking back and forth and trembling and his breath came in heaving gasps as though the air had been sucked from the room.

"What is it?" she cried. "Is it Voldemort?" He made no answer, but only made another stifled sound of pain and she had just drawn her wand thinking to transform him back when the trembling stopped and he unfolded himself far enough to sit with his head cradled in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees.

"Are you all right?" she asked fearfully.

Harry looked up. "Yes," he said, then, "no. I dunno." He shut his eyes again and re-opened them.

"What happened?" she whispered. "Did he...you know...?"

Harry shook his head and said, "No. He didn't kill anyone. He...attacked me. He tried to..." He shook his head again and shoved his rebellious hair out of his face with shaking hands. "I should have expected that," he said as though he spoke to himself. "I should have known he'd tried to get at me for trying to escape him, even just for a few hours at night." He struggled to his feet and refused her offer of help. "Look at my eyes," he said. "Are they mine?" he asked fearfully. "Or are they his?"

Swallowing down the terror that threatened to undo her, she said calmly, "Yours."

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Green as a pickled toad," she said in the lamest attempt at humor possible. Then she added urgently, "We've got to tell Dumbledore." He shook his head.

"We'll miss the exam. I'm not missing it and you're not, on account of him. Besides," he continued, "Dumbledore knows already that he...tries this sometimes."

***

Harry held the mug of coffee in trembling hands and downed the drink in two large swallows. He waited for the shock of the attack to recede. Despite what he had told Hermione, he had been totally unprepared for the attack. He had been floating in that perfect state of calm that he found only just after transforming back, and in an instant, the watcher had ripped down the wall between them and very nearly succeeded in possessing him.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to resurrect the wall between him and his adversary, to shore it up and reinforce it so that any subsequent attack would be more easily repelled. But instead of visualizing the wall, images and flashes of emotion from that momentary contact flooded in: the sensation of being inside a warped and twisted body; the rage and jealousy that his nemesis was young and strong; anticipation and delight in the act of capture succeeded by pain and rage again as the other flung him back out.

He shuddered and poured another cup, hastily and gratefully consuming the reviving beverage and trying to force some order into his terrified thoughts as the examiner called out, “Please clear the tables so that examination desks can be set up.”

“Our last exam,” Neville said. “I can’t believe this is it. I bet you’re feeling relieved, Harry,” he went on. “Your best subject is the last.” Harry nodded, but thought that if he didn’t find some way to calm himself and focus, he might very well fail the exam instead. Wouldn’t everyone, Snape and Malfoy and all those that loathed him delight in that?

“You are going on the tour tomorrow, Harry, aren’t you?” Neville asked anxiously.

“Sure,” Harry answered. It took him a moment to recall that he had promised Neville he would take the tour of St. Mungo’s, which would take place the next day. He thought wearily that if he weren’t strong enough to keep fighting Voldemort off, he might end up in the Closed Ward staring into space next to Neville’s Mum and Dad.

“When we get there,” Neville said in a whisper-- but his comment was cut off by the examiner calling them to take their places.

“Later,” Harry said. He took his place at the desk behind Parvati Patil and stared at her shiny mane of black hair, into which she had wound several tiny white flowers. He examined the contrast of their creamy white against the silky black mane; he counted the number of petals on each flower – there were six on each forming a tiny star; and he tried to recall what kind of flowers they were, but could not.

When the exam papers arrived, and the proctor said, “You may begin,” he turned his paper over and stared at the contrast between the creamy parchment and the violet ink in which the questions had been written. The writing was in a flowing script, not printed as a Muggle exam would be, and the words seemed to slide one into the other and he could make no sense of them at all. He closed his eyes again and tried to still the regular pulse of pain that pounded in his scar, only he seemed to be falling into a dark well of pain in which there was no light and no air.

A humming buzz recalled him to himself and he opened his eyes to see a fat bumblebee walking on his hand. Its tiny round body was covered with soft tickly bristles and it walked down his finger with tiny tickly steps to sit right on the number one on his paper. The ceiling above reflected a lovely summer sky: A high vault of blue lit by the soft dazzle of sunlight. From an open window, summer air wafted down to warm his cheeks and to dry the faint, cold sweat that had seemed to encase him in a smothering chill. Harry took a deep breath and nudged the bee with his finger.

“You ought to be outside,” he whispered voicelessly. The bee simply hummed back at him and he found the soft drone of the ordinary everyday sound of innocent life as calming and strengthening as the song of the phoenix. He looked up and saw that only seven minutes had passed since the start of the exam, not enough to give him too much trouble, and he picked up his Ministry provided anti-cheating quill and read the first question.

He was just finishing his last answer when the proctor called, “Time.” Waiting only for the parchment in front of him to soar away into the pile at the front of the Hall, he strode out of the Hall and right out of the Castle and went to sit under a beech tree by the lake. Hermione and Ron found him shortly after and they plunked themselves down without looking at each other and with only the barest glance of worry at him.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” Hermione said airily. “I did think number three was rather tricky as you had to distinguish jinxes from counter- hexes and…”

“Hermione,” Ron said sternly, “you will keep doing that. Am I going to have to spend the rest of my life listening to you rehash your latest test or challenge or interview or –“

“What makes you think…?” Hermione said, but Harry cut her off and said, “Yeah, Ron. You might as well get used to it.”

Hermione huffed and so did Ron. Harry grinned at them and stared at the sparkling water of the lake, where a couple of bolder students were swimming in tandem with the giant squid. He was reminded suddenly of the scene he had seen in the Pensieve, his father playing with a snitch, egged on by Sirius and watched by Lupin and Wormtail. He wondered whether someday some other students would sit right there, perhaps another Weasley or two, since there were so many of them, beneath that very beech, on a summer day in June and know that they rested on the very brink of life, at the very precipice of the future, and that this was about as good as it would get. When Ginny ambled over and dropped a chocolate frog on his lap, he felt that the only thing lacking had been added.

Harry opened the chocolate frog and caught it before it could jump away. He broke off a piece and ate it savoring the velvety texture as it melted in his mouth and as he leaned back against the tree he felt so purely and altogether happy that it quite took his breath away. Ginny smiled at him and Hermione’s tense face relaxed as she saw that he had recovered from the morning’s attack. It came to him with a sense of wonder that no power, no wealth, no public accomplishment could generate the kind of happiness that came from being with your friends, with those you loved.

He felt again, the presence of the watcher behind the wall, but in that moment, he felt no fear, only pity, because the watcher had never had friends, had never loved nor been loved, and had never truly been happy and never would. However long he lived, the watcher would exist in a wilderness of jealousy and greed; however much power he gained, the watcher could never have this thing, this joy because he understood nothing of it.

“What card have you got?” Ron asked. Harry took another bite of the chocolate and turned over the card.

“It’s Sirius!” he said. “Look!” Sirius’s picture in the card grinned up at him out of a young and handsome face. “Sirius Black,” he read, “Wrongfully thought to be a Dark Wizard in the group that follow He Who Must Not Be Named, Sirius Black spent twelve years in Azkaban prison and was the first wizard ever to escape there. Black was an auror and a member of a secret organization that fought against He Who Must Not Be Named. He was killed fighting Death Eaters who had invaded the Ministry and defending the life of The Boy Who Lived.”

“Who do you suppose writes these things?” Harry asked.

“I dunno,” Ron answered. “Why?”

“Well, it’s dead annoying that they keep calling me The Boy Who Lived,” Harry answered. “What do they think: I’m going to show up and hex them if they speak my name?”

“Well, you know, Harry,” Ron answered, “most people reckon if you could defeat Voldemort more than once that you must be more powerful than he is.”

“I’m not,” he said shortly. He understood, though Ron had not said it, that those people who would no longer speak his name must think him a wizard even darker than Voldemort. The others exchanged glances but said nothing. He glared at them and defiantly ate the rest of the chocolate, but it no longer tasted quite as wonderful as the first bite had been. The warm breeze whipped by and Harry felt as though a piece of his happiness fled with it, but not all. When they went in for lunch, he couldn’t help but notice that the ache in his scar had lifted and he ate his stew quite hungrily and found room for some treacle tart as well.

The practical exam for Defense Against the Dark Arts took place directly after lunch. As before, they were called a few at a time in alphabetical order by their last names. When Harry entered with his group, he saw that every examiner was there: Professor Marchbanks, tiny and ancient; Professor Tofty, bent and even more ancient; the younger Ministry examiner, pinched of nostril and in his prissy manner, like a rather chubby, middle-aged Percy without the red hair. Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Madam Sprout were also there.

Professor Tofty cleared his throat and said, “Let us commence. For purposes of the exam, the two young ladies will oppose one another.” Harry looked at Parvati and Padma. They shrugged identical shrugs and wore identical expressions of relief. He opened his mouth to say,
“I haven’t got a partner,” but was forestalled by the opening of the door.

Professor Dumbledore entered as Professor Tofty added, “And since young Harry here has no partner, Professor Snape has volunteered to oppose him.”

Harry’s stomach sank. Snape! Of all the days to have to face the Potions Master, this was the last that he’d have chosen. He kept his face carefully neutral and met Snape’s black eyes as coolly as he was able. He was altogether surprised then, when Dumbledore stepped forward and said, “I believe that as Professor Snape was the actual teacher in the last term, he is not a proper person under NEWT rules to actively participate in Mr. Potter’s examination.”

“But, sir,” the Ministry examiner replied, “no one else will be willing to provide the opposition for him, that is, The Boy, you know.”

Harry flushed in embarrassment. He thought indignantly that there were plenty of students like Ron or Neville who wouldn’t have minded. He caught a fleeting look from Dumbledore’s blue eyes and stayed still. “I shall be glad to,” Professor Dumbledore said serenely. “As Headmaster, I have charge of the students, but do not participate in teaching students directly.”

Harry noticed that Snape looked quite oddly at Dumbledore and he wondered whether the Potions Master had detected the small prevarication. The Headmaster had taught Harry directly, though Harry was not sure that Snape was aware of any of their lessons outside of the Occlumency lessons he had had the previous year.

“It should be quite fascinating,” Professor Tofty chirped.

“One for the history books,” agreed Professor Marchbanks.

The other man clearly disagreed, but when Professor Dumbledore politely nodded to him and said, “Unless you’d care to?” the examiner shook his head in horror and said politely, “I’m quite sure it’s fine for you to test him, Headmaster.”

Parvati and Padma went first and Harry had time to worry about Dumbledore’s interference. He tried to catch Dumbledore’s eye, but the headmaster was watching the twins attentively – no doubt the reason why both seemed extra nervous – and occasionally flicking the quickest of glances at Snape. Harry could not understand why, if Dumbledore trusted Snape, he had interfered.

Unless it was Harry the Headmaster did not trust. Perhaps Dumbledore thought Harry would take advantage of the test to vent some of his continued hostility against the Potions Master? It was true, Harry mused, that he had never forgiven Snape for taunting Sirius when Sirius had been confined at Grimmauld Place. He still felt, deep down, that Sirius might have stayed behind had Snape not accused him of cowardice.

At the examiner’s word, Parvati and Padma stepped aside and Harry stepped forward to face Dumbledore. He looked at the elderly wizard and was reassured by the calm expression on the aged face. “Just pretend I’m another student,” Dumbledore said with the smallest of twinkles.

He said the same thing every practice session they had had. Harry opened his mouth to say that was impossible, as he always did, but closed it and said instead, “Okay.” His voice came out hoarse and he coughed to clear it.

They began with the same set of spells the girls had, the ones the examiners named as required. However, instead of finishing, Dumbledore continued to throw spells at Harry, and Harry continued to counter them. He felt, as he sometimes did, that they were engaged in a kind of a dance. The casting of one spell, say a stunner, required the response of another, a shield, and the sequence was predetermined from the first spell. Finally, Dumbledore whipped his wand in the spell that Harry had the most trouble trying to counter – an anti-disapparition jinx that bound the enchanted person in place as effectively as an immobilizing spell.

The red light encased him and he recalled that Voldemort had once escaped a similar spell, although he had been caught by another that had brought a pool of water up to sink the dark wizard in a coffin of water. Harry had thought of two responses to the jinx. One was to transform into his animal form as he recalled Voldemort had. But that was not a tactic he would try in front of the examiners.

He took a deep breath, and just as the Professor Marchbanks said with disappointment, “That’s all over then,” he cried out, “Impedimenta!” and his own spell forced Dumbledore’s back just enough that Harry could quickly sink to the floor and roll out from under the jinx’s area of operation. Dumbledore beamed at Harry and said, “I agree. That ought to be sufficient.”

“Sufficient?” Professor Tofty said. “Extraordinary! Never seen anything like it!”

The third man, however, said, “What about the sword practical? Professor Snape assured me the students have been studying that.”

Dumbledore stopped and looked at the man with intent blue eyes, “Have any of the other students been tested on that?”

“Perhaps for extra credit?” Professor Tofty asked. His ancient face expressed a curiously child-like expression of hope – the look of a child standing at Honeydukes and being told he could have the whole store.

Dumbledore said regretfully, “I’m sure you will excuse me. At my age, I find such gymnastics rather tiresome.”

“Then I’m sure Professor Snape would be willing to stand in, just for this,” the third man said. Harry looked at him and tried to fathom what was at the bottom of the examiner’s hostility, for hostility it was. He looked at Professor Snape, who was wearing his most uninterpretable expression.

“The rules, though,” Professor McGonagall cut in.

“I am willing,” Snape said neutrally, “if Mr. Potter does not mind.”

A flash of anger swept across Dumbledore’s face and was gone as quickly. Professor McGonagall said, “This is out of bounds. Potter has done more than enough to pass the exam.”

The third man, however, turned to Harry and said, “We should let The Boy make the decision. You would not mind the opportunity for extra points, would you? And I’m sure you wouldn’t be afraid of Professor Snape, your own Defense instructor.”

Again Dumbledore looked as though he would interfere, but Harry was beginning to be annoyed. “I’m not afraid of Professor Snape. And if he is willing to provide a demonstration, so am I.”

Snape’s black eyes flashed. Harry had not quite been able to keep the annoyance and hostility out of his tone, though Harry could not tell himself whether it was the examiner or Snape he was annoyed at.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “Summon your swords.” With a lift of his eyebrows, Snape summoned a sword, the one he had been using in practice for many weeks. Shrugging, Harry followed suit. Just as his Firebolt had come to him when he had summoned it to fly past the dragon in the Triwizard contest, so did his sword. It appeared in mid-air, a shining, silver thing that gleamed in the sunlight. One and all, the examiners gawked at it.

Harry turned to Snape and saluted as he had been taught. Snape followed suit and inclined his head and the match commenced. At first, the match was much like his demonstration with Dumbledore, a kind of minuet, with every move and counter-move well-understood and automatically responded to. However, after a particularly speedy series of thrusts and parries, Snape flung Harry back with extra force and his sword lit up with a green fire. It cast an eerie shadow on the Potions Master's face and reminded Harry too forcefully of the green light of the Killing Curse. He flung himself back at Snape and his own sword glowed red-gold in turn.

From behind the thin wall that held him out, the watcher smiled in satisfaction. The morning's attack had been a test, one The Boy had passed all too quickly. This time would be different. The watcher felt the latent loathing that The Boy had for his servant and rejoiced. Such emotions, powerful and negative were the very best to exploit and the watcher knew just how to stoke the flames of the fire, gently, carefully, nearly undetectably, so that the loathing burned hotter, by degrees.

Snape drew back again, perhaps thrown off by the fierceness of Harry's response. A gleam that might have been anger bled through the cool, neutral man, and he tossed another spell at Harry across the room. A stream of purple light came at him, but Harry blocked it with his sword and an aureole of gold light flared up and forced back the purple. Snape ducked away from the rebound, his face flushing in anger.

The wall thinned down to a mere curtain. Behind it, the watcher waited, poised, as the heat of battle and pride and the need to win ate at the boundaries between them. Stealthily he crept; ghost-like, he melted through the dissolving curtain; voiceless, he whispered: this is your enemy, he hates you; this is your enemy, he is not to be trusted.

Furiously, Harry moved in on Snape, beginning the sequence that would lead with certainty to Snape's disarming and defeat. Swiftly, and with as careful control as he was capable of, he struck at his father's enemy, and his. Snape was not to be trusted. He knew that. Snape had given Lupin the false cup, and betrayed him to the monster within. Snape was his enemy, and the servant of his enemy. He had only pretended to go over to Dumbledore's side.

Now is the time, the watcher thought. Kill him and you will be free of him. Kill him, and I will be free of his interfereing ways. Two shall be crushed, and only one shall remain.

Time slowed and sped up simultaneously. Harry pressed harder, faster. Any moment now, and he would have his enemy at his mercy. Peculiarly, as things slowed and sped up, his perceptions divided. He was Harry, fighting for a demonstration; he was the other, lusting for the kill. Two minds looked out of one sight. His vision was altered. He saw, as he had only once before, unknown colors. His tongue flicked as he drew in breath and tasted the heat of the bodies around him. The snake rose in him. The sword was its fangs; the magic, its venom. He would strike and taste the blood of his enemy, the blood of the betrayer.

One sudden slash and Snape's sword flew high. The sallow face had gone white with terror as the sword lifted for its final blow and the black eyes were wide-stretched with horror. "No, Lord," he begged and knelt.

The watcher triumphed. He would have his kill, his blood, and his faithless servant's pleading for an extra filip.

With perfect clarity, Harry saw Snape kneeling. The other knew him as faithless. If he was faithless to the other, he had not been, truly, to Dumbledore. With an enormous effort, he stayed the sword's trajectory so that it stopped, frozen in its arc and threw the watcher out.
The pain in his scar rang through his skull like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil and nausea rose up threatening to overthrow his control entirely. Carefully, Harry laid the Sword down on the table in front of the examiners and after a single deep breath he turned to Professor Snape and held his hand outstretched.

"As you see," he said generally to all there, “Professor Snape has taught us brilliantly, and he has been so generous as to permit me to demonstrate how to disarm one's opponent."

Snape stared at Harry. His sallow face was the color of putty and his black eyes were focused on Harry's own. A sheen of perspiration dampened his face and made the already lank hair hang more limply than ever. He shook his head minutely and rose to stand without taking Harry's proffered hand, but under the circumsatnces, Harry could not feel offended. Harry was conscious that his control would not last much longer.

He said almost calmly, "If that will be all, perhaps I might be excused, then?" At Dumbledore's nod, he left as quickly as he could and made straight for the nearest bathroom where he threw up until he had emptied himself completely. His head still rang and his vision was slightly blurred so he sluiced cold water over his face until the shock of it brought him back to himself. Then he sank down and buried his face in his hands and wept.

After a time - he wasn't sure how long - the door opened. Thinking it must be Ron coming to try to cheer him up, he said, "Go away. I don't want to talk to anyone and I don't want any cheering."

"We're not here to cheer you up," Dumbledore said. Harry looked up and turned his face away again immediately. Dumbledore and Snape were looking at him as though he might spring at them any second.

"It's a good thing exams are over," Harry said looking at the blue sky through a high window. "No one will notice if I leave a few days early."

"You do not have permission to leave," Dumbledore answered. Harry did not look at him.

"I don't need permission to leave," he answered. "I'm of age and I've completed all of my coursework."

"On the contrary, Potter," Snape answered. "Your diploma will not be given until after your exam results come out. There are still over two weeks left until you graduate."

Harry turned to stare at Snape. "I don't care if I graduate," he answered vehemently.

"You will not have a job if you don't," Dumbledore answered. "Not the one you want."

"I don't want it any more," Harry answered. "I don't need a job. I've enough to live on without it and I...am a danger to everyone around me. I must leave and the sooner the better."

"So you'll run away and sulk, will you?" Snape answered. "I thought you were so brave. You're the Gryffindor. It says so, right there on your sword."

"You ask me that?" Harry responded. "When I nearly killed you?"

"Why didn't you?" Snape asked. "You wanted to. I saw it in your eyes. You intended to. You really do hate me as much as your father did. Perhaps more."

Harry did not respond. He could not think of what to say that could take back that instant, when he had raised the sword to strike; to kill.

"What happened?" Dumbledore asked urgently.

Harry looked at Dumbledore. The blue eyes were worried, almost scared and that firghtened him more than anything.

"You don't know?" Harry asked. "You must have seen it in my eyes. Voldemort...he almost possessed me. He did for a moment or two. I could feel him, the snake, inside me." He started to shake now, the after-shock of the stress shivering through him. He gritted his teeth and went on, "I could feel him, his thoughts becoming mine. He wanted me to win, to kill Snape." Harry looked at Snape and said, "You knew it, too. You begged him not to kill you. That wasn't me you were talking to."

Snape made no answer. He bit his lip and for once did not insist on Harry calling him Professor; nor did Dumbledore.

"What stopped you then?" Dumbledore asked intently.

Harry frowned at them and and tried to think how to put it, to explain that horror of being himself and another at the same time. He shrugged at last and said; "Voldemort was thinking that he would have two things at once. Me, to possess and the death of a faithless servant." Harry looked back down at his hands, killer hands he thought, and then looked back up at Snape. "I saw, just then, that if he thought you were faithless, then you must be loyal to Dumbledore after all. And once I was able to think a separate thought from him, I was able to throw him out. The problem is," Harry continued, "the same as before. The same one since Voldemort came back to power, greater and more terrible than ever he was. I don't know how long I can go on like this, fighting him off and trying to remain myself."

He rose and looked from Dumbledore to Snape and picked his words carefully, trying to impress them with the importance of his leaving. "You have to understand. He doesn't even want to kill me anymore. The body he made, last time, it's failing him. He's burning it up, like he did when he was in the forest without one of his own. When he possesses a body, its life is shortened. What he wants now; is mine. Instead of killing me, he wants to be me. He wants to possess me permanently, to squeeze my soul out and seize my body and my life. And it could happen any time now. You just saw it. It could happen anytime."

"I don't believe that," Dumbledore said. "You may be right about his desire, but you are wrong that he can succeed."

"He just did," Harry said bluntly, "or very nearly so."

"If he could not succeed in possessing you by manipulating your dislike for Professor Snape, then he will not succeed ever."

"Dislike?" Snape said. "Hatred. He hates me."

Harry stared at Snape and said abruptly, "You let me win, didn't you? You could have disarmed me several times, but you didn't."

Snape looked surprised and said, "How did you know? I can assure you I was cursing my own stupid mistake when I saw you were going to kill me."

Harry frowned at him and said, "You've taught me well enough to recognize when a strike has been deliberately pulled."

"Yes," Snape said. "Well I had told Wilkinson how good you were and he didn't believe it."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Wilkinson," Snape repeated. "The examiner. His younger brother was in my class at school. He was a Death Eater, too."

Harry gawped at Snape. "How can a Death Eater be in the Ministry? A known one, I mean."

"This one isn't. This is Wilkinson's older brother. He always used to sneer at me, but I was allowed to hang around him if I did his homework for him." Snape's thin lips twisted in a sneer of self-disgust. “He's not a Death Eater, but he probably sympathizes."

"I don't get it," Harry said. "Why would you tell him how good I am?" Snape looked at him as though he didn't quite know the answer himself.

"I suppose," Snape, said slowly, "he implied that if I taught you, you weren't as good as your reputation. A rather juvenile reaction on my part."

Harry frowned at him and said, "Are you sure he isn't a Death Eater? Perhaps one of the ones you don't know? It seems awfully strange that he would work so hard to get me to fight you, and then look at what nearly happened."

Snape looked worried and then contemptuous. "No," he answered. "He was egging me on, but I don't think it was on the Drak Lord's behalf."

"If that's the case," Harry said quietly, "then Voldmeort is monitoring my thoughts more often than I realized. How else could he have known to attack at just that time?" He stared at Snape and at Dumbledore, who had observed the conversation with a grave intensity that worried Harry all the more.

"I must leave now," Harry continued. "You do see it."

"No," Dumbledore said calmly. "It's true he has reached you here, but I believe you will be even more vulnerable elsewhere. And as I said, I think you are wrong to have so little confidence in yourself. If Voldemort could not possess you completely, even when you were engrossed in your hatred of Professor Snape, then he will probably never do so. And I suspect he simply cannot bear to remain in close connection with you for very long. He never has, not for more than a few minutes at a time."

Harry noticed that Snape had shuddered at the mention of Voldemort's name; he had not, however, protested. Was that because Snape had finally realized that Voldemort had rejected him utterly?

He was quite astounded when Snape said, "I agree. You should stay, Atleast for the rest of the term, and if encessary, beyond that. Hogwarts remains the strongest and safest place in the wizard world."

"Why are you worried about protecting me now?" Harry asked Snape bluntly.

Snape narrowed his dark eyes. "Why, I have an interest in preserving your hide," he replied. "After all, He Who Must Not Be Named intends to kill me. And it seems from the prophecy that you are the only one who can kill him. Therefore, you are my only hope of survival." He paused and his thin mouth twisted again. "I am quite sure you must find that most amusing," he finished sourly.

"On the contray," Harry answered briefly, "I find it absolutely terrifying." He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in his head. "May I go, then?" he asked.

Dumbledore considered him and answered, "A potion, I think, for your headache."

"I'd rather not," Harry said.

"Don't be a stupid martyr," Snape snapped. "It's not brave to refuse an palliative." Harry would have liked to curse at that, but he had neither the energy nor the courage to do so in front of Dumbledore.

Instead, he inclined his head slightly - and regretted it instantly - and stalked out of the bathroom feeling he had lost every battle he'd fought that day against every opponent, or friend. He had intended to swallow his pride and go to see Madam Pomfrey, but as soon as he got into the hallway, he was surrounded by a horde of people all muttering; however, when they recognized him, they immediately drew back.

The third examiner, Wilkinson, was standing in the hallway howling in pain and holding his hand, which looked raw and red. “It’s his fault,” Wilkinson howled, pointing at Harry. “He’s a dark wizard! Only a dark wizard could survive the Dark Lord’s attack! He did it!”

Harry gawked at Wilkinson and turned to look behind him. Dumbledore and Snape had followed and both were staring at Wilkinson with varying degrees of distaste and anger. Harry looked back at Wilkinson and could think of nothing to say. He couldn’t imagine what the man was talking about or where he had got the injury for which he seemed to think Harry was to blame.

Dumbledore stepped forward and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry is no dark wizard, which everyone in this school knows, Wilkinson.” The light blue eyes caught the examiner in their gaze and Wilkinson shrank before him. “What did you do, and how did you hurt yourself?” the elderly wizard continued.

“It was his fault. It was his sword,” Wilkinson whined. “I picked it up to examine the workmanship and it burned me!” Everyone there made small sounds of astonishment and fear that were quickly stilled by Dumbledore’s stern gaze. Harry himself had been quite startled by the revelation.

“Did it not occur to you that such a sword would have protections built into it? Only Harry can touch that sword, Mr. Wilkinson,” Dumbledore replied, “unless he gives another permission. A very simple anti-theft spell, you see.” Dumbledore turned to Harry and said, “Perhaps you should retrieve it?” Harry nodded and went back into the classroom in which the test had taken place. Professor Tofty and Professor Marchbanks watched his progress with intent fascination.

The sword was lying on the floor and the table on which it had rested now bore a charred, black scar. Sunlight from the high windows reflected off the silver surface of the sword and ruby light refracted through the heart shaped stone on its pommel. With a strange reluctance, he knelt and reached for the sword. He could feel the gaze of the watching crowd shiver across his back and his neck prickled.

Wanting only to be quit of the crowd, then, he quickly took the sword in hand and stood. The sword flared with red-gold light again, which he quickly quenched with a softly breathed word. He could feel the blood warming his face as once again the murmurs began and were quickly stilled when he turned to face the onlookers.

It was Professor McGonagall who restored things to normal when she said, “I should like a word with you, Mr. Potter, about your last essay.” Harry followed McGonagall out of the classroom. The crowd parted as they passed and students drifted away in twos and threes, whispering as they went.

McGonagall’s office was cool and orderly. Harry sat in the chair at her gesture and stood the sword against the side of the desk.

“Was it very bad?” he asked. “My essay, I mean,” he added when McGonagall stared at him.

“There’s nothing wrong with it at all,” McGonagall answered. She regarded him through her square glasses and said, “Have a biscuit.”

“Erm, no, thanks,” he answered. He was reminded of another time when he had sat in the same chair expecting to be yelled at and being fed biscuits instead. That had been when Umbridge had given him a week’s worth of detentions for insisting Voldemort was back.

“Some chocolate, then,” McGonagall replied decisively. She flicked her wand and a bar of Honeydukes’ best appeared together with a tray containing a teapot, cups, sugar, lemons and milk.

“Go on,” she urged, “You look as though you’ve just fought off a horde of dementors.” Harry took a bite of chocolate and sipped the tea. The last lingering ache in his scar disappeared.

He said with some surprise, “That’s better than a headache potion.”

“Yes,” McGonagall said. Her beady black eyes were almost amused. “Even Muggles feel the curative effects of chocolate. That’s why so many of them get addicted to it.”

The Professor turned her gaze on the sword and considered it curiously. She reached out a hand but did not touch it.

“You can, if you like,” Harry said. He did not add, though he wanted to, you could keep it. The Professor frowned and drew her hand back.

“You don’t like it, do you?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry answered. He hesitated to go on because he knew what labor had gone into it’s re-forging, and he was grateful for it. He added slowly, “It’s just that…they only made it for me to kill Voldemort.” He shrugged and picked it back up again. The sword seemed to buzz soundlessly in his hand. Almost beneath the range of hearing, he seemed to hear the song of the phoenix, and he relaxed enough to smile at McGonagall. “So my essay was all right,” he said.

She nodded and watched him go, but as he stepped through the threshold, she said, “I saw you signed up for the tour of St. Mungo’s tomorrow.”

Harry turned back and said, “I forgot. But yes, I did.” He added dryly, “I thought I ought to keep my options open in case Minister Fudge decides I’m not suitable for the Ministry. Or in case I don’t get enough NEWTs to get into the Auror department.”

“Well, stay out of trouble tomorrow, Harry,” McGonagall replied.

“It’s St. Mungo’s,” he said. “What trouble could I get into there?”

She frowned back at him and answered, “You could get into trouble anywhere, and do.”

“I don’t look for it, you know,” Harry answered. It wasn’t his fault the examiner had annoyed Snape into fighting Harry. It wasn’t his fault Voldemort wanted to possess him. He squashed that thought firmly and seeing that the Professor had nothing further to say, and moved by what peculiar fancy he couldn’t have said, he saluted her with his sword and went out.

The party in the Gryffindor common room was in full swing when Harry arrived. Seamus and Dean were competing to see who could swallow a bottle of butterbeer faster and Neville was dancing with Lavender accompanied by a Weird Sisters song that was booming out over someone's contraband wizarding network radio. Ron was arm-wrestling with Fred and ducking the Bursting Balloons (a Weasleys Wizard's wheezes special) being sent his way by George.

"Who'd believe it?" George said, "Ickle-Ronnikins can outwrestle Fred. It must be all the muscles he's got from writing practice NEWTs and beating up on the youngonce from the lofty position of Headboy."

"He has got muscles, hasn't he?" Ginny observed. "All the better for..." She saw Harry and stopped. "All hail the mighty hero of Hogwarts!" she chanted.

"All hail the mighty hero of Gryffindor!" George added.

"All hail the incredible conqueror of the Slytherin Snape!" Fred chimed in. Fred rushed forward and hauled Harry's arm up so that the Sword nearly decapitated Neville.

"What a lot of prats," Ron said. But he was laughing too. Then everyone crowded around Harry and wanted to hear every detail of his contest with Snape and nobody wanted to believe that he really, really, really did not want to talk about it.

"Enough!" Ginny roared finally. "Can't you see he's had a day of it."

"Gawd," George whispered. "She's almost got as loud as Mum."

"Look," Harry said, when they let him get a word in, "Snape let me win, so don't get so excited."

"No way," Parvati cut in. "He was down on his knees begging. I saw it." Unlike the others, Parvati was not chanting or celebrating; but then, Harry thought, she had seen it; she had seen how close he had come to actually killing Snape.

"He was showing off for that bloody examiner, Wilkinson," Harry answered.

"He wasn't pretending," Parvati insisted.

"Wilkinson was a few grades ahead of Snape in school. He used to rag on him and make fun of him. He told Snape that if he taught us we couldn't be any good," Harry said.

"You're defending Snape?" Seamus asked. "You hate him. He hates you."

Harry looked at Seamus and said wearily, "Yeah, we dislike each other. But Wilkinson - his brother was a Death Eater - and I guess Snape hates him even more than he does me."

"I bet Snape is a Death Eater," Seamus said.

Harry shook his head. "He doesn't mind people thinking that. It keeps us all scared of him and keeps us in line. But he's not."

“You don't know that," Seamus insisted. "There's some that stay hidden."

"Maybe," Harry said. "But him I know about. He's a good teacher and he's not a Death Eater...even if he is a nasty git." Everybody grinned at that and started swapping Snape stories.

Harry collapsed in a chair by the fire and listened as the talk drifted by..."how about the time he gave Neville's toad Shrinking Solution"...and what about the time someone threw a dungbomb in Crabbe's cauldron"..."and what about the time..."

Harry closed his eyes and opened them to look at the fire. It felt odd to know that he would never take another exam at Hogwarts again. NEWTs were over; his life at Hogwarts was nearly over; and he was afraid of what was to come. Ginny perched on the arm of his chair and gave his cheek a surreptitious pat. She nodded toward a chair in the corner, where, incredibly, Hermione was sitting and poring over a book on Ancient Runes.

"NEWTs are over, Hermione," Harry said. "What are you doing?"

Hermione looked up at Harry and said brightly, "Bill sent me an owl answering this question I had about Egyptian curses and heiroglyphs. This is the first chance I've had to look at the book he recommended."

"Take a break," Harry said. "Join the party."

"Don't be silly," Ron said. "That is her idea of celebrating." He looked at Harry and then glanced around at the rest of the room. After making sure that no one else was paying attention, Ron added, "Are you all right? You look awful."

"I'm fine," Harry answered, but he couldn't quite say it with enough conviction.

"No, you're not," Ginny said quietly. "Voldemort got to you for a bit today."

"How do you know?" Harry said.

He looked at Hermione thinking she had told the others, but Ginny said, "Parvati said your eyes went all funny for a bit in that fight. She swore up and down that they looked like a cat's eyes for a bit."

Harry closed his eyes then, but Ginny said, "Don't be an idiot. They're not like that now. And I told her it was just her imagination because your eyes are green like some cats' anyway. But that's how I guessed." Harry looked down at his hands and then up at his friends. "I don't know what to do," he said softly. "I thought it was under control."

Hermione stuck a piece of paper in her huge book and closed it up. "You need to get some proper rest," she said firmly. "All this studying is a terrible strain. Everyone feels that way, like they're on a train that's out of control and about to crash down a bottomless chasm. That's why they're all so wild. It's the relief."

Harry stared at the fire for a moment and shrugged. "Guess you're right," he said. "I think I'll go up early and get some sleep."

Harry sheathed the Sword and locked it in his trunk. He sat down on his bed and thought he ought to wash and change, but the effort seemed to be too much. He was practically asleep sitting up on the edge of his bed when a voice called him back.

"Hey, Harry, " Neville said. "You are coming tomorrow, aren't you?"

Harry was on the brink of saying; I think I'll skip it, when he saw Neville's anxious face. Recalling his promise and all the times Neville had stood up for him, he nodded instead. "Yeah, I'm coming, Neville. And just think of it this way: I'm so bad at Potions and Herbology that you'll look like a star. Well, you are anyway. I bet you got O's on all your NEWTS."

"You think so?" Neville said. Pink color washed through Neville's round cheeks and he said, "Thanks, Harry." He paused and said, "You should get some sleep, you know. It's not everyday you get to have Professor Snape kneeling at your feet."

Harry felt the weight of it all, the day, the year, his life, and he said, "You know what, Neville? I'm not proud of it. And it didn't even feel very nice. Some things shouldn't be, no matter how much you think you'd like them."

"You're a better man than I am, then," Neville answered seriously. "I'd have enjoyed it very much. I don't know how you put up with him, really. He was always worse to you than he was to me."

"Yeah," Harry said yawning. "That's cause I cheeked him from the first day of class."

Neville chuckled. "I remember that. I remembered thinking you were really brave, too."

"Just goes to show you," Harry answered, "Being brave can be really stupid sometimes."

Neville laughed again and after a moment, so did Harry. Harry collapsed back down and kicked his shoes off. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Something warm and furry brushed his face and a raspy tongue smoothed his hands. He assumed it was Crookshanks, but he was too tired to bother kicking the cat out, and he found the round ball that wedged itself in the bend of his knee quite comforting. He slept, for once, without any dreams at all.

***

The party was still going strong when Hermione stood up and tucked the large leather book under her arm. Ron was back to arm-wrestling, with George this time and Harry, thank goodness, had gone up to rest. She caught Ginny's eye and the two girls slipped up the stairs and away from the noise.

"I saw you've taken your name off the list for the tour tomorrow," Ginny said.

Hermione nodded. She led the way into her dormitory and checked to be sure none of the other girls had come up yet. "I'm not really interested in being a healer," she answered. "And besides," she said quietly, "there's something I want to do while Harry's not around." Ginny's eyes widened and she looked surprised and horribly curious, but she waited for Hermione to continue.

"I want to go back into the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione said in a near whisper. "Do you think you can stand to come with me in case I need help?"

"Of course," Ginny said at once. "The only thing is, why without Harry? And what about Ron?"

"He's going on the tour," Hermione answered. "One of us has to keep an eye on Harry. You saw what he was like tonight."

"It's getting worse," Ginny said grimly, "Isn’t it?"

"I don't know," Hermione said reluctantly. "I just wish he wouldn't be too proud to ask for help."

"Then he wouldn't be Harry," Ginny said simply. "You simply have to help him whether he asks for it or not and not mind if he gets offended when you do."

"I don't know how you put up with him sometimes," Hermione said. "He's impossible. Like a hero out of a book only more so, and he can't help it. It's something fundamental about him that he can't possibly change."

"I love him," Ginny answered.

"Well, don't we all?" Hermione responded.

"Not like this," Ginny answered with amusement.

"Better you than me," Hermione said. "He'll break your heart someday."

Ginny, however, said inscrutably, "He already has, a million times. Then he puts it back together again. I don't know how. It's a puzzle, really."

Afterwards, Hermione lay awake and watched the clouds blow by, forming one shape and then another, and then joining a third to make something else entirely. A puzzle, she thought. An enigma, a mystery, a riddle - something else to unravel. Could love be a curse? She wondered.

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