First thing after breakfast the next morning, Professor Binns floated through the blackboard and launched directly into his droning monologue without so much as an acknowledgement that there had been an interruption of the normal class routine. Bruce idly wondered if Binns was even aware the break had happened, of if the History of Magic professor had floated through the board and delivered his lecture to an empty classroom for three weeks without noticing. Not that it would make any difference, he added to himself.

Since Monday was his day with the Forger's Folio, Bruce made sure he was the last one to leave and made copies of that day's notes from the lectern. He did take an extra moment to flip back a few pages, it didn't look like there wasn't anything missing between their last set of notes on the drafting of the International Statute of Secrecy and today's notes about the adoption and signing.

The other professors decided to start the new year with entirely new topics. At the start of their next class, Professor Flitwick declared that "Now that you've all mastered guiding objects about, we can move on to more complicated manipulations!" Bruce considered his claim that they'd "mastered" anything from before the break a little questionable but the Charms professor pressed on, informing them that a part of their final examination would involve making a pineapple dance a jig. The first step towards this was, apparently, making a handkerchief fold itself. This proved much more difficult than it sounded and, after an hour of practice, nobody had produced the tidy one-point fold that Flitwick sported. Bruce had only convinced his to fold over once before it gave up and that was better than most of the class. At the next table over, Louisa could only get her handkerchief to halfheartedly lift one corner before it dropped again.

Immediately after Charms came Potions. By now they all knew better than to lose any time in hustling from the upper Charms Corridor down to the dungeons. The break was just barely long enough to get there on time (as long as they didn't run afoul of Peeves on the way) and Professor Desmond wouldn't listen to any excuse for arriving even a second after the official start of class.

The Hufflepuffs were already seated at their workbenches when the Ravenclaws arrived and took their seats. Professor Desmond was seated behind the larger instructor's workbench at the end of the room, looking down at a silver pocketwatch. Just as Bruce finished setting up his equipment, Desmond abruptly snapped the watch closed and stood.

"I have come to the conclusion," Desmond began as stepped around the desk and returned the watch to his pocket, "That most of you are finally - just barely - capable of brewing potions without injuring yourselves or damaging this classroom." He paused and straightened his robes before going on, "As such, the time has come to put to use the stores of ingredients you have prepared. Only under my supervision and exactly as I instruct you." His gaze took in each and every student in turn, conveying without any further words that even the slightest deviation from those instructions would be immediately and harshly punished.

He spent the rest of their double session berating anyone who fell behind as they attempted to produce a "simple" Floral Growth Potion. These were to be allowed to simmer until they could be bottled during their next class. "And I've already spoken with Professor Sprout, you'll only be using your own potions in her class from now on. So you'd better get it right here if you want to get things right there!"

Professor Sprout confirmed this the next morning during Bruce's double Herbology lesson with George and Miles, "If you get the Growth Potions right, you can see flowers bloom from seeds in minutes. We're going to use that next week to observe the whole life cycle of some of our specimens." She then began discussing the practical applications of such potions before moving on to a lecture on floral life cycles that would have been appropriate in any Muggle classroom, if not for the fact that the blackboard drawings moved on their own. "Your homework is to research some of the magical flowers we grow here at Hogwarts and to pick four that you want to study. I want to see at least half a scroll of parchment about each of them by the start of our next lesson."

In Transfiguration the time had come, Professor McGonagall informed them, to begin transfiguring living creatures. As this was potentially very dangerous spellcraft, she repeated her safety warning from the fall, "You should never take this sort of magic lightly. It's one thing to make a teacup act like a mouse, it's another entirely to transform it into one. I'll be taking every precaution to protect you and the creatures and items we'll practice on, and I expect you to do the same." For homework she instructed them to add to their essays from August on all the ways Transfiguration magic could go wrong, given that the object in question might now be alive when the spell ended or before it began.

Defense Against the Dark Arts came that afternoon. The classroom was empty when the first years arrived, so Bruce took his usual seat and prepared to wait. Professor Nygma finally strolled in at exactly the start of class, silently hung up his bowler hat on the hatrack just beside the door and dropped his emerald headed cane into the umbrella stand next to it. He remained silent as he rolled up his sleeves to just above his elbows before finally announcing, "The time has come in the year to move on from how you might defend yourselves against Dark Wizards and to start looking at defending yourselves from Dark Creatures."

Nygma paused for a moment, surveying the entire class through his purple tinted glasses and finally came to what they all knew had to be coming, "Before we can expect to talk about any Dark Creatures, we have something even more elementary to discuss:

"Five of Kipling's honest servants we must talk about.

'Who is missing,' you need not fear. He's tagged a runner out."

Bruce could practically feel the confusion from the rest of the class. What? Kipling's six servants? Bruce was only vaguely aware of who Rudyard Kipling was, and he'd have wagered a gold galleon that was more than the rest of the class.

Maybe there was a hint second line? How many games involved tag outs and runners? Does cricket? Bruce knew even less about cricket than he did about quidditch. No, Nygma is American, he must be talking about baseball. And if he'd tagged a runner, safe bet he was a baseman. But who was this baseman? Who?

Wait. Was "Who is missing" even a question all? No, it's a statement! It's not "Who is on base?" it's -

"Who isn't here, sir, he's on first." And if Who is missing, then his five friends must be...

"Almost there, Bruce. Except that Who isn't playing baseball, Who is missing because 'Who?' is 'You!'" With a grin, Professor Nygma flipped the blackboard around to display a set of careful notes which broke the rest of his lecture into five categories, beneath each of which was a series of detailed questions:

What?

When?

Where?

Why?

How?

For the rest of the period, Professor Nygma laid out the general outline for how they would approach the study of Defense Against Dark Creatures for the rest of the school year. First came correctly identifying the dark creatures under study (What does it look like?) then came avoidance strategies (When is it active? Where does it hunt?) followed by confrontation and defense (Why is it dangerous? How is it harmed or frightened?)

Finally he instructed the class that he expected a writeup in this format for every creature they were to study. Just before dismissing them, Nygma added, "Where reasonably safe, I intend to have the creatures here in the classroom for you all to practice on. I've already arranged things with Professor Hagrid for our next class, so I suggest everyone read over the section on boggarts very carefully!"

That reminded Bruce that he still hadn't taken Talia's advice about speaking with the Care of Magical Creatures professor. Something about their encounter with the thestrals convinced him that it would be best to do so in private, but the only place that Bruce regularly saw the groundskeeper was the staff table during mealtimes. He wasn't even sure where to look for Hagrid during the rest of the day. Although, he mused on his way to Broomstick Class, it's a safe bet that the groundskeeper should be found somewhere on the grounds.

The sky was perfectly clear as they made their way through the thin layer of snow out to the broom shed but the air was freezing and any breeze bit right through their cloaks. "Perfect weather," Madam Hooch said, "to practice some cross-country flying."

She grabbed a large bundle of something from one of the storage lockers and instructed the class to be quick about grabbing their brooms and then join her on the lawn. When everyone had a broom, she set off across the grounds. She explained as they followed, "Flying around on a course is all well and good, but most of you will eventually want to actually get somewhere on a broom."

From somewhere behind him, Bruce heard quickly stifled laughter. He turned his head round to see Eddy Fyers leading a quiet conversation with his some of his fellow Slytherins. Seamus O'Brien caught Bruce's eye and snickered.

Bruce resolutely turned his face back towards Madam Hooch's lecture, " ...that means flying high where no Muggles are likely to spot you. It means cold and it means long hours and it means paying attention to where you're going." This last was directed at Evan McCulloch and Eddy Fyers. The two had been so engrossed by the dungbomb story that they hadn't noticed the rest of the class had come to halt on the South Grounds.

Once assured that she had everyone's full attention, Madame Hooch opened her mysterious bundle, "Your assignment this afternoon is simple: Each of you will take one of these sets of dummy bags and attach it to your brooms. Once you're in the air you are to continue flying around the grounds for at least the next hour. Anyone who tries to leave the airspace above Hogwarts' main grounds will be lucky to spend the rest of the year in detention."

Despite his performance on the Obstacle Course in October, Bruce discovered that he still had plenty to learn. Even securing saddlebags to a broom was harder than it sounded and, once attached, they threw off the weight profile he'd spent all of autumn getting used to. Endurance flying was also very different from stunt flying. There was no opportunity to stretch his legs and he was exposed to every gust of wind. Even a light breeze cut into his unprotected face and hands and strong wind could catch the saddlebags, forcing him to fight the broom just to maintain course.

Only twenty minutes into the exercise and already Bruce was freezing cold, sore everywhere, and swearing he'd never try to travel anywhere by broomstick. I'll just book a jet. Around him in the sky he could see the rest of his class as small shapes. Some had decided to fly in groups, but most had scattered and were flying about the grounds in no particular direction.

Bruce pulled his hands into his cloak, trying to warm his stiff fingers. Almost as soon as he did another gust threatened to upset the broom nearly sending him straight into one of the groups. He grabbed the broom again and just barely managed to dodge O'Brien's booted foot.

"Stay in your sty, Wayne!" Evan shouted, provoking another bout of laughter from his two fellow Slytherins.

Bruce banked towards the lake to put some distance between himself and his classmates, before Eddy's group thought to chase him with more than insults or anyone else lost control of their broom. Maybe a distraction will help, he thought, and now's as good a time as any to figure out where to find Mister Hagrid. So Bruce pulled away into a wide arc over the outer grounds, keeping an eye on the ground.

His flight path took him over the lake, greenhouses, practice grounds, and Quidditch pitch before Bruce spotted a small cottage on the North Grounds, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Bruce had never bothered exploring the North Grounds or he'd have spotted it immediately. And what would Alfred say about that kind of oversight?

No smoke climbed from the chimney, suggesting that nobody was home. Bruce arced left and circled the area to get a better look. There was a garden to one side of the cottage, though it was too deep into winter for anything to be growing. A path had been cut through the snow from the front door up to the castle and another around back into the Forbidden Forest. Bruce was tempted to follow it a ways but, mindful of Madame Hooch's warning, he veered back towards the lake.

Bruce looked at his watch again. The whole circuit of the Hogwarts grounds had taken nearly half an hour, which left only ten more before he could finally land. It couldn't come fast enough, just checking the time had reminded his whole body of the cold and cramps that he'd managed to ignore during his search.

Thirty minutes later he was walking down the trail from the castle. From the ground it became clear that the cottage was only small in proportion to its owner. Though shaped like a simple, one bedroom cottage, everything about it was designed to be comfortable for someone twice the height and three times the girth of a normal man. It couldn't belong to anyone else but Mister - no, he said it was just "Hagrid" at Halloween.

This time a thin line of smoke climbed from the chimney and Bruce could see that the blinds had been pulled back. His hesitant knock on the door was met by a low growl from the other side followed by someone's voice mumbling something that Bruce couldn't quite make out. A moment later the massive groundskeeper himself appeared at the door, "Eh? Oh, 'ello there. Bruce, weren't it? C'mon in an' don' mind Fang o'er there, 'e were harmless even when 'e could still see."

As Hagrid stepped aside from the door Bruce saw the source of the growling was a massive boarhound curled up by the fireplace. The old dog blinked milky eyes vaguely in his direction and sniffed. Bruce froze, waiting for some reaction but Fang was apparently satisfied with whatever he smelled and set his greying muzzle back down on his forepaws. In an instant he was snoring loudly.

Hagrid shook his head fondly then turned and beamed down at Bruce, "Now, what can I be doin' fer ye?"

"Umm..." Bruce's mind momentarily went blank and he found himself staring at his feet. Why hadn't he spent any time thinking about what he was going to say? "Well... Talia said that I should... I should talk to you about the... the thestrals and... I..." He looked up again. Hagrid was still smiling, but in the sad way Dr. Thompkins often had. Bruce forced himself to just ask, "Why can't anyone else see them?"

Hagrid nodded slowly, "I think ye'd best just come with me." He paused to grab an enormous moleskin greatcoat and large bucket of what looked like raw meat.

Bruce followed the giant back outside and down the little path into the woods he'd noticed from the air. He was forced to jog in order to keep up as Hagrid casually led him towards a clearing. At the edge of the clearing, he lifted the bucket and tossed some of its contents onto the ground. "I weren't gonna feed 'em again so soon, but it'll be best if ye can have another look at 'em now."

A moment later a skeletal face pushed it's way through a bush, then another, then another. Soon a whole herd of the creatures had appeared. They made quick work on the offering on the ground and started to sniff at Hagrid and Bruce, looking a bit like horses begging for a treat. Hagrid handed him a chunk of muscle to feed one of the thestrals and encouraged him to pat its muzzle, like he'd seen Talia do with the one pulling their carriage.

"Y'see, Bruce, thestrals ain't nothing to be afraid of. Dead useful creatures, they are, and loyal. But... well... y'see... not everyone can see 'em." One of the thestrals shouldered his way between two others and was rewarded with a piece of liver. "On'y way someone can is if they've seen death."

Bruce looked down at one of the thestrals that had started licking the last bits of meat and juice off his hand. It lifted its head looked back with white eyes. Not like the milky eyes of old, blind Fang, the thestral's eyes were pure white with no pupil. It still seemed to meet his gaze. The look the creature gave him was somehow almost friendly. Was it trying to reassure him? Did it know how he felt about it?

Did he?

They stood there in silence, holding out butcher's scraps until the bucket was empty. Even then, the thestrals continued to crowd around for a while, hoping for some last hidden morsel or begging a caress. Finally, the herd thinned out as it became clear there were no more treats to be had. Hagrid gathered up the bucket and Bruce followed him back up the path towards his cottage, still in silence.

Just shy of the treeline, Hagrid finally spoke up, "Er... yeah, them's thestrals. Young Talia sent ye here? Good head on her shoulders that one, fer all she's a bit snooty sometimes. She were the on'y one in her Care of Magical Creatures class that weren't afraid o' the creatures when they met 'em. Most folk're put off by the whole 'death' thing but really thestrals are wonderful creatures."

Bruce nodded silently, unsure what to say or even think, though he did remember to thank Hagrid when they parted at the cottage door.

He wasn't quite as comfortable with the thestrals as Hagrid and Talia seemed to be. He was put off by "the whole death thing" but was that the thestrals' fault? No, it wasn't. But now that he knew why he could see them, it reminded him of... well, the reason I can see them. He didn't know if he could look at the thestrals and not think about it.

Later, on his way to dinner, Bruce's thoughts circled back around to something else that Hagrid had mentioned. Why wasn't Talia put off by the thestrals?