Occlumency (Patreon)

Kreacher, it transpired, had been lurking in the attic. Sirius said he had found him up there, covered in dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seemed satisfied with this story, it made Harry uneasy. Kreacher seemed to be in a better mood on his reappearance, his bitter muttering had subsided somewhat and he submitted to orders more docilely than usual, though once or twice Harry caught the house-elf staring at him avidly, but always looking quickly away whenever he saw that Harry had noticed.

Sirius snorted before she’d even finished the sentence.
“Filthy little magpie,” he muttered, just loud enough to carry. “If there’s a cursed teaspoon in this house, that vermin’s probably tried to marry it.”

Hermione frowned at the page, quill tapping against her parchment in an annoyed little rhythm.
“He shouldn’t be in a cupboard at all,” she hissed under her breath. “He should be properly cared for, not shoved in an attic and left to rot. Honestly, it’s abusive, I don’t care how awful he is…”

Tonks, next to her mother, pressed her lips together to avoid laughing; Sirius shot Hermione a look halfway between incredulity and exasperation.
“Hermione, he’s not a stray Kneazle, he’s a walking hate crime,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Trust me, Kreacher’s perfectly happy rolling in dust and Black family junk. It’s probably his idea of a spa day.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“Happy because he’s been conditioned to be,” she muttered, more to herself now. “All of them are. It’s systemic. S.P.E.W. really should include a subsection on portrait influence and entrenched family ideology…”

Up at the staff table, Dumbledore steepled his fingers, blue eyes not quite as twinkly as usual.

Covered in dust in the attic… looking for more relics… more things to hide.
And staring at Harry, was he?

He let his gaze drift, apparently idly, toward Harry at the Gryffindor table. The boy was watching Andromeda with a faint crease between his brows, clearly remembering that uneasy feeling. Beside him, Daphne’s expression had gone thoughtful in a way that made Dumbledore’s neck prickle; Slytherins, in his experience, rarely ignored patterns.

Kreacher’s earlier disappearance… his sudden docility now… the avid, furtive looks at Harry.

Curious, Albus thought, in the mild tone he used when something was setting off every internal alarm bell he had. A house-elf’s loyalty was rarely simple, and in this house it was almost guaranteed to be dangerous. Perhaps I should have asked rather more questions about where, precisely, Kreacher spends his time.

Sirius was still grumbling.
“‘Submitted to orders more docilely,’ my arse,” he growled. “He was probably rehearsing new insults in between polishing Walburga’s old silver.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened.
“Maybe if someone didn’t keep calling him ‘vermin’ in front of everyone,” she said, “he wouldn’t feel the need to cling to every horrible relic he can find. It’s classic maladaptive behaviour in oppressed—”

“—household menaces,” Sirius cut in. “Hermione, if S.P.E.W. manages to un-traumatise Kreacher, I’ll eat one of Mum’s old tapestries. The ones with the scorch marks.”

Down by the CSI contingent, Horatio’s head tilted a fraction, eyes following the little undercurrent of tension.
“Elf goes missing, comes back suspiciously cooperative and fixated on the kid everyone wants dead,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “Where I’m from, we’d call that a red flag.”

Dumbledore’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the arms of his chair.

Yes, he thought, watching Kreacher in the memory on the page and Kreacher’s empty place in the present. Quite.

Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that Christmas was over. As the date of their departure back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and more prone to what Mrs Weasley called ‘fits of the sullens’, in which he would become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak’s room for hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house, oozing under doorways like some noxious gas, so that all of them became infected by it.

Harry didn’t want to leave Sirius again with only Kreacher for company; in fact, for the first time in his life, he was not looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. Going back to school would mean placing himself once again under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge, who had no doubt managed to force through another dozen decrees in their absence; there was no Quidditch to look forward to now that he had been banned; there was every likelihood that their burden of homework would increase as the exams drew even nearer; and Dumbledore remained as remote as ever. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the DA, Harry thought he might have begged Sirius to let him leave Hogwarts and remain in Grimmauld Place.

Ron let out a low whistle.
“Can’t blame you, mate,” he said immediately. “I mean, between Kreacher and Mum’s yelling and that portrait, this place is awful… but it’s still better than having Umbridge breathing down your neck every day.”

“Only just,” Harry muttered, colouring a little. Hearing his private thought read aloud to a hall full of people wasn’t fun, but he didn’t deny it. “Detentions, Quidditch ban, constant homework and her watching everything… yeah, Hogwarts wasn’t exactly ‘home’ this year.”

Daphne had her arms folded, green tie immaculate, expression cool.
“To be fair,” she said, “if Hogwarts is being run by a toad in lace who thinks blood quills are acceptable and ‘education’ means propaganda, it’s entirely logical to prefer the homicidal townhouse. At least here the dangers are clearly labelled.”

Ron barked a humourless laugh.
“Yeah, at Grimmauld the curtains try to strangle you. At school it’s the staff.”

Across the hall, Umbridge’s bound hands twitched against the ropes. Her eyes were slits of poison, fixed on Harry and then on Daphne, cheeks mottling pink. She opened her mouth, drawing breath through her nose like an irate kettle.

Cornelius Fudge, sitting stiffly two seats away, shot her a look sharp enough to cut. A tiny, panicked shake of his head said clearly: do not.

Umbridge’s mouth snapped shut again with an audible click of teeth. The ropes creaked as she seethed in place, eyes promising nothing good.

Harry caught the exchange and snorted softly.
“See?” he said under his breath, just loud enough for Ron and Daphne to hear. “Even Fudge knows she’s a nightmare now.”

Daphne’s lips curled.
“When the Minister for Magic is silently begging you not to talk,” she murmured, “you’ve really excelled at being terrible.”

Down by the visitors’ section, Horatio Caine leaned slightly toward Calleigh without taking his eyes off Umbridge.
“In my line of work,” he said quietly, “when the boss looks at you like that in an interview room… you’re already guilty.”

Harry didn’t disagree.

Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something happened that made Harry positively dread his return to school.

‘Harry, dear,’ said Mrs Weasley, poking her head into his and Ron’s bedroom, where the pair of them were playing wizard chess watched by Hermione, Ginny and Crookshanks, ‘could you come down to the kitchen?

Professor Snape would like a word with you.’

Harry did not immediately register what she had said; one of his castles was engaged in a violent tussle with a pawn of Ron’s and he was egging it on enthusiastically.

‘Squash him – squash him, he’s only a pawn, you idiot. Sorry, Mrs Weasley, what did you say?’

‘Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He’d like a word.’

Fred thumped a hand theatrically over his heart.
“Moment of silence,” he intoned. “Our brother in arms is summoned to the Dungeon Bat, and not even at school. That’s extra credit suffering.”

George nodded solemnly.
“Honestly, Harry, if you’d just murdered Ron on the chessboard, Mum could’ve told him you were unavailable due to death.”

Lee Jordan cupped his hands around his mouth toward the past-Harry on the page.
“Run, Potter! Out the window, onto the roof, fake your own death, it’s not worth whatever ‘word’ he wants!”

Ron grimaced in perfect sympathy.
“Yeah, that checks out,” he said. “If Snape ever ‘wants a word’ with you, it’s never ‘well done’ or ‘here, have a biscuit.’ It’s ‘let me list all the ways you’ve personally ruined my life by existing.’”

Seamus winced.
“Mate, I’m sorry,” he said to Harry. “Last day of the holidays and you get Snape, not extra pudding? That’s just cruel and unusual.”

Neville, who had gone a bit pale at the mere mention of Snape in a domestic setting, shook his head.
“At Grimmauld Place, too,” he said quietly. “That’s supposed to be… you know. Safe. Away from him.”

Harry pulled a face that said he entirely agreed with Past Harry’s enthusiasm for the chess match over the summons.
“To be fair,” he muttered, “I’d rather watch Ron’s pawn murder my castle than go down alone to a kitchen with Snape in it.”

Fred slung an arm around his shoulders.
“If it’s any consolation,” he said cheerfully, “if he’d tried to give you grief in Mum’s kitchen, she would’ve hexed his greasy hair clean off.”

George nodded firmly.
“We’d have helped,” he added. “For moral support. And aiming.”

Lee grinned.
“Professor Snape, dear,” he mimicked in Molly’s voice. “He’d like a word. You, on the other hand, will need a will.”

Harry’s mouth fell open in horror. He looked around at Ron, Hermione and Ginny, all of whom were gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione had been restraining with difficulty for the past quarter of an hour, leapt gleefully on to the board and set the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top of their voices.

‘Snape?’ said Harry blankly.

‘Professor Snape, dear,’ said Mrs Weasley reprovingly. ‘Now come on, quickly, he says he can’t stay long.’

‘What’s he want with you?’ said Ron, looking unnerved as Mrs Weasley withdrew from the room. ‘You haven’t done anything, have you?’

Fred let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“Honestly, Ron,” he said, “that’s the wrong question. If Snape’s at the door, the question is: what does he think you’ve done.”

George nodded gravely.
“Exactly. You could be asleep, in bed, never left the room, and he’d still manage to blame you for his cauldron exploding in the dungeons.”

Lee leaned forward over the Gryffindor table, grinning.
“‘Snape?’” he echoed in Harry’s tone. “That was the sound of a man who’s just realised the universe read his mind and picked the absolute worst option.”

There were a few snorts of agreement. Ron eyed the text again and shuddered.
“Mum saying ‘Professor Snape, dear’ is the scariest bit,” he admitted. “Like he’s normal. He’s not normal. You don’t say ‘dear’ and ‘Snape’ in the same sentence. It’s unnatural.”

Up at the staff table, the real Professor Snape tilted his head slightly, his expression settling into a familiar mask of bored disdain.

“How flattering,” he drawled softly. “I appear to inspire such… delight.”

Tonks, perched near the end of the table, snickered.
“Pure terror, more like,” she murmured. “You can put that on your staff evaluation: ‘students scream internally when summoned.’”

Snape’s mouth curled in something that might, in a very dark room, pass for a smile.
“If they are capable of associating my name with the concept of ‘professor’ at all, I shall count it a triumph,” he said. “Given Mr Potter’s usual grasp of authority, Mrs Weasley’s correction was almost… touching.”

Harry, down among the students, made a face.
“I stand by the horror,” he said. “If you lot heard ‘Snape’s in the kitchen, wants a word,’ you wouldn’t be skipping down the stairs either.”

Fred patted him mournfully on the shoulder.
“We salute your bravery, little brother-in-suffering,” he intoned. “Answering a Snape-summons on the last day of the holidays. Truly, you have suffered for us all.”

George raised an invisible glass.
“To Harry,” he said. “May any future ‘words’ from Professor Snape be supervised by at least three adults and a Healer.”

Lee added, “And preferably witnessed by the Department of Mysteries, because that’s the only place that understands why anyone would willingly be in a room alone with him.”

Snape’s eyes flicked down to them, dark and unreadable.
“Do continue,” he said silkily. “Every jest makes me more eager to recall exactly how our Occlumency sessions progressed from here.”

Harry shut his mouth with a click. Ron leaned over and whispered, “Told you. Horror.”

A minute or two later, he pushed open the kitchen door to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The silence between them was heavy with mutual dislike. A letter lay open on the table in front of Sirius.

‘Er,’ said Harry, to announce his presence.

Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair.

Calleigh let out a low whistle.
“So,” she said, leaning slightly toward Harry’s end of the table, “you two don’t like each other?”

Eric glanced from Sirius to Snape, took in the identical stony profiles and snorted.
“Yeah, that’s not ‘don’t like’,” he said. “That’s ‘I’ve been hating you since high school’.”

Horatio folded his hands, studying both men like they were evidence bags.
“History,” he said calmly, “and not the good kind.”

Ryan nodded, eyes flicking between them.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You were in school together. One of you thought you were hilarious. The other one had a wand up his—”

“—classical tragic misalignment of priorities,” Sirius cut in smoothly, slouching back in his chair. “I was hilarious, he was allergic to fun and soap.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the younger students.

Snape’s eye gave the tiniest twitch.
“Yes,” he said silkily, “and Mr Black’s definition of ‘fun’ generally involved hexing classmates from behind, public humiliation and an attention span shorter than a goldfish’s. One can only marvel that he survived adolescence with his single brain cell intact.”

Sirius sat up, dark eyes flashing.
“Still more brain cells than you had friends, Snivellus,” he shot back. “Some of us didn’t need a Dark Mark to feel important.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from several tables. Narcissa’s lips thinned; Andromeda’s jaw tightened.

Horatio raised an eyebrow very slightly.
“And here I thought this was about professional disagreements,” he murmured. “But no. High school. Always high school.”

Calleigh, trying not to grin, added,
“So… no détente, then.”

Harry glanced between his godfather and his professor, feeling that odd, familiar jolt of disgusted recognition.
“They’ve been like this the whole time,” he muttered to the CSIs. “You’d think nearly dying a few times each would’ve got it out of their systems.”

Snape turned his head a fraction, voice going even softer.
“On the contrary, Mr Potter. Some lessons from one’s youth remain… indelible.”

Sirius snorted.
“Yeah, like ‘don’t trust oily Slytherins who try to get you and your friends killed,’” he said. “Really sticks with a bloke.”

Both men went back to pointedly not looking at each other, shoulders rigid, the air between them humming.

Ryan exhaled.
“Yep,” he said quietly. “Still schoolboys. Just with more trauma and bills.”

‘Sit down, Potter.’

‘You know,’ said Sirius loudly, leaning back on his rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, ‘I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my house, you see.’

An ugly flush suffused Snape’s pallid face. Harry sat down in a chair beside Sirius, facing Snape across the table.

‘I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,’ said Snape, the familiar sneer curling his mouth, ‘but Black –’

‘I’m his godfather,’ said Sirius, louder than ever.

‘I am here on Dumbledore’s orders,’ said Snape, whose voice, by contrast,

was becoming more and more quietly waspish, ‘but by all means stay, Black, I know you like to feel … involved.’

Sirius let out a short, humourless laugh.
“‘Feel involved,’” he echoed. “That’s rich, coming from the bloke whose idea of involvement was putting on a mask and grovelling at Voldemort’s feet.”

A low murmur rippled through the students.

Snape’s eyes flashed, his expression otherwise eerily calm.
“Yes,” he said softly, “and look how that worked out for me, Black. Still breathing. Which is more than can be said for your little schoolboy prank with the werewolf, isn’t it?”

Sirius surged half out of his seat, chair legs scraping.
“Say Moony’s name like that again and I’ll hex your teeth down your throat,” he snapped.

Harry tensed beside him, one hand wrapping around Sirius’s sleeve as though he might physically anchor him to the bench. Across the table, Snape’s fingers twitched near his wand, knuckles white.

Horatio, watching from the visitors’ section, murmured under his breath, “We’re three seconds from a full-blown domestic in front of eighty minors.”

Calleigh didn’t look away from the pair. “You can practically see the unsolved childhood grievances,” she muttered.

Snape’s lip curled.
“By all means, Black,” he said. “Lose your temper. Again. It’s the only thing you’ve ever been truly consistent at. That and wasting your godson’s time with childish fantasies about ‘family’ while other people do the work.”

Sirius’ face went dangerous-quiet.
“Other people,” he repeated. “You mean you. Reporting to Dumbledore like a good little spy and then slithering back to your dungeon while Harry gets carved up by Umbridge.”

Snape’s voice dropped even lower.
“I at least have the option of leaving the house,” he murmured. “You, on the other hand, are confined to your mother’s old kitchen, snarling at portraits and sulking like the teenager you never stopped being.”

The air around the staff table went brittle. Wands had not been drawn, but several hands had drifted noticeably closer.

That was when McGonagall stood up. She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to.

“That,” she said, in the tone that had once frozen entire years of Gryffindors in mid-footstep, “will do.”

Both men looked at her instinctively, like they were fifteen again and she’d just walked into a corridor mid-hex.

“We are not,” she continued, advancing a step so her tartan robes swished ominously, “in your fifth-year Defence class, and this is not some adolescent corridor brawl. You are grown men. There are children present. Many of them,” she added, with a pointed glance at the DA table, “have already seen and endured more than enough.”

Sirius opened his mouth, but she cut across him with a raised hand.
“Mr Black, if you must posture about whose house this is, do it when your godson’s trauma is not on public recital. Professor Snape, if you wish to discuss Mr Black’s shortcomings, there are venues other than a school-wide reading where Mr Potter can hear every poisonous word.”

Her gaze sharpened to a spearpoint.
“This is about Harry,” she said, softly now. “Not you. Not your schooldays. Not your pride. If either of you cannot remember that, I will be more than happy to remove you from this hall until you can.”

There was a beat of silence.

Sirius swallowed, jaw working, then looked away first.
“Fine,” he muttered, dropping back into his chair. “For Harry.”

Snape’s expression smoothed back into chilly neutrality.
“As you wish, Headmistress,” he said. “I have no desire to… detract from Mr Potter’s educational experience.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed at the faint sarcasm, but she sat down again, lips pressed into a thin line.

Down at the Gryffindor table, Ron blew out a breath.
“Blimey,” he whispered. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen Professor Snape told off and actually sit down.”

Neville nodded fervently.
“When she gets that tone,” he said, “even dragons would sit down.”

Horatio relaxed fractionally, shoulders easing.
“Crisis… postponed,” he murmured to Calleigh.

“For now,” she said. “Give them another page.”

Andromeda read on, sounding faintly unimpressed with both men.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Sirius, letting his chair fall back on to all four legs with a loud bang.

‘Merely that I am sure you must feel – ah – frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful,’ Snape laid a delicate stress on the word, ‘for the Order.’

It was Sirius’s turn to flush. Snape’s lip curled in triumph as he turned to Harry.

‘The Headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.’

‘Study what?’ said Harry blankly. Snape’s sneer became more pronounced.

‘Occlumency, Potter. The magical defence of the mind against external penetration. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one.’

Harry’s heart began to pump very fast indeed. Defence against external penetration? But he was not being possessed, they had all agreed on that …

There was half a second of silence.

Then Fred choked.
“Sorry,” he wheezed, clutching his chest. “Defence against what?”

George’s shoulders were already shaking.
“External penetration,” he repeated, in an exaggerated, pompous Snape voice. “Highly advanced magic, Potter. Most wizards don’t even manage basic wand control before attempting it.”

Lee slapped the table, laughing.
“New NEWT subject,” he managed. “‘Advanced Defence Against External Penetration.’ Sign-up sheet outside Filch’s office.”

Ron had gone scarlet, but he was grinning helplessly.
“Blimey, Harry,” he spluttered. “Didn’t realise Snape was so concerned about your… mental virtue.”

Seamus was practically in tears.
“Imagine McGonagall calling the roll,” he gasped. “‘Potter, Weasley, Longbottom – have you all completed your homework on external penetration?’”

Neville, red-faced but unable to stop himself, muttered,
“Imagine Mum getting that on a report. ‘Neville is struggling with external penetration, Mrs Longbottom.’ She’d faint.”

Dean leaned in with evil glee.
“Bet Malfoy would brag about being top of the class,” he said. “‘Father will hear I achieved Outstanding in External Penetration, Potter.’”

A wave of sniggering rolled across the boys’ side of the hall. A couple of fifth-year Hufflepuff lads actually slid off the bench, wheezing.

Hermione had gone the particular shade of mortified pink that suggested she was regretting all her life choices.
“It is a legitimate branch of magic,” she hissed, looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her. “You’re all disgusting.”

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You lot have the maturity of flobberworms,” she informed the cluster of cackling idiots. “Flobberworms on firewhisky.”

Daphne, trying very hard not to laugh and failing just a little at the corner of her mouth, drawled,
“To be fair, whoever named it did not think about how it would sound in a room full of teenage boys.”

Up at the staff table, McGonagall removed her glasses and polished them in a way that suggested she was seriously considering retirement.
“I am,” she said crisply, “going to pretend I did not hear any of that.”

Snape, meanwhile, went very, very still, a muscle ticking in his jaw as the echo of “external penetration” and the giggling it had unleashed rippled through the hall.

“Fifteen,” he said at last, voice like ice. “You are fifteen years old, and yet somehow your collective wit has regressed to twelve.”

Fred brightened.
“Progress, then,” he said. “We were aiming for ten.”

Even Harry, tense at the word Occlumency, couldn’t help it; a reluctant snort escaped him. His heart was still thumping too fast, but surrounded by idiots making innuendo out of Snape’s least sexy sentence, the terror didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

‘Why do I have to study Occlu— thing?’ he blurted out.

‘Because the Headmaster thinks it a good idea,’ said Snape smoothly. ‘You will receive private lessons once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Who’s going to be teaching me?’ Snape raised an eyebrow.

‘I am,’ he said.

Harry had the horrible sensation that his insides were melting. Extra lessons with Snape – what on earth had he done to deserve this? He looked quickly round at Sirius for support.

There was a collective wince from the Gryffindor end of the hall.

Fred let out a long, low “Ooooooh,” like a Quidditch crowd seeing a nasty foul.
“Mate,” he said to Harry, “if I’d known that was coming, I’d have bought you a sympathy present back then. Like a nice helmet. Or a new brain.”

George nodded solemnly.
“Weekly one-to-ones with Snape,” he said. “That’s not a lesson, that’s psychological warfare.”

Ron shuddered.
“I take back everything I’ve ever said about extra homework,” he muttered. “I’d rather do Umbridge’s bloody kitten essays for the rest of my life than have Snape poke around in my head once a week.”

Neville looked horrified in a way that suggested he was mentally picturing it and not enjoying the experience.
“I’d have dropped out,” he said faintly. “Honestly. Left the country. Changed my name. Lived in a tree.”

Lee leaned across the table toward Harry.
“I’m just saying,” he said, “if anyone had told us you were doing private remedial Snape, we’d have started a collection for danger money.”

“Or flowers,” George added. “For your funeral.”

“Or earplugs,” Fred suggested. “For when he starts monologuing about how incompetent you are.”

Harry grimaced, shoulders hunching slightly as past-him on the page realised what “I am” meant.
“Trust me,” he said, “it was worse than it sounds. And it already sounds awful.”

A soft, disdainful sniff came from the staff table.

“If Mr Potter finds the prospect of extra tuition from a qualified professor so terrifying,” Snape said coolly, “perhaps he should have applied himself in his regular lessons.”

Fred opened his mouth. Snape didn’t even look at him.

“And before you ask, Weasley,” he went on, “no, I do not offer remedial sarcasm to those unable to keep their comments to themselves.”

George put a hand to his chest.
“Tragic,” he murmured. “Think what we could have learned.”

Neville, under his breath, said, “Pretty sure ‘qualified’ doesn’t usually include ‘emotionally scarring,’ Professor.”

Snape’s eyes flicked his way, dark and unreadable.
“Some defences,” he said, voice like cold steel, “are not learned in comfort, Longbottom.”

Harry met his gaze for a moment, then looked back down at the book. His insides might have been melting in the memory, but surrounded now by snorts and groans of sympathetic horror, it at least felt like everyone agreed on one thing: extra lessons with Snape were a fate you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.

Well. Maybe on Umbridge.

‘Why can’t Dumbledore teach Harry?’ asked Sirius aggressively. ‘Why you?’

‘I suppose because it is a headmaster’s privilege to delegate less enjoyable tasks,’ said Snape silkily. ‘I assure you I did not beg for the job.’ He got to his feet. ‘I will expect you at six o’clock on Monday evening, Potter. My office. If anybody asks, you are taking remedial Potions. Nobody who has seen you in my classes could deny you need them.’

He turned to leave, his black travelling cloak billowing behind him. ‘Wait a moment,’ said Sirius, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Snape turned back to face them, sneering.

‘I am in rather a hurry, Black. Unlike you, I do not have unlimited leisure time.’

‘I’ll get to the point, then,’ said Sirius, standing up. He was rather taller than Snape who, Harry noticed, balled his fist in the pocket of his cloak over what Harry was sure was the handle of his wand. ‘If I hear you’re using these Occlumency lessons to give Harry a hard time, you’ll have me to answer to.’

‘How touching,’ Snape sneered. ‘But surely you have noticed that Potter is very like his father?’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Sirius proudly.

‘Well then, you’ll know he’s so arrogant that criticism simply bounces off him,’ Snape said sleekly.

Sirius made a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat, the sort that belonged on a dog a second before it went for someone’s face.
“Arrogant?” he echoed, voice sharp. “He’s fifteen and carrying the weight of half the bloody world because the adults around him keep dropping it and walking away. If that looks like arrogance to you, it’s because you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon.”

Snape didn’t even blink. He just let the words slide off him like water off oil.
“It looks like arrogance because it is arrogance,” he said, tone smooth and quietly venomous. “A belief that rules, consequences, and common sense apply to everyone except Mr Potter. A belief you, naturally, encourage.”

Sirius’ mouth twisted.
“Oh, yes,” he said, voice rising. “How terrible. Imagine a boy thinking he has to act without permission when the people who should guide him keep him in the dark, punish him for telling the truth, and let a Ministry torture him in school.”

Snape’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Harry, then back to Sirius with a curl of contempt.
“And yet,” he replied, “he continues to charge headfirst into danger, convinced he alone can fix things. Like. His. Father.”

Sirius leaned forward, palms flat on the table now, chair scraping again.
“Say James like that again and I’ll show you what ‘charging headfirst’ looks like,” he snapped. “James was brave. He fought. He died protecting his family. And if you’re going to sit there pretending that’s a character flaw, you can choke on it.”

Snape’s expression tightened, just for a heartbeat, before smoothing back into that infuriating calm.
“Bravery and recklessness often share a border,” he said. “Mr Potter has never learned to recognise where one ends and the other begins.”

Sirius’ laugh was short, bitter.
“And you’ve never learned to recognise a child,” he shot back. “All you see is a ghost you want to punish.”

A hush spread through the tables, the sort of silence that wasn’t polite so much as watchful. Even a few Slytherins looked slightly uncomfortable.

Snape’s voice dropped, waspish.
“You presume I care enough to punish a ghost,” he said. “I care about preventing a catastrophe. Which requires discipline, secrecy, and a mind capable of being closed.”

Sirius’ eyes flashed.
“And what you mean by that is ‘obedience,’” he said. “You don’t want him safe. You want him quiet.”

Snape’s lip curled.
“I want him alive,” he said. “Try not to confuse that with affection.”

Sirius opened his mouth again, and somewhere between them the temperature in the room seemed to dip, like the air itself was bracing.

From the visitors’ section, Calleigh muttered, half to Horatio, “They’re fighting about a kid like he’s a case file.”

Horatio’s gaze stayed on the two men, steady and unreadable.
“No,” he said quietly. “They’re fighting about themselves.”

At the table, Sirius’ voice came out rougher now, stripped of some of its theatrical volume.
“He’s not James,” he said. “He’s Harry. And if you can’t see that, you have no business being anywhere near his mind.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Spare me the sentiment,” he murmured. “It does not change what must be done.”

Sirius leaned back again, but it wasn’t relaxed. It was the coiled kind of stillness right before a strike.
“And if you hurt him,” he said softly, “there won’t be enough Occlumency in the world to hide you from me.”

Sirius pushed his chair roughly aside and strode around the table towards Snape, pulling out his wand as he went. Snape whipped out his own. They were squaring up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape calculating, his eyes darting from Sirius’s wand-tip to his face.

‘Sirius!’ said Harry loudly, but Sirius appeared not to hear him.

‘I’ve warned you, Snivellus,’ said Sirius, his face barely a foot from Snape’s, ‘I don’t care if Dumbledore thinks you’ve reformed, I know better –’

Sprout actually yelped as Andromeda read the bit about wands coming out.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” she blurted, turning to glare down the hall at the real versions. “You two were duelling in the kitchen? With Harry right there?”

Molly’s eyes had gone very round and very bright. That particular combination never boded well.
“In my kitchen,” she said, voice climbing. “With my children in the house. And Harry. And a howling portrait. And a house-elf who would have loved the spectacle. Are you both out of your minds?”

Sirius, who had started to open his mouth with a half-defensive smirk, snapped it shut again.

McGonagall rose, slowly, like a storm cloud deciding which village to ruin.
“I am,” she said, in a tone that turned the entire Great Hall into first-years again, “trying to decide which is more appalling: the behaviour in that memory, or the fact that you are sitting here now and clearly still think it was defensible.”

Her eyes speared Sirius first.
“Mr Black,” she said crisply, “you do not pull a wand on a colleague in front of a child. You do not pull a wand on anyone in front of a child. We have covered this, repeatedly, with the Weasley twins, and they are fifteen. You are considerably older and allegedly wiser.”

Sirius muttered, “Debatable,” under his breath, but went very still under her stare.

Then she swivelled on Snape.
“And you,” she continued. “You did not back away either. You were in that house on the Headmaster’s orders, supposedly for Harry’s safety, and you chose to escalate a personal feud. In a war. In front of the boy you were sent there to help.”

Snape’s mouth compressed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Professor Sprout jabbed a small, earth-stained finger in their direction like she was scolding a pair of Hufflepuff first-years caught hexing mandrakes.
“What kind of example is that?” she demanded. “Honestly! We spend half our time telling these children not to hex first and think later, and then they get to see you two prancing around the kitchen like a pair of peacocks with wands.”

Molly folded her arms so tightly her knitting bag creaked.
“If I’d walked in and seen that,” she said, “I’d have stunned you both, dragged you out by your ears and grounded you until Voldemort died of old age. I don’t care how many NEWTs you’ve got.”

A few students snickered; several others looked like they entirely believed she could have done it.

McGonagall’s voice softened, but only a fraction.
“There is a war,” she said. “There are children looking to you for guidance. That means you do not indulge in… in this—” she flicked a hand at the book, where their past selves were nose-to-nose “—no matter how offended your pride may be. You settle your grievances elsewhere, or not at all.”

She let the words hang a moment, then added, with deadly precision,
“If I ever catch either of you drawing a wand on the other in this castle, I will relieve you of it and return you to the state of emotional development that this scene suggests. Permanently.”

Sirius swallowed, looking at the tabletop.
“Yes, Professor,” he muttered, sounding distressingly like a student again.

Snape inclined his head stiffly.
“Understood,” he said, voice flat.

From the Hufflepuff table, Hannah whispered, “They just got told off like five-year-olds.”

Ernie nodded, wide-eyed.
“Good,” he said. “They deserved it.”

‘Oh, but why don’t you tell him so?’ whispered Snape. ‘Or are you afraid he might not take very seriously the advice of a man who has been hiding inside his mother’s house for six months?’

‘Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he’s delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t he?’

Calleigh’s eyebrows shot up.
“Okay,” she murmured, leaning closer to Horatio, “so Hogwarts’ chemistry teacher traded insults about being Malfoy’s lapdog. That’s… a connection.”

Eric’s mouth pulled sideways.
“Yeah, that’s not a casual name drop,” he whispered. “That’s ‘I know your boss, I know his habits, I know how to hurt you with one sentence.’”

Ryan kept his eyes on Snape, voice very low.
“So Malfoy’s not just some random swamp psycho to them,” he said. “He’s someone their staff used to work with. Or for. Or against. Maybe all three.”

Horatio’s gaze didn’t move from Snape’s profile.
“In my world,” he said quietly, “that’s prior association with a violent offender. Enough to get you pulled into every briefing and every trial.”

Calleigh nodded slowly.
“And they’ve put him in a classroom, next to the target’s kid,” she added. “Either that’s terrible risk management, or he’s the magical equivalent of deep cover.”

Eric blew out a breath.
“Either way,” he said, eyes flicking between the pale line of Snape’s jaw and Sirius’ furious face, “I’d really like to see that guy’s personnel file.”

Ryan huffed a faint, humourless laugh.
“Get in line,” he muttered. “We’ve already got Malfoy on our ‘talk to someone about this lunatic’ list. Now we’ve got his old… colleague.”

Horatio’s head tilted a fraction.
“Colleague,” he repeated softly. “Or handler. Or rival.”

They fell quiet again as the argument in the memory rolled on, all four of them watching Snape with the particular, measuring attention of people mentally sketching out a very complicated case board.

‘Speaking of dogs,’ said Snape softly, ‘did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognised you last time you risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform … gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in future, didn’t it?’

Sirius raised his wand.

McGonagall’s chair scraped back so fast it almost toppled.

“Severus,” she said, and there was something in her voice that made half the Hall flinch.

Snape, who had been watching Sirius’ rising wand with that cold, poisonous satisfaction, turned his head just enough to meet her eyes.

“That will do,” she said, very softly. The softness was much worse than a shout. She came a step closer along the staff table, tartan robes whispering, spectacles glinting. “You knew precisely what you were doing with that remark.”

His expression didn’t change, but there was a fractional tightening around his mouth.
“I was merely stating a fact,” he said, tone light as dust.

“A fact,” McGonagall repeated, “weaponised to goad a man you knew was already unstable, in front of a child, in a house where he was trapped through no fault of his own.”

Sirius shifted uncomfortably; it was clearly not his favourite framing of events, but he didn’t argue.

“You chose,” she went on, “to jab at every raw nerve in the room in one sentence. You know very well how Little Whinging ended. You know exactly how close he came to being dragged back to Azkaban because of one glimpse on that platform. And you used it to score a point.”

Snape’s fingers twitched on the tabletop.
“If Black cannot bear to hear the consequences of his own reckless behaviour—”

“This is not about what he can bear,” McGonagall cut across, sharp as a snapped wand. “It is about what you chose to say. You are not some hot-headed sixth-year trying to impress his Housemates. You are a grown man, Dumbledore’s trusted agent, and whether you like it or not, Harry’s teacher.”

She leaned in just slightly, dropping her voice so only the nearest few could clearly hear, but the tone carried.
“You do not get to prod at old wounds for sport,” she said. “Not his, and not your own. Not when the boy sitting between you is already being pulled in two directions hard enough to break him.”

There was a tight, brittle silence.

“I will,” she added, in that same quiet voice, “be speaking to you about this later. In private. At length.”

Snape inclined his head a fraction, eyes hooded.
“As you wish, Headmistress,” he murmured.

“But for now,” McGonagall finished, straightening, “there will be no more mention of ‘jaunts’, ‘hidey-holes’ or anything else that sounds like it belongs in a playground argument rather than a war council. Am I understood?”

Sirius muttered, “Yes, Professor,” in perfect unison with Snape’s “Understood,” which earned both of them a few poorly concealed sniggers from the students.

McGonagall ignored the laughter. She resumed her seat with military precision, but her eyes stayed on Snape a moment longer, a promise of that later conversation hanging in the air like a thundercloud.

‘NO!’ Harry yelled, vaulting over the table and trying to get in between them. ‘Sirius, don’t!’

‘Are you calling me a coward?’ roared Sirius, trying to push Harry out of the way, but Harry would not budge.

‘Why, yes, I suppose I am,’ said Snape.

‘Harry – get – out – of – it!’ snarled Sirius, pushing him aside with his free hand.

The kitchen door opened and the entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, came inside, all looking very happy, with Mr Weasley walking proudly in

their midst dressed in a pair of striped pyjamas covered by a mackintosh. ‘Cured!’ he announced brightly to the kitchen at large. ‘Completely cured!’

He and all the other Weasleys froze on the threshold, gazing at the scene in front of them, which was also suspended in mid-action, both Sirius and Snape looking towards the door with their wands pointing into each other’s faces and Harry immobile between them, a hand stretched out to each, trying to force them apart.

‘Merlin’s beard,’ said Mr Weasley, the smile sliding off his face, ‘what’s going on here?’

Arthur shook his head

“I’ll be honest,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I’d just come out of St Mungo’s. I was expecting… you know. A hug. A cup of tea. Maybe one of Molly’s sandwiches. Not my friend and my colleague about to hex each other’s noses off with my children and Harry in the middle.”

The Weasley kids winced in unison; even the twins looked faintly sheepish.

Arthur went on, voice wry.
“In about three seconds I imagined every possible disaster,” he admitted. “Hexes flying, Harry getting hit trying to stop them, Sirius back in Azkaban, Severus sacked, Molly having a fit, Dumbledore sighing at all of us… and me back in a hospital bed under observation for ‘post-traumatic hallucinations’.”

Molly shot him a sideways look that was equal parts fond and exasperated.
“You were white as a sheet,” she said. “I thought you were going to keel over again.”

“I had just been bitten by a giant magical snake,” Arthur pointed out mildly. “Walking into the kitchen and seeing two grown men with wands in each other’s faces was not the restful homecoming I’d been promised.”

He glanced down the table at Harry, his expression softening.
“And,” he added quietly, “I remember thinking: of course he’s in the middle. Of course. Nearly loses me to a snake one night, stops a duel in the kitchen the next. It seems to be his lot in life.”

There was a ripple of uncomfortable agreement.

Arthur sighed, but his mouth quirked.
“I will say this,” he finished. “When I asked what was going on, I was rather hoping the answer would be ‘a misunderstanding over the gravy’, not ‘a decades-old school feud and a side order of espionage’.”

Both Sirius and Snape lowered their wands. Harry looked from one to the other. Each wore an expression of utmost contempt, yet the unexpected entrance of so many witnesses seemed to have brought them to their senses. Snape pocketed his wand and swept back across the kitchen, passing the Weasleys without comment. At the door he looked back.

‘Six o’clock, Monday evening, Potter.’

And he was gone. Sirius glared after him, his wand at his side. ‘What’s been going on?’ asked Mr Weasley again.

‘Nothing, Arthur,’ said Sirius, who was breathing heavily as though he had just run a long distance. ‘Just a friendly little chat between two old school friends.’ With what looked like an enormous effort, he smiled. ‘So … you’re cured? That’s great news, really great.’

Arthur snorted before Andromeda had even lowered the page.

“Friendly little chat,” he repeated, shaking his head. “If that was ‘friendly’, I’d hate to see you two actually fall out.”

A few people laughed; Sirius had the grace to look vaguely guilty. Snape stared straight ahead, expression carved from stone.

“I didn’t believe it for a second then,” Arthur went on. “Man comes out of Azkaban, has to hide in his childhood house for months, I walk in and he’s red-faced with his wand in someone’s nose… ‘friendly chat’ was about as convincing as Fred and George saying ‘we didn’t do it’.”

Fred put a hand to his chest.
“I’m wounded, Dad,” he said. “Mortally.”

George nodded.
“Our innocence has never been believed,” he sighed. “We suffer.”

… you’re cured? That’s great news, really great.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Weasley, leading her husband forward to a chair. ‘Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake’s got in its fangs, and Arthur’s learned his lesson about dabbling in Muggle medicine, haven’t you, dear?’ she added, rather menacingly.

‘Yes, Molly, dear,’ said Mr Weasley meekly.

That night’s meal should have been a cheerful one, with Mr Weasley back amongst them. Harry could tell Sirius was trying to make it so, yet when his godfather was not forcing himself to laugh loudly at Fred and George’s jokes or offering everyone more food, his face fell back into a moody, brooding expression.

Harry was separated from him by Mundungus and Mad-Eye, who had dropped in to offer Mr Weasley their congratulations. He wanted to talk to Sirius, to tell him he shouldn’t listen to a word Snape said, that Snape was goading him deliberately and that the rest of them didn’t think Sirius was a coward for doing as Dumbledore told him and remaining in Grimmauld Place. But he had no opportunity to do so, and, eyeing the ugly look on Sirius’s face, Harry wondered occasionally whether he would have dared to

mention it even if he had the chance. Instead, he told Ron and Hermione under his voice about having to take Occlumency lessons with Snape.

‘Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams about Voldemort,’ said Hermione at once. ‘Well, you won’t be sorry not to have them any more, will you?’

‘Extra lessons with Snape?’ said Ron, sounding aghast. ‘I’d rather have the nightmares!’

Ron grimaced so hard it almost looked painful.
“Yeah, I stand by that,” he said. “Nightmares, visions, mysterious snake corridors… still better than Snape going through your brain once a week like it’s a homework essay.”

Seamus nodded vigorously.
“Mate, I’d rather have ten Dementor nightmares,” he said. “At least you wake up from those and it’s over. Snape would’ve had you dreading Tuesdays for the rest of your life.”

Neville shuddered.
“I still get nervous walking past his classroom,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine choosing to go in there voluntarily after hours. Even if it was supposed to ‘help’.” He actually did air quotes.

Ron leaned closer to Harry.
“Seriously,” he added, “if anyone had given me a choice between ‘see inside Voldemort’s head sometimes’ and ‘let Snape poke around in mine on purpose,’ I’d have picked the snake-man. At least he’s honest about wanting to kill people.”

Seamus snorted.
“Exactly,” he said. “One wants to murder you. The other wants to ‘teach’ you. Both horrible, but one comes with homework.”

Neville managed a small, crooked smile.
“And only one of them takes points off if you flinch at the wrong time,” he said. “I’d pick the nightmares too.”

Harry huffed a reluctant laugh.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “nobody asked me which one I preferred, either.”

They were to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and Lupin, both of whom were eating breakfast in the kitchen when Harry, Ron and Hermione came down next morning. The adults seemed to have been midway through a whispered conversation as Harry opened the door; all of them looked round hastily and fell silent.

After a hurried breakfast, they all pulled on jackets and scarves against the chilly grey January morning. Harry had an unpleasant constricted sensation in his chest; he did not want to say goodbye to Sirius. He had a bad feeling about this parting; he didn’t know when they would next see each other and he felt it was incumbent upon him to say something to Sirius to stop him doing anything stupid – Harry was worried that Snape’s accusation of cowardice had stung Sirius so badly he might even now be planning some foolhardy trip beyond Grimmauld Place. Before he could think of what to say, however, Sirius had beckoned him to his side.

‘I want you to take this,’ he said quietly, thrusting a badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book into Harry’s hands.

‘What is it?’ Harry asked.

‘A way of letting me know if Snape’s giving you a hard time. No, don’t open it in here!’ said Sirius, with a wary look at Mrs Weasley, who was trying to persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. ‘I doubt Molly would approve – but I want you to use it if you need me, all right?’

Molly side-eyed Sirius suspiciously but didn’t say anything.

‘OK,’ said Harry, stowing the package away in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he knew he would never use whatever it was. It would not be he, Harry, who lured Sirius from his place of safety, no matter how foully Snape treated him in their forthcoming Occlumency classes.

‘Let’s go, then,’ said Sirius, clapping Harry on the shoulder and smiling grimly, and before Harry could say anything else, they were heading upstairs, stopping before the heavily chained and bolted front door, surrounded by Weasleys.

‘Goodbye, Harry, take care,’ said Mrs Weasley, hugging him.

‘See you, Harry, and keep an eye out for snakes for me!’ said Mr Weasley

genially, shaking his hand.

‘Right – yeah,’ said Harry distractedly; it was his last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned, looked into his godfather’s face and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving him a brief, one- armed hug, and saying gruffly, ‘Look after yourself, Harry.’ Next moment, Harry found himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with Tonks (today heavily disguised as a tall, tweedy woman with iron-grey hair) chivvying him down the steps.

The door of number twelve slammed shut behind them. They followed Lupin down the front steps. As he reached the pavement, Harry looked round. Number twelve was shrinking rapidly as those on either side of it stretched sideways, squeezing it out of sight. One blink later, it had gone.

‘Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,’ said Tonks, and Harry thought there was nervousness in the glance she threw around the square. Lupin flung out his right arm.

BANG.

A violently purple, triple-decker bus had appeared out of thin air in front of them, narrowly avoiding the nearest lamppost, which jumped backwards out of its way.

A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform leapt down on to the pavement and said, ‘Welcome to the –’

‘Yes, yes, we know, thank you,’ said Tonks swiftly. ‘On, on, get on –’

And she shoved Harry forwards towards the steps, past the conductor, who goggled at Harry as he passed.

‘’Ere – it’s ’Arry –!’

‘If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,’ muttered Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and Hermione forwards.

Eric let out a low whistle as Andromeda read about the Knight Bus screeching into existence.
“So,” he said slowly, “your version of ‘secure transport’ for a kid with a target on his head is… a public bus where the driver recognises him on sight and yells his name?”

Tonks winced.
“In my defence,” she said, “it was late, it was cold, and nobody had a spare invisible armoured car lying around.”

Horatio’s head tilted a fraction.
“In our world,” he said mildly, “if we need to move a high-risk witness, we don’t shove them onto public transit and hope the conductor isn’t a fan.”

Calleigh nodded, eyes narrowed in professional “absolutely not” mode.
“Yeah, we’d at least clear the vehicle first,” she said. “Driver vetted, route controlled, no randoms who can yell ‘hey, it’s the kid every psycho wants to murder’ in the middle of a street.”

Ryan added, “And we don’t let the vehicle itself shout either. That thing announces itself like a crime scene on wheels.”

Lupin looked faintly pained.
“In retrospect,” he admitted, “it was perhaps not… ideal.”

Arthur coughed.
“The Order doesn’t exactly have a fleet of unmarked Ministry cars,” he said. “We were trying to be quick and… flexible.”

“Flexible is one word,” Eric said. “My word would be ‘traceable’.”

Horatio’s gaze drifted to Harry.
“You survived it,” he said. “But if I’d been drawing up your protection plan, that bus would not have been on the list.”

Tonks groaned softly, dropping her forehead briefly to the table.
“All right,” she muttered, “next time we’ll steal a Muggle police car and you can all feel properly at home.”

‘I’ve always wanted to go on this thing,’ said Ron happily, joining Harry on board and looking around.

It had been evening the last time Harry had travelled by Knight Bus and its three decks had been full of brass bedsteads. Now, in the early morning, it was crammed with an assortment of mismatched chairs grouped haphazardly around windows. Some of these appeared to have fallen over when the bus stopped abruptly in Grimmauld Place; a few witches and wizards were still getting to their feet, grumbling, and somebody’s shopping bag had slid the length of the bus: an unpleasant mixture of frogspawn, cockroaches and custard creams was scattered all over the floor.

‘Looks like we’ll have to split up,’ said Tonks briskly, looking around for

empty chairs. ‘Fred, George and Ginny, if you just take those seats at the back

… Remus can stay with you.’

She, Harry, Ron and Hermione proceeded up to the very top deck, where there were two unoccupied chairs at the very front of the bus and two at the back. Stan Shunpike, the conductor, followed Harry and Ron eagerly to the back. Heads turned as Harry passed and, when he sat down, he saw all the faces flick back to the front again.

Calleigh actually put her face in her hands this time.
“Of course it’s full,” she muttered. “Of course. Famous kid, everyone staring, conductor practically drooling on him. This is not witness relocation, this is a guided tour.”

Eric shook his head slowly.
“So he’s basically your… magical celebrity target,” he said, “recognisable by scar, name, hair, everything… and you park him on the top deck of a public bus where everyone can get a nice long look.”

Ryan added, “And then you sent the walking ‘HARRY POTTER!’ megaphone to sit next to him. Genius.”

Horatio’s mouth thinned in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“If I’d done that with a protected witness,” he said quietly, “my supervisor would have taken my badge, my gun, and probably my car keys. For my own safety.”

Up the table, Tonks held both hands up like a suspect.
“All right,” she said, resigned. “I concede the Knight Bus was not the height of operational security.”

Harry snorted.
“That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “Felt more like being shoved onto a moving billboard that shouted ‘look who’s not dead!’ every five seconds.”

Ron grimaced.
“Yeah, everyone gawping at you,” he agreed. “If any Death Eater had been on there with a cloak and a hat, they could’ve just… watched.”

Neville, thinking about it, shivered.
“And followed when you got off,” he said. “No wards, no checks, just… hope it’s fine.”

Calleigh gave Tonks a sideways look that was more amused than accusing now.
“Next time,” she said, “call us. We’ll show you how to do an actual covert move. Step one: no conductors who shout your witness’s name across the aisle.”

Tonks sighed.
“Merlin help me,” she muttered. “I’m getting tactical lectures from Muggles.”

As Harry and Ron handed Stan eleven Sickles each, the bus set off again, swaying ominously. It rumbled around Grimmauld Place, weaving on and off the pavement, then, with another tremendous BANG, they were all flung backwards; Ron’s chair toppled right over and Pigwidgeon, who had been on his lap, burst out of his cage and flew twittering wildly up to the front of the bus where he fluttered down on to Hermione’s shoulder instead. Harry, who had narrowly avoided falling by seizing a candle bracket, looked out of the window: they were now speeding down what appeared to be a motorway.

‘Just outside Birmingham,’ said Stan happily, answering Harry’s unasked question as Ron struggled up from the floor. ‘You keepin’ well, then, ’Arry? I seen your name in the paper loads over the summer, but it weren’t never nuffink very nice. I said to Ern, I said, ’e didn’t seem like a nutter when we met ’im, just goes to show, dunnit?’

He handed over their tickets and continued to gaze, enthralled, at Harry. Apparently, Stan did not care how nutty somebody was, if they were famous enough to be in the paper. The Knight Bus swayed alarmingly, overtaking a line of cars on the inside. Looking towards the front of the bus, Harry saw Hermione cover her eyes with her hands, Pigwidgeon swaying happily on her shoulder.

BANG.

Chairs slid backwards again as the Knight Bus jumped from the Birmingham motorway to a quiet country lane full of hairpin bends. Hedgerows on either side of the road were leaping out of their way as they mounted the verges. From here they moved to a main street in the middle of a busy town, then to a viaduct surrounded by tall hills, then to a windswept road between high-rise flats, each time with a loud BANG.

The CSIs were all staring at Andromeda like she’d just read out a confession to thirty-seven traffic violations in one breath.

Eric blinked.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “So your magic bus is driven like that and is allowed on the road?”

Calleigh gave a disbelieving laugh.
“It’s swerving on and off the pavement, jumping motorways, launching your friend onto the floor and changing locations with explosions,” she said. “That’s not public transport, that’s an ongoing incident.”

Ryan shook his head.
“If we saw a vehicle doing half that, we’d shut down the whole road and assume the driver was drunk, on something, or actively trying to die,” he muttered. “And this is… normal?”

Harry pulled a face.
“Depends who you ask,” he said. “Stan thought it was great.”

Horatio’s gaze went thoughtful.
“And the conductor,” he added, “is chatting about how ‘nutty’ you supposedly are while the bus nearly kills everyone on board. If that’s your safety standard, I don’t want to see your worst.”

Hermione shuddered, remembering.
“That was the first time I’d ever taken the Knight Bus,” she said. “I thought we were going to die between Birmingham and… wherever that country lane was. I had my eyes covered pretty much the whole way.”

Ron nodded emphatically.
“Yeah, never again if I can help it,” he said. “You spend half the trip sliding out of your chair and the other half wondering which lamppost you’re going to hit next. I’d rather take a broom in a thunderstorm.”

Neville, listening to the list of jumps, winced.
“And Stan just stood there talking about the newspaper the whole time?” he said. “Didn’t even look worried?”

Harry snorted.
“He was more interested in telling me the Prophet said I was mad than in the fact we were mounting hedges at forty miles an hour,” he said. “Priorities.”

Eric shook his head, still watching Harry.
“Famous kid, no seatbelts, volatile driver, zero route secrecy, conductor who can’t stop saying his name and calling him crazy,” he summarised. “You didn’t take a bus, you took a lawsuit.”

Tonks groaned softly.
“All right, all right,” she muttered. “Next time I’ll just conjure everyone a nice, boring, regulation-compliant car and we’ll crawl along at thirty.”

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ muttered Ron, picking himself up from the floor for the sixth time, ‘I never want to ride on this thing again.’

‘Listen, it’s ’Ogwarts stop after this,’ said Stan brightly, swaying towards them. ‘That bossy woman up front ’oo got on with you, she’s given us a little tip to move you up the queue. We’re just gonna let Madam Marsh off first, though –’ there was a retching sound from downstairs, followed by a horrible

spattering noise ‘– she’s not feeling ’er best.’

A few minutes later, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt outside a small pub, which squeezed itself out of the way to avoid a collision. They could hear Stan ushering the unfortunate Madam Marsh out of the bus and the relieved murmurings of her fellow passengers on the second deck. The bus moved on again, gathering speed, until –

BANG.

They were rolling through a snowy Hogsmeade. Harry caught a glimpse of the Hog’s Head down its side street, the severed boar’s head sign creaking in the wintry wind. Flecks of snow hit the large window at the front of the bus. At last they rolled to a halt outside the gates to Hogwarts.

Lupin and Tonks helped them off the bus with their luggage, then got off to say goodbye. Harry glanced up at the three decks of the Knight Bus and saw all the passengers staring down at them, noses flat against the windows.

‘You’ll be safe once you’re in the grounds,’ said Tonks, casting a careful eye around at the deserted road. ‘Have a good term, OK?’

‘Look after yourselves,’ said Lupin, shaking hands all round and reaching Harry last. ‘And listen …’ he lowered his voice while the rest of them exchanged last-minute goodbyes with Tonks, ‘Harry, I know you don’t like Snape, but he is a superb Occlumens and we all – Sirius included – want you to learn to protect yourself, so work hard, all right?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ said Harry heavily, looking up into Lupin’s prematurely lined face. ‘See you, then.’

The six of them struggled up the slippery drive towards the castle, dragging their trunks. Hermione was already talking about knitting a few elf hats before bedtime. Harry glanced back when they reached the oaken front doors; the Knight Bus had already gone and he half-wished, given what was coming the following evening, that he was still on board.

The CSI lot all looked varying shades of appalled as Andromeda finished.

Eric blinked first.
“Wait,” he said. “So the bus drops you outside the gate. On an open road. And then just… leaves? With a full load of witnesses pressed to the windows?”

Calleigh shook her head slowly.
“Yeah, that’s not ‘secure handoff’,” she said. “That’s ‘we’ve delivered your high-risk minors to the general vicinity of the target, good luck dragging your own luggage under sniper conditions’.”

Ryan gestured vaguely at the air where the gates would be.
“And you two just let them walk up?” he said to Tonks and Remus. “No escort all the way to the door, no visual confirmation inside, just… ‘you’ll be safe once you’re in the grounds, see ya’?”

Tonks grimaced.
“In my defence,” she said, “we were in sight of the castle. Wards, protections, big friendly homicidal gamekeeper. It felt… safe.”

Remus nodded, but his mouth was tight.
“At the time,” he said quietly, “we thought the perimeter itself would deter anyone watching. Hogwarts is supposed to be one of the safest places in the world.”

Horatio’s gaze was steady, not unkind but absolutely unconvinced.
“In my world,” he said, “you’re not ‘safe’ when you can see the building. You’re safe when the door is shut behind you and you’re past the guards.”

Eric added, “And you don’t turn your back on a bus full of people who’ve just had a free look at your witness and his friends. Faces, height, hair, luggage, time of arrival… if any of them was working for the other side, that’s plenty.”

Ginny shivered, thinking of all those noses flattened to the glass.
“I didn’t like it at the time,” she admitted. “Felt like every pair of eyes was… weighing us. I was just glad to get inside.”

Ron snorted.
“I was just glad to get off the bus without being sick,” he said. “Didn’t even think about snipers. Thanks for that mental image.”

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug.
“Honestly,” he said, “I was mostly thinking about Snape and Occlumency and how much I didn’t want the next evening to exist. If someone had yelled ‘duck’ on the drive, I probably would’ve assumed it was about homework.”

Tonks groaned quietly.
“Look,” she said, “with hindsight? Yes, we probably should’ve at least walked you to the doors. Or argued for a side-Apparition straight into the grounds. At the time it was ‘get you away from Grimmauld and Umbridge’s quill as fast as possible’.”

Ryan still shook his head.
“Fast isn’t the same as safe,” he said. “You got lucky no one was waiting on that road.”

Remus’ eyes darkened; he inclined his head.
“Point taken,” he said. “If we ever have to do it again, we’ll plan it like a prison transfer, not a school run.”

Horatio nodded once, satisfied only in the sense of “lesson acknowledged”.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “you did get them there. But if I were Voldemort and reading this, I’d be taking notes.”

Harry spent most of the next day dreading the evening. His morning double- Potions lesson did nothing to dispel his trepidation, as Snape was as unpleasant as ever. His mood was further lowered by the DA members constantly approaching him in the corridors between classes, asking hopefully if there would be a meeting that night.

‘I’ll let you know in the usual way when the next one is,’ Harry said over and over again, ‘but I can’t do it tonight, I’ve got to go to – er – remedial Potions.’

‘You take remedial Potions?’ asked Zacharias Smith superciliously, having

cornered Harry in the Entrance Hall after lunch. ‘Good Lord, you must be terrible. Snape doesn’t usually give extra lessons, does he?’

As Smith strode away in an annoyingly buoyant fashion, Ron glared after him.

‘Shall I jinx him? I can still get him from here,’ he said, raising his wand and taking aim between Smith’s shoulder blades.

‘Forget it,’ said Harry dismally. ‘It’s what everyone’s going to think, isn’t it? That I’m really stup—’

‘Hi, Harry,’ said a voice behind him. He turned round and found Cho standing there.

‘Oh,’ said Harry as his stomach leapt uncomfortably. ‘Hi.’

‘We’ll be in the library, Harry,’ said Hermione firmly as she seized Ron above the elbow and dragged him off towards the marble staircase.

‘Had a good Christmas?’ asked Cho. ‘Yeah, not bad,’ said Harry.

‘Forget it,’ said Harry dismally. ‘It’s what everyone’s going to think, isn’t it? That I’m really stup—’

‘Hi, Harry,’ said a voice behind him. He turned round and found Cho standing there.

‘Oh,’ said Harry as his stomach leapt uncomfortably. ‘Hi.’

‘We’ll be in the library, Harry,’ said Hermione firmly as she seized Ron above the elbow and dragged him off towards the marble staircase.

‘Had a good Christmas?’ asked Cho. ‘Yeah, not bad,’ said Harry.

‘Mine was pretty quiet,’ said Cho. For some reason, she was looking rather embarrassed. ‘Erm … there’s another Hogsmeade trip next month, did you see the notice?’

‘What? Oh, no, I haven’t checked the noticeboard since I got back.’ ‘Yes, it’s on Valentine’s Day …’

‘Right,’ said Harry, wondering why she was telling him this. ‘Well, I suppose you want to –?’

‘Only if you do,’ she said eagerly.

Harry stared. He had been about to say, ‘I suppose you want to know when the next DA meeting is?’ but her response did not seem to fit.

‘I – er –’ he said.

‘Oh, it’s OK if you don’t,’ she said, looking mortified. ‘Don’t worry. I – I’ll see you around.’

She walked away. Harry stood staring after her, his brain working frantically. Then something clunked into place.

‘Cho! Hey – CHO!’

He ran after her, catching her halfway up the marble staircase.

‘Er – d’you want to come into Hogsmeade with me on Valentine’s Day?’ ‘Oooh, yes!’ she said, blushing crimson and beaming at him.

‘Right … well … that’s settled then,’ said Harry, and feeling that the day was not going to be a complete loss after all, he virtually bounced off to the library to pick up Ron and Hermione before their afternoon lessons.

Daphne’s eyes narrowed the moment Andromeda read Cho’s bright, hopeful “Only if you do.”

She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but her gaze slid along the table, found Cho, and settled on her like a hex held just shy of being cast. Cool, assessing, not remotely amused. It said very clearly: that was then. This is now. Know your place.

Cho, who had been watching the scene with a soft, nostalgic little smile, felt it land and stiffened. Her own chin came up a fraction; she met Daphne’s look head-on. There was embarrassment there, and a little guilt, but there was also a very Ravenclaw “excuse you, he asked me out first” rumble simmering just under the surface.

For a few seconds, the two of them just looked at each other across the Hall: no words, no wand movement, just the quiet crackle of territorial teenage energy. Most people were busy smirking at Harry’s past self tripping over his own tongue and missed it entirely.

Harry missed all of it. He was staring at the page with the sort of expression that suggested he wanted to climb inside time itself and strangle his younger self to death before he got to the bit with Valentine’s Day and coffee shops. If you’d asked him, he’d have said the weirdest thing happening in that moment was his own dialogue.

Hermione, however, saw everything.

She caught the steel in Daphne’s eyes, the flash in Cho’s, the way Daphne’s hand crept just a little closer to Harry’s on the bench as if to underline a point. Then, because the universe enjoys complications, Hermione’s gaze drifted the other way and landed on Ginny.

Ginny was watching too, teeth worrying her lower lip, brown eyes tight with a familiar mix of longing and annoyance. There was a flicker there when Daphne moved her hand: a flash of jealousy, sharp and bright, gone almost as soon as it appeared but very much real.

Hermione said nothing. She did not sigh, did not roll her eyes, did not launch into a lecture on how this was absolutely the worst possible year for romantic drama, what with tyrannical toads and Dark Lords and exams. She just folded it away neatly in the back of her mind with everything else she was quietly tracking.

Three girls, one very oblivious boy, a war, a tyranny, and an upcoming Valentine’s Day.

Trouble, she thought, keeping her face carefully neutral as she turned back to the book. Almost certainly brewing.

By six o’clock that evening, however, even the glow of having successfully asked out Cho Chang could not lighten the ominous feelings that intensified with every step Harry took towards Snape’s office.

He paused outside the door when he reached it, wishing he were almost anywhere else, then, taking a deep breath, he knocked and entered.

The shadowy room was lined with shelves bearing hundreds of glass jars in which slimy bits of animals and plants were suspended in variously coloured potions. In one corner stood the cupboard full of ingredients that Snape had once accused Harry – not without reason – of robbing. Harry’s attention was drawn towards the desk, however, where a shallow stone basin engraved with runes and symbols lay in a pool of candlelight. Harry recognised it at once – it was Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Wondering what on earth it was doing there, he jumped when Snape’s cold voice came out of the shadows.

McGonagall’s lips thinned as Andromeda described the rows of jars and floating slimy things.

“Really, Severus,” she said coolly, “have you ever considered… brightening the place up? A window you can actually see out of? Perhaps one wall without something pickled staring at the door?”

There was a ripple of laughter.

Snape folded his arms, unimpressed.
“I find,” he said, “that the atmosphere is… conducive to concentration. Students are less inclined to chatter when they are aware how easily internal organs can be removed and preserved.”

“Atmosphere,” Ron muttered. “It’s like walking into the inside of a dead squid.”

Neville nodded fervently.
“I always feel like the jars are… watching,” he said. “If he wanted us to concentrate, he could just not glare at us. Would work the same.”

Seamus shuddered.
“Looks like the set of a horror film,” he said under his breath. “You go in there alone at night, you’re not coming back out again with the same number of limbs.”

Down by the visitors’ section, Eric gave a low whistle.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s not an office, that’s an evidence locker crossed with a serial killer’s pantry.”

Calleigh nodded, eyes narrowing in professional distaste.
“If you had a room that dark, full of jars of bits, and a basin full of swirling memories on a desk in my world,” she said, “that’s where we’d be sending the full SWAT team in first. With cameras. And backup.”

Ryan added, “And I’d be waiting outside until they told me it was clear. No way am I walking into ‘shadowy organ lab’ with the lights off and the owner already mad at me.”

Horatio’s head tilted a fraction.
“And you sent a terrified fifteen-year-old in there alone,” he said quietly. “To let the owner inside his mind.”

That thought hung in the air.

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened on Snape again.
“Atmosphere or not,” she said, “perhaps, when the purpose of the meeting is to teach a child to defend his mind from invasion, you might consider not choosing the most intimidating possible setting. It looks like something out of a cautionary tale.”

Snape’s mouth curled.
“If Mr Potter requires soft lighting and lace curtains in order to take his lessons seriously,” he replied, “he is free to redecorate the Gryffindor common room. My classroom is not a parlour.”

Several students exchanged looks that said, as clearly as words: parlour or not, they still wouldn’t set foot in that room after dark if you paid them.

‘Shut the door behind you, Potter.’

Harry did as he was told, with the horrible feeling that he was imprisoning himself. When he turned back into the room, Snape had moved into the light and was pointing silently at the chair opposite his desk. Harry sat down and so did Snape, his cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Harry, dislike etched in every line of his face.

‘Well, Potter, you know why you are here,’ he said. ‘The Headmaster has asked me to teach you Occlumency. I can only hope that you prove more adept at it than at Potions.’

‘Right,’ said Harry tersely.

‘This may not be an ordinary class, Potter,’ said Snape, his eyes narrowed malevolently, ‘but I am still your teacher and you will therefore call me “sir” or “Professor” at all times.’

‘Yes … sir,’ said Harry.

‘Now, Occlumency. As I told you back in your dear godfather’s kitchen, this branch of magic seals the mind against magical intrusion and influence.’

‘And why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it, sir?’ said Harry, looking directly into Snape’s eyes and wondering whether Snape would answer.

Snape looked back at him for a moment and then said contemptuously, ‘Surely even you could have worked that out by now, Potter? The Dark Lord is highly skilled at Legilimency –’

‘What’s that? Sir?’

‘It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person’s

mind –’

‘He can read minds?’ said Harry quickly, his worst fears confirmed.

Neville’s eyes went enormous.
“He can read minds?” he echoed, voice a little higher than usual. “Like… actually read them?”

Seamus swallowed hard.
“So it’s not just nightmares and snake visions,” he said. “He can just… go in and take things.”

Dean’s mouth had gone tight.
“That’s cheating,” he muttered. “It’s bad enough he’s got an army and a snake and Death Eaters. Now he can just look inside your head and see everything? That’s… that’s not fair.”

A low ripple went through the Hall. Hufflepuffs whispering uneasily, a few Ravenclaws looking downright queasy at the idea of their thoughts being rummaged through, several Slytherins going very still indeed. “He can read minds” was not a comforting sentence to anyone who had ever thought anything treasonous in the privacy of their own skull.

“No wonder Dumbledore wants Occlumency,” someone muttered.
“Imagine if he saw the DA,” another whispered back.
“If he can do that, what else can he see?”

Down with the visitors, Eric let out a slow breath.
“Okay,” he murmured, “you left out the part where your serial killer can literally pull memories out of people’s heads.”

Calleigh shook her head, looking genuinely rattled now.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’m a ballistics expert and even I know there is no version of ‘mind-reading criminal’ where any cop sleeps well ever again.”

Ryan frowned.
“In interrogation,” he said, “the only thing standing between a suspect and conviction half the time is what we can prove and what’s going on in their head. If a guy like this can just… take what he wants from witnesses, from jurors, from cops…” He trailed off, grimacing. “There’s no system that survives that.”

Horatio’s gaze stayed on Harry, steady and assessing.
“A man who can read minds doesn’t just threaten lives,” he said quietly. “He threatens trust. Between partners, between officers, between families. You’d never know which thoughts were yours and which ones he’d nudged.”

He glanced towards Dumbledore then, just for a heartbeat.
“In that situation,” he added, “teaching a boy to close his mind isn’t a luxury. It’s the only sane thing anyone’s done so far.”

‘You have no subtlety, Potter,’ said Snape, his dark eyes glittering. ‘You do not understand fine distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes you such a lamentable potion-maker.’

Snape paused for a moment, apparently to savour the pleasure of insulting Harry, before continuing.

McGonagall’s chair creaked as she straightened, eyes suddenly sharp enough to cut glass.

“Severus,” she snapped, the name coming out like a hex. “That is quite enough.”

Snape turned his head very slightly, eyebrow lifting in polite inquiry that fooled exactly no one.

“You are supposedly teaching him to defend his mind,” she went on, voice low but carrying, “not taking the opportunity to rehearse every petty grievance you have ever had with his performance in your classroom.”

A few Gryffindors smirked; several Slytherins tried to look like they hadn’t.

“If Mr Potter’s potion-making offends you,” she continued, “you may address it during Potions. In the appropriate tone. This is not the time, and it is certainly not the place, to indulge yourself by calling a fifteen-year-old ‘lamentable’ in front of the entire school.”

Snape’s mouth tightened.
“I was merely pointing out his lack of subtlety,” he said, silk over steel. “A relevant flaw, given the subject.”

“And you did so,” McGonagall shot back, “in the most childish manner available to you. You are not dealing with James in your fifth year, Severus. You are dealing with Harry, now. Try to remember the difference.”

There was a little ripple at that – the students didn’t miss the distinction.

She held his gaze a moment longer, then added, even more softly,
“If you cannot instruct without gratuitous insult, perhaps you should reconsider whether you are the appropriate person to be giving these lessons at all.”

Snape’s jaw flexed, but he inclined his head a fraction.
“I shall endeavour,” he said, “to be more… restrained, Professor.”

“See that you do,” McGonagall replied briskly, settling back in her chair, though her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer. “We have enough overgrown children in this war without our staff joining their ranks.”

‘Only Muggles talk of “mind-reading”. The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many- layered thing, Potter – or at least, most minds are.’ He smirked. ‘It is true, however, that those who have mastered Legilimency are able, under certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and memories that contradict the lie, and so can utter falsehoods in his presence without detection.’

Whatever Snape said, Legilimency sounded like mind-reading to Harry, and he didn’t like the sound of it at all.

‘So he could know what we’re thinking right now? Sir?’

‘The Dark Lord is at a considerable distance and the walls and grounds of Hogwarts are guarded by many ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and mental safety of those who dwell within them,’ said Snape. ‘Time and space matter in magic, Potter. Eye contact is often essential to Legilimency.’

‘Well then, why do I have to learn Occlumency?’

Snape eyed Harry, tracing his mouth with one long, thin finger as he did so. ‘The usual rules do not seem to apply with you, Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have forged some kind of connection between you and

the Dark Lord. The evidence suggests that at times, when your mind is most

relaxed and vulnerable – when you are asleep, for instance – you are sharing the Dark Lord’s thoughts and emotions. The Headmaster thinks it inadvisable for this to continue. He wishes me to teach you how to close your mind to the Dark Lord.’

Harry’s heart was pumping fast again. None of this added up.

‘But why does Professor Dumbledore want to stop it?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I don’t like it much, but it’s been useful, hasn’t it? I mean … I saw that snake attack Mr Weasley and if I hadn’t, Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have been able to save him, would he? Sir?’

“No, I don’t care how useful it was then,” said Arthur shaking his head, “You should not have to endure it again,”

Harry nodded quietly

Snape stared at Harry for a few moments, still tracing his mouth with his finger. When he spoke again, it was slowly and deliberately, as though he weighed every word.

‘It appears that the Dark Lord has been unaware of the connection between you and himself until very recently. Up till now it seems that you have been experiencing his emotions, and sharing his thoughts, without his being any the wiser. However, the vision you had shortly before Christmas –’

‘The one with the snake and Mr Weasley?’

‘Do not interrupt me, Potter,’ said Snape in a dangerous voice. ‘As I was saying, the vision you had shortly before Christmas represented such a powerful incursion upon the Dark Lord’s thoughts –’

‘I saw inside the snake’s head, not his!’

‘I thought I just told you not to interrupt me, Potter?’

But Harry did not care if Snape was angry; at last he seemed to be getting to the bottom of this business; he had moved forwards in his chair so that, without realising it, he was perched on the very edge, tense as though poised for flight.

‘How come I saw through the snake’s eyes if it’s Voldemort’s thoughts I’m sharing?’

‘Do not say the Dark Lord’s name!’ spat Snape.

Sirius gave a low, derisive huff.

“Still can’t say his name, can you?” he said, loud enough that several heads turned. “All these years, and it’s still ‘Dark Lord’ like you’re on his Christmas card list.”

Snape’s head snapped round, eyes like chips of obsidian.
“Some of us,” he said icily, “have learned that speaking a name needlessly gives it power it does not deserve.”

“Oh, spare me,” Sirius shot back. “It’s not philosophy, Snivellus, it’s fear. You flinch every time anyone says it. You sound like one of his fan club at a rally.”

A couple of students near the front table sucked in a breath; even a few Slytherins looked uneasy at Sirius saying it so openly.

Snape’s lip curled.
“Better, I suppose,” he said softly, “to shout it in every corridor you pass through and paint a target on everyone around you. Very Gryffindor. Very… James.”

Sirius bristled.
“At least James didn’t spend half his youth grovelling in a mask,” he snapped. “You can drop the pious act, Severus. You called him ‘my Lord’ for years and you know it.”

“And you,” Snape hissed back, “spent those same years hexing anyone you found inconvenient and laughing about it. Forgive me if I do not take morality lectures from you.”

The temperature around the staff table took another noticeable dive.

Before Sirius could retort, McGonagall was on her feet again.
“Enough,” she said sharply. “Both of you.”

They turned, almost in sync, like boys caught fighting in a corridor.

“We are not,” she said, jaw tight, “going to have another argument about who did what at school, or how one addresses You-Know-Who, in the middle of a discussion of Harry’s safety.”

Her gaze pinned Sirius first.
“Mr Black, baiting Professor Snape over the way he refers to Voldemort helps nobody,” she said. “You may be comfortable flinging the name around in public; most of us remember all too well what was happening the last time it was commonplace. Try to show some restraint.”

Then she turned that same stare on Snape.
“And you,” she added. “You will not snap at Harry for using the name. If the boy chooses to strip some of the fear from it, I will not have you putting it back on like a cloak. He has quite enough to contend with without being punished for saying two syllables.”

Sirius opened his mouth.
“Not. A. Word,” she said without looking at him. He closed it again.

“For the avoidance of doubt,” she finished crisply, “I expect both of you to behave as adults, not as sulky fifth-years who’ve just discovered hexes. If you must squabble about how to address the Dark Lord, do it in private, preferably somewhere Harry is not.”

There were a few muffled snickers at “sulky fifth-years,” quickly smothered. Sirius slouched, chastened; Snape went expressionless in that way that meant he was annoyed.

Down with the CSIs, Eric leaned closer to the others.
“So,” he murmured, “this guy knows Lucius Malfoy, used to run with his crowd, calls Voldemort ‘the Dark Lord’ and can’t say his name without twitching. Still working at the school. Still teaching the target.”

Calleigh’s mouth twisted.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “If he showed up in one of our cases with that résumé, he’d be in an interview room, not a classroom.”

Ryan nodded, eyes still on Snape.
“At best,” he muttered, “that’s a whole lot of unresolved trauma. At worst, that’s lingering loyalty he doesn’t want to admit to.”

Horatio’s gaze stayed steady, weighing.
“Either way,” he said under his breath, “you don’t give a man like that unrestricted access to a boy whose mind your enemy wants.”

There was a nasty silence. They glared at each other across the Pensieve. ‘Professor Dumbledore says his name,’ said Harry quietly.

‘Dumbledore is an extremely powerful wizard,’ Snape muttered. ‘While he may feel secure enough to use the name … the rest of us …’ He rubbed his left forearm, apparently unconsciously, on the spot where Harry knew the Dark Mark was burned into his skin.

Sirius let out a sharp, humourless bark of laughter when Snape’s hand drifted to his forearm.

“Oh, go on then,” he said, leaning forward, eyes bright with something not entirely sane. “Finish that sentence, Severus. ‘The rest of us who kissed his robes and begged for a mark’? ‘The rest of us who liked saying “my Lord” too much to stop’?”

A few students flinched; even some of the Slytherins looked away. Snape’s fingers stilled on his sleeve, jaw tightening, eyes going flat and cold.

Before he could answer, two separate maternal death rays hit Sirius square in the side of the head.

Molly’s look said plainly: not. in. front. of. the. children.

McGonagall’s said: if you say one more word, I will personally turn you into a pincushion and hand you to Madam Malkin.

Sirius glanced from one witch to the other, caught the combined force of Weasley fury and Scottish disappointment, and visibly thought better of it. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click; he slumped back in his seat, still glaring at Snape but keeping whatever else he wanted to say behind his teeth.

Snape, for his part, stared down at the table, hand still resting where the Mark lay. For a brief, flickering moment, he looked less like a sneering professor and more like someone who knew exactly why he didn’t feel secure enough to say the name out loud.

The moment passed. His face smoothed over again, and he folded his arms, shutting everyone else out.

‘I just wanted to know,’ Harry began again, forcing his voice back to politeness, ‘why –’

‘You seem to have visited the snake’s mind because that was where the Dark Lord was at that particular moment,’ snarled Snape. ‘He was possessing the snake at the time and so you dreamed you were inside it, too.’

‘And Vol— he – realised I was there?’ ‘It seems so,’ said Snape coolly.

‘How do you know?’ said Harry urgently. ‘Is this just Professor Dumbledore guessing, or –?’

Dumbledore’s eyes had been on the book, but at Harry’s question they unfocused slightly, as if he were looking through the pages at something only he could see.

If only it were guesswork, he thought. If only this were the product of an old man’s nerves and a tendency to see patterns where none exist.

He remembered the way Harry had described the corridor, the door, the snake. The way the boy’s voice had changed, low and cold, when anger took him. The way the scar had burned at… particular moments. Too many coincidences in a world where coincidence was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

No, this was not paranoia. It was confirmation of fears he had hoped, vainly, might remain theoretical. A link forged years ago was deepening, threading itself through dream and vision and, now, possession.

He kept his face composed, hands loosely folded, but inside there was a tightness, an old, bitter familiarity. He had seen what happened when such connections were left to run their course unchecked.

I am not guessing, he admitted silently. I know. And because I know, I have put that boy in front of Severus and asked him to learn how to shut his mind, when what he ought to have is a childhood.

Across the Hall, Harry was still watching the text with a kind of desperate focus, waiting for an answer that would make all of it less frightening than it sounded.

Dumbledore wished he had one. He did not.

‘I told you,’ said Snape, rigid in his chair, his eyes slits, ‘to call me “sir”.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry impatiently, ‘but how do you know –?’

‘It is enough that we know,’ said Snape repressively. ‘The important point is that the Dark Lord is now aware that you are gaining access to his thoughts and feelings. He has also deduced that the process is likely to work in reverse; that is to say, he has realised that he might be able to access your thoughts and feelings in return –’

‘And he might try and make me do things?’ asked Harry. ‘Sir?’ he added hurriedly.

‘He might,’ said Snape, sounding cold and unconcerned. ‘Which brings us back to Occlumency.’

Snape pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of his robes and Harry tensed in his chair, but Snape merely raised the wand to his temple and placed its tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he withdrew it, some silvery substance came away, stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer strand, which broke as he pulled the wand away from it and fell gracefully into the Pensieve, where it swirled silvery-white, neither gas nor liquid. Twice more, Snape raised the wand to his temple and deposited the silvery substance into the stone basin, then, without offering any explanation of his behaviour, he picked up the Pensieve carefully, removed it to a shelf out of their way and returned to face Harry with his wand held at the ready.

‘Stand up and take out your wand, Potter.’

Harry got to his feet, feeling nervous. They faced each other with the desk between them.

‘You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any other way you can think of,’ said Snape.

Fred snorted as Andromeda read Snape inviting Harry to “defend himself any way he could think of.”

“Well that was a missed opportunity,” he muttered. “If he’d said that to me, I’d have started with a nice Jelly-Legs and worked my way up.”

George grinned, eyes lighting with evil nostalgia.
“Jelly-Legs?” he said. “Amateur. Straight to Bat-Bogey Hex, then a spot of furnunculus. Let him experience acne from the inside.”

Lee leaned in over the table, voice low but gleeful.
“You’re both wrong,” he whispered. “You start with Expelliarmus so it looks respectable, then you slip in a little colour-change charm on his hair. Bright pink, full volume. He’d be so offended he’d forget to Legilimens.”

Fred considered this, nodding.
“Or,” he said thoughtfully, “we could’ve tried that delayed-bang charm we were testing. Hex his wand so every time he tries to cast Legilimency, it just screams ‘PEEPING TOM’ at the top of its lungs.”

George clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the laugh.
“Can you imagine?” he wheezed. “Snape leaning in all dramatic and his wand just yelling ‘NOSEY GIT ALERT’.”

Lee sniggered.
“I’d have settled for a well-timed Trip Jinx,” he said. “He wants Harry to ‘defend himself’? Fine. Defend yourself with gravity.”

Up at the staff table, McGonagall’s eye twitched, but she didn’t comment. Probably because, deep down, a tiny, traitorous part of her agreed that “Nosey Git Alert” would have been satisfying.

‘And what are you going to do?’ Harry asked, eyeing Snape’s wand apprehensively.

‘I am about to attempt to break into your mind,’ said Snape softly. ‘We are going to see how well you resist. I have been told that you have already shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse. You will find that similar powers are needed for this … brace yourself, now. Legilimens!’

Snape had struck before Harry was ready, before he had even begun to summon any force of resistance. The office swam in front of his eyes and vanished; image after image was racing through his mind like a flickering film so vivid it blinded him to his surroundings.

He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, and his heart was bursting with jealousy … he was nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the lawn … he was sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it was telling him he would do well in

Ron’s jaw actually dropped.
“He just went straight in?” he said. “No ‘count of three’, no practice, just ‘brace yourself’ and boom, here’s your entire childhood on fast-forward? That’s mental.”

Hermione looked appalled in a very specific, rule-book way.
“You’re supposed to build up to that,” she said. “Gradually. With consent. And some kind of ethical framework. That isn’t a lesson, it’s… it’s magical assault.”

Daphne’s eyes were cold.
“If anyone tried that on a Slytherin without warning,” she said, “their cauldron would explode the next day and their bed curtains would mysteriously catch fire. You don’t just dive into someone’s mind like you’re rifling a trunk.”

Neville shivered.
“And he saw everything?” he said quietly. “Even stuff from when you were little? That’s… that’s not teaching. That’s… creepy.”

Seamus grimaced.
“Yeah, if a teacher did that at a normal school,” he muttered, “they’d be arrested, not given a timetable. ‘Right kids, today we’re revising Muggle Studies and also your worst memories.’ No thanks.”

Down with the CSIs, Eric looked genuinely horrified.
“In my world,” he said, “that’s not ‘a lesson’. That’s an unrecorded, non-consensual interrogation inside a minor’s head. You’d lose your badge, your pension, and probably your freedom.”

Calleigh nodded sharply.
“Yeah, that would be classified as psychological torture,” she said. “No warrant, no oversight, straight into his memories, starting with childhood trauma? You don’t get to call that ‘training’.”

Ryan added, “And doing it before he’s even ready, on the first go? That’s not testing his defences, that’s proving he doesn’t have any yet. Which you already knew.”

Horatio’s gaze rested on Snape, steady and unimpressed.
“If you put a man with a history like his,” he said quietly, “in charge of a power like that, and then let him use it on a boy he personally dislikes… where I come from, that programme would be shut down before lunch.”

Slytherin … Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face covered with thick black hair … a hundred Dementors were closing in on him beside the dark lake … Cho Chang was drawing nearer to him under the mistletoe …

No, said a voice inside Harry’s head, as the memory of Cho drew nearer,

you’re not watching that, you’re not watching it, it’s private –

“Good,” said Cho firmly, missing the glare from Daphne

He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Snape’s office had come back into view and he realised that he had fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided painfully with the leg of Snape’s desk. He looked up at Snape, who had lowered his wand and was rubbing his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a scorch mark.

‘Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?’ asked Snape coolly. ‘No,’ said Harry bitterly, getting up from the floor.

Ron’s face lit up like Christmas had come early.

“Hang on,” he said, turning to Harry. “You accidentally hexed him? In the middle of his big dramatic mind-attack?”

Fred thumped the table, delighted.
“You Stinging Hexed Snape in the wrist while he was rummaging through your brain?” he crowed. “That’s beautiful. That’s poetry.”

George nodded solemnly.
“Truly,” he said, “art in motion. ‘How was your lesson, Harry?’ ‘Oh, you know, fell over, flashed him my childhood trauma, mildly maimed his wand arm.’ Outstanding.”

Lee leaned in, grinning.
“I’m just saying,” he murmured, “if any of us had pulled off an accidental hit on Snape mid-Legilimency, we’d have dined out on that story for years. ‘The day I made the Dungeon Bat flinch.’”

Seamus was beaming.
“Best bit is you didn’t even mean to,” he said. “That’s pure, weaponised reflex. His own spell backfired with bonus sting. Couldn’t design it better.”

Harry gave a small, bitter little huff.
“Didn’t feel like poetry at the time,” he muttered. “Mostly felt like falling over and wanting to throw up. The sting was just a bonus.”

Up at the staff table, Snape’s expression could have chilled lava. The faint, pale line still visible on his wrist somehow looked offended.

“If Mr Potter’s wild flailing counts as successful spell work now,” he said dryly, “perhaps I have misjudged the educational standards of this institution.”

Fred, undeterred, whispered to George,
“He’s sulking because a fifteen-year-old clocked him mid-mind-crime.”

George whispered back,
“Ten Galleons says he still checks his wrist when nobody’s looking.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d heard them anyway. Whatever he thought of being accidentally hexed, “amused” was not on the list.

‘I thought not,’ said Snape contemptuously. ‘You let me get in too far. You lost control.’

‘Did you see everything I saw?’ Harry asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.

‘Flashes of it,’ said Snape, his lip curling. ‘To whom did the dog belong?’ ‘My Aunt Marge,’ Harry muttered, hating Snape.

‘Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it might have been,’ said Snape, raising his wand once more. ‘You managed to stop me eventually, though you wasted time and energy shouting. You must remain focused. Repel me with your brain and you will not need to resort to your wand.’

‘I’m trying,’ said Harry angrily, ‘but you’re not telling me how!’

McGonagall’s eyebrow did that dangerous little twitch again.

“Mr Potter is quite right,” she said crisply. “You did not tell him what to do, Severus. ‘Repel me with your brain’ is not instruction, it is… a slogan.”

A couple of Gryffindors snorted before hastily pretending they hadn’t.

Professor Sprout nodded, cheeks pink with indignation.
“Exactly,” she said. “When I teach shielding charms, I don’t just start hexing the children and tell them to ‘repel me with their stems’. I explain the principles first.”

There was a ripple of laughter at the image of first-years being pelted with mandrakes.

Snape’s lip curled.
“I was attempting,” he said with heavy patience, “to teach him to feel the distinction, not to memorise it from a textbook. Occlumency is not Charms, Pomona. It is not a matter of ‘point, swish, incantation’.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed.
“No one is suggesting it is,” she replied. “But even complex magic has fundamentals. You do not throw a boy into the deep end of the lake and tell him to repel the water with his lungs.”

“Some immersion,” Snape said silkily, “is necessary to learn whether one is truly drowning, or merely frightened of getting wet.”

“Severus,” she snapped, “he is fifteen and you are dragging him through his worst memories without so much as a breathing exercise.”

Down with the Muggles, Eric shook his head slowly.
“Yeah,” he murmured, “I may not know magic, but I know bad instruction when I see it. ‘Defend yourself with your mind’ followed by immediate psychic punch in the face? That’s not training, that’s hazing.”

Calleigh folded her arms, unimpressed.
“In firearms training,” she said, “you explain how the weapon works before you start live-fire exercises. You don’t just hand someone a gun, shoot near their head and yell ‘defend yourself with your instincts’.”

Ryan nodded.
“And if a senior officer ran a ‘lesson’ like this with a rookie,” he added, “Internal Affairs would be parked on their doorstep the next morning. You don’t get to traumatise someone and call it pedagogy.”

Horatio’s gaze stayed on Snape for a long moment.
“Teaching,” he said quietly, “isn’t just about what you know. It’s about how you use it. Right now, all I’m seeing is a man with a very sharp tool and no safety lock.”

Up at the staff table, Sprout gave a firm little nod.
“Well,” she said, “if these lessons must continue, they can at least do so with proper guidance.”

Snape’s eyes flicked to her, then to McGonagall, face unreadable.
“I am perfectly capable of teaching Occlumency,” he said coldly. “I was chosen for it.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall replied. “Which is why we expect better than barking at him and hoping he guesses the method before you knock him off his feet.”

Harry, listening to all this, felt a small, sour sting of vindication. At least now everyone could see it hadn’t just been him “failing to apply himself.”

‘Manners, Potter,’ said Snape dangerously. ‘Now, I want you to close your eyes.’

Harry threw him a filthy look before doing as he was told. He did not like the idea of standing there with his eyes shut while Snape faced him, carrying a wand.

‘Clear your mind, Potter,’ said Snape’s cold voice. ‘Let go of all emotion

…’

But Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He could as easily detach his legs …

‘You’re not doing it, Potter … you will need more discipline than this … focus, now …’

Harry tried to empty his mind, tried not to think, or remember, or feel … ‘Let’s go again … on the count of three … one – two – three – Legilimens!’ A great black dragon was rearing in front of him … his father and mother

were waving at him out of an enchanted mirror … Cedric Diggory was lying on the ground with blank eyes staring at him …

‘NOOOOOOO!’

The wordless scream echoed in the Hall, even just read off the page. A few of the younger students flinched; Harry’s hands had clenched into fists on the table.

Down with the visitors, the CSIs all had the same look: every instinct buzzing.

Eric exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” he murmured, “no. I don’t care how ‘necessary’ this is supposed to be, you don’t keep hammering someone through their worst memories while yelling at them about discipline.”

Calleigh’s jaw was tight.
“He tells him to ‘let go of anger’ and then immediately drags him through his parents, Cedric, the Triwizard,” she said. “That’s not training, that’s re-traumatising him on purpose. If a therapist did that back home they’d lose their licence.”

Ryan shook his head, expression grim.
“Dumbledore trusts this guy,” he said quietly, “I get that. Big picture, spy stuff, history I don’t know. But from where I’m sitting? He’s a walking conflict of interest with a badge that says ‘teacher’.”

Horatio’s gaze had gone very flat.
“In my world,” he said, “we talk about ‘means’ and ‘ends’. Stopping a killer is the end. Torturing a kid’s mind in the name of preparation is a means. You can tell me all day that this man has changed sides. You can’t tell me this is acceptable.”

Eric nodded.
“I don’t care if he’s Dumbledore’s most trusted agent,” he added. “If I saw one of my colleagues putting a minor through that, I’d pull the kid out and file a complaint so loud Internal Affairs would hear it in their sleep.”

Calleigh glanced up the table at Snape, then at Dumbledore, then back at Harry, who was staring fixedly at the book.
“Maybe he is on your side,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean he should be in a classroom. Or in this boy’s head.”

Ryan’s fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the tabletop.
“Being useful and being safe are not the same thing,” he muttered. “Right now, all I’m seeing is someone who might be very useful in a war and very dangerous in a school.”

Horatio said nothing else, but the way his eyes stayed on Snape, measuring and cold, made it very clear: whatever Dumbledore saw when he looked at Severus Snape, a cop’s instincts were seeing something much closer to a suspect than a mentor.

Harry was on his knees again, his face buried in his hands, his brain aching as though someone had been trying to pull it from his skull.

‘Get up!’ said Snape sharply. ‘Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort. You are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!’

Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was.

‘I – am – making – an – effort,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I told you to empty yourself of emotion!’

‘Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,’ Harry snarled.

‘Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!’ said Snape savagely. ‘Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked so easily – weak people, in other words – they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!’

‘I am not weak,’ said Harry in a low voice, fury now pumping through him so that he thought he might attack Snape in a moment.

‘Then prove it! Master yourself!’ spat Snape. ‘Control your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again! Get ready, now! Legilimens!’

He was watching Uncle Vernon hammering the letterbox shut … a hundred Dementors were drifting across the lake in the grounds towards him … he was running along a windowless passage with Mr Weasley … they were drawing nearer to the plain black door at the end of the corridor … Harry expected to go through it … but Mr Weasley led him off to the left, down a flight of stone steps …

‘I KNOW! I KNOW!’

He was on all fours again on Snape’s office floor, his scar was prickling unpleasantly, but the voice that had just issued from his mouth was triumphant. He pushed himself up again to find Snape staring at him, his wand raised. It looked as though, this time, Snape had lifted the spell before Harry had even tried to fight back.

‘What happened then, Potter?’ he asked, eyeing Harry intently. ‘I saw – I remembered,’ Harry panted. ‘I’ve just realised …’

‘Realised what?’ asked Snape sharply.

Harry did not answer at once; he was still savouring the moment of blinding realisation as he rubbed his forehead …

He had been dreaming about a windowless corridor ending in a locked door for months, without once realising that it was a real place. Now, seeing the memory again, he knew that all along he had been dreaming about the corridor down which he had run with Mr Weasley on the twelfth of August as they hurried to the courtrooms in the Ministry; it was the corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries and Mr Weasley had been there the night that he had been attacked by Voldemort’s snake.

He looked up at Snape.

‘What’s in the Department of Mysteries?’

‘What did you say?’ Snape asked quietly and Harry saw, with deep satisfaction, that Snape was unnerved.

‘I said, what’s in the Department of Mysteries, sir?’ Harry said. ‘And why,’ said Snape slowly, ‘would you ask such a thing?’

‘Because,’ said Harry, watching Snape closely for a reaction, ‘that corridor I’ve just seen – I’ve been dreaming about it for months – I’ve just recognised it – it leads to the Department of Mysteries … and I think Voldemort wants something from –’

The word “Department of Mysteries” hit the hall like a dropped plate.

Down with the visitors, all four CSIs straightened almost in sync.

Eric’s eyebrows shot up.
“Okay,” he murmured, “that’s a name.”

Calleigh’s mouth pulled sideways.
“Department of Mysteries,” she echoed under her breath. “Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of place we’d be filing a request for a search warrant on. Top of the list.”

Ryan was already mentally drawing lines on an invisible case board.
“Secret department, creepy name, restricted corridor we’ve seen in his dreams, and your Big Bad wants something from inside,” he said quietly. “If this were Miami, that’s where we’d be putting undercover, cameras, and about three different surveillance teams.”

Horatio’s gaze sharpened.
“And the boy connected to your serial killer,” he said, “has been dreaming about it for months and just recognised it in a mind raid. If this is where Voldemort’s headed, that’s your crime scene waiting to happen.”

Up at the staff table, the adults of the Order all had the same pained, “here we go” expression.

Sirius closed his eyes briefly, like he’d just been hit with a headache.
“Of course he worked it out,” he muttered. “Of course. First bloody lesson, too.”

Remus grimaced.
“We always knew he’d put the pieces together,” he said quietly. “We just… hoped there’d be time. And preparation. Not Severus dropping him straight into the corridor and letting him stumble to the conclusion on his own.”

Tonks winced.
“Yeah, this isn’t how we pictured the big ‘by the way, there’s a locked floor in the Ministry your brain keeps visiting’ conversation,” she said. “Bit less screaming, bit more tea.”

Molly’s hands had gone white-knuckled around her knitting.
“He shouldn’t even know about that department,” she said, voice tight. “Not yet. Not like this. Dumbledore said he’d handle it, that there was a time and a way—” She broke off, pressing her lips together.

‘I have told you not to say the Dark Lord’s name!’

They glared at each other. Harry’s scar seared again, but he did not care. Snape looked agitated; but when he spoke again he sounded as though he was trying to appear cool and unconcerned.

‘There are many things in the Department of Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand and none of which concern you. Do I make myself plain?’

“Rude,” commented Lee

‘Yes,’ Harry said, still rubbing his prickling scar, which was becoming more painful.

‘I want you back here same time on Wednesday. We will continue work then.’

‘Fine,’ said Harry. He was desperate to get out of Snape’s office and find Ron and Hermione.

‘You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night before sleep; empty it, make it blank and calm, you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry, who was barely listening.

‘And be warned, Potter … I shall know if you have not practised …’

‘Right,’ Harry mumbled. He picked up his schoolbag, swung it over his shoulder and hurried towards the office door. As he opened it, he glanced back at Snape, who had his back to Harry and was scooping his own thoughts out of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand and replacing them carefully inside his own head. Harry left without another word, closing the door carefully behind him, his scar still throbbing painfully.

Harry found Ron and Hermione in the library, where they were working on Umbridge’s most recent ream of homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth-years, sat at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky outside the mullioned windows grew steadily blacker. The only other sound was the slight squeaking of one of Madam Pince’s shoes, as the librarian prowled the aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those touching her precious books.

Harry felt shivery; his scar was still aching, he felt almost feverish. When he sat down opposite Ron and Hermione, he caught sight of himself in the window opposite; he was very white and his scar seemed to be showing up more clearly than usual.

‘How did it go?’ Hermione whispered, and then, looking concerned. ‘Are you all right, Harry?’

‘Yeah … fine … I dunno,’ said Harry impatiently, wincing as pain shot through his scar again. ‘Listen … I’ve just realised something …’

And he told them what he had just seen and deduced.

‘So … so are you saying …’ whispered Ron, as Madam Pince swept past, squeaking slightly, ‘that the weapon – the thing You-Know-Who’s after – is in the Ministry of Magic?’

‘In the Department of Mysteries, it’s got to be,’ Harry whispered. ‘I saw that door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it’s definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him.’

Hermione let out a long, slow sigh. ‘Of course,’ she breathed.

‘Of course what?’ said Ron rather impatiently.

‘Ron, think about it … Sturgis Podmore was trying to get through a door at the Ministry of Magic … it must have been that one, it’s too much of a coincidence!’

‘How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he’s on our side?’ said Ron.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Hermione admitted. ‘That is a bit odd …’

‘So what’s in the Department of Mysteries?’ Harry asked Ron. ‘Has your

dad ever mentioned anything about it?’

‘I know they call the people who work in there “Unspeakables”,’ said Ron, frowning. ‘Because no one really seems to know what they do – weird place to have a weapon.’

‘It’s not weird at all, it makes perfect sense,’ said Hermione. ‘It will be something top secret that the Ministry has been developing, I expect … Harry, are you sure you’re all right?’

For Harry had just run both his hands hard over his forehead as though trying to iron it.

‘Yeah … fine …’ he said, lowering his hands, which were trembling. ‘I just feel a bit … I don’t like Occlumency much.’

‘I expect anyone would feel shaky if they’d had their mind attacked over and over again,’ said Hermione sympathetically. ‘Look, let’s get back to the common room, we’ll be a bit more comfortable there.’

But the common room was packed and full of shrieks of laughter and excitement; Fred and George were demonstrating their latest bit of joke shop merchandise.

‘Headless Hats!’ shouted George, as Fred waved a pointed hat decorated with a fluffy pink feather at the watching students. ‘Two Galleons each, watch Fred, now!’

Fred swept the hat on to his head, beaming. For a second he merely looked rather stupid; then both hat and head vanished.

Several girls screamed, but everyone else was roaring with laughter.

‘And off again!’ shouted George, and Fred’s hand groped for a moment in what seemed to be thin air over his shoulder; then his head reappeared as he swept the pink-feathered hat from it.

‘How do those hats work, then?’ said Hermione, distracted from her homework and watching Fred and George. ‘I mean, obviously it’s some kind of Invisibility Spell, but it’s rather clever to have extended the field of invisibility beyond the boundaries of the charmed object … I’d imagine the charm wouldn’t have a very long life though.’

Harry did not answer; he was feeling ill.

‘I’m going to have to do this tomorrow,’ he muttered, pushing the books he had just taken out of his bag back inside it.

‘Well, write it in your homework planner then!’ said Hermione encouragingly. ‘So you don’t forget!’

Harry and Ron exchanged looks as he reached into his bag, withdrew the

planner and opened it tentatively.

‘Don’t leave it till later, you big second-rater!’ chided the book as Harry scribbled down Umbridge’s homework. Hermione beamed at it.

‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ said Harry, stuffing the homework planner back into his bag and making a mental note to drop it in the fire the first opportunity he got.

He walked across the common room, dodging George, who tried to put a Headless Hat on him, and reached the peace and cool of the stone staircase to the boys’ dormitories. He was feeling sick again, just as he had the night he had had the vision of the snake, but thought that if he could just lie down for a while he would be all right.

He opened the door of his dormitory and was one step inside it when he experienced pain so severe he thought that someone must have sliced into the top of his head. He did not know where he was, whether he was standing or lying down, he did not even know his own name.

Maniacal laughter was ringing in his ears … he was happier than he had been in a very long time … jubilant, ecstatic, triumphant … a wonderful, wonderful thing had happened …

‘Harry? HARRY!’

Someone had hit him around the face. The insane laughter was punctuated with a cry of pain. The happiness was draining out of him, but the laughter continued …

He opened his eyes and, as he did so, he became aware that the wild laughter was coming out of his own mouth. The moment he realised this, it died away; Harry lay panting on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, the scar on his forehead throbbing horribly. Ron was bending over him, looking very worried.

‘What happened?’ he said.

‘I … dunno …’ Harry gasped, sitting up again. ‘He’s really happy … really happy …’

‘You-Know-Who is?’

‘Something good’s happened,’ mumbled Harry. He was shaking as badly as he had done after seeing the snake attack Mr Weasley and felt very sick. ‘Something he’s been hoping for.’

The words came, just as they had back in the Gryffindor changing room, as though a stranger was speaking them through Harry’s mouth, yet he knew they were true. He took deep breaths, willing himself not to vomit all over Ron. He was very glad that Dean and Seamus were not here to watch this

time.

‘Hermione told me to come and check on you,’ said Ron in a low voice, helping Harry to his feet. ‘She says your defences will be low at the moment, after Snape’s been fiddling around with your mind … still, I suppose it’ll help in the long run, won’t it?’

Andromeda let the last line hang for a moment, then cleared her throat softly.

“And that,” she said, closing the book with a firm little snap, “is the end of the chapter.”

There was a low murmur across the Hall, benches creaking as people shifted, a few students still staring at Harry like they could see the ache and the prickling scar in front of them instead of on the page.

Moody grunted, the sound like gravel in a bucket.

“Right,” he said, hauling himself a little more upright, magical eye whirring as it swept the room. “I’ll take the next one.”

His normal eye fixed on Harry for a heartbeat, fierce and oddly approving.

“Lot of ground to cover,” he growled. “Best get on with it.”