DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

TITLE: Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome

SUMMARY: A pupil catches Sir Albus out of bounds, Hermione hears a ghost story, and Harry loses his robe.

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Alastor Pours A Toast

"You can't move for the number three around here. Way more than anywhere else - and you can tell your High-as-Babel Warlock that I told you. Three: that's our number. That Iggy Prewett in the Chambers has a book on it and everything. The Union, it's made up of three circles. The schools - three-tier system, basically. Even our Druids, mate - you got, what? Root, Branch... Leaf! Three! That's the magic number. Power number. All the most powerful witches are Britannia-bred. You don't even have to look it up! So when things get hairy here, mind it ain't any better elsewhere."

~ Mafalda Fletcher on Arithmancy, an excerpt from The Witch Who Broke the Bank (recorded 1979)

The fog in Sherwood Green carried a baleful musk at first light: heavy and sickly sweet, as if soaked in lead.

Beholding a legion of mottled headstones, Albus bowed his head in reverence, for history was laid to rest in this bed of birch leaves. The Bough of Linclyne was recognised as the most ancient of the Grand Oak; while the Nott family was entrusted with its Keys, the covenant protecting the lands of the East Midlands preceded even them.

In all likelihood, his host paid little heed to the magical significance stemming from these grounds. The Nott mausoleum, after all, was closed to all but the Chief-wizard and his second. Yet commoners also buried their beloved here, and Albus would attest that their grief was no less potent. He kept this in mind as a gravelly ode to Mercury flavoured his breath, ordaining his every step towards the elusive Peter Pettigrew.

"My mother used to sing that."

A wand prodded Albus' back before he could so much as blink. He smiled.

"Alas, I am bested," he replied to his faceless captor, "and for the first time in a half-century."

Albus felt the wandtip leave his spine. "Hands up."

Albus complied, feeling his smile broaden as he heard no footsteps.

"Are... are you Albus Dumbledore?" asked his assailant.

"I am."

"What d-... with what do we 'inscribe our indelible Brand'?"

"The 'sun-doused feathers of Apollo's herald'," said Albus, and his captor slowly inhaled. A stout, black-cloaked figure crossed the corner of his vision, circling him until they stood opposite each other.

"Where did you last see Peter Pettigrew," said the cloaked figure, wand hand trembling, "and w-what did you promise him?"

"We spoke at the Hollow Library," answered Albus, tilting his head slightly. "And I promised that he was far stronger than he could ever imagine."

"You're wrong."

The captor's wand clattered to the floor, tearing back the hood of their cloak.

Albus felt his heart sink at the sight. Peter Pettigrew's once boyish, pudgy countenance was hollowed and weathered by years of untold hardship. His watery, deep grey eyes had long since calcified, his nose and cheeks peppered with green and black Hex-marks. His buck teeth were all that remained of that tell-tale smile, his whiskered mouth now overshadowed by the fissures of a frozen snarl.

"You are wrong," he said again, heaving as he jabbed at the air with a sharp-nailed finger. "I am weak, and I failed!"

Albus slowly lowered his hands as a sobbing Peter crumbled to his knees.

"I c-c... I couldn't d- do it..." he blubbered, a palm shaking at his side as the other wiped beneath his nose. "Should've died with them..."

Albus said nothing, picking up Peter's wand and presenting him with the handle.

"Your life is indeed a treasure, Peter," said Albus, "but it is not all that makes you valuable. Not now, not then."

He gently pulled the weeping wizard to his feet.

"Let us walk."

And they did, in silence, until they arrived at a silver-plated bench ornamented by the swirling frames of serpents and dragons, which hissed a little as the pair sat down.

Albus was fondly reminded that the Slytherin motif loomed well beyond the ivory towers of Hogwarts.

"I believe congratulations are in order," he said, grinning at a slack-jawed Peter. "If I might say so myself, approaching me unawares is no minor feat. How did you do it?"

Peter ogled him still, swallowing.

"How?" he said after a while. "Of all the questions you have to have for me... how?"

Albus found himself nodding giddily.

"Well, you know I'm an Animagus," said Peter, picking at the shallow fold under his chin, "so yes, I was a rat. No wizard trace until I turn back, right?"

Albus hummed amid a warm surge of pride. "Fascinating," he murmured.

"You mean no one's ever tried it?" asked Peter.

"Animagi are exceedingly uncommon in Europe," said Albus, crossing his legs, "and the forms of most sorcerers beyond the continent are a tad too exotic to remain inconspicuous. I have been the recipient of innumerable assassination attempts to date, however, so I would assume my adversaries lacked such gallantry."

"Or stupidity," mumbled Peter.

"We are Gryffindors through and through, Mister Pettigrew," said Albus, chuckling as he met Peter's bemused look. "Is something the matter?"

Peter gaped at him.

"The... the Fidelius Charm fizzled, Professor," said Peter, dipping his head while maintaining his gaze. "It fizzled, and I'm alive."

"It did. And you are, it would appear."

"You don't have any questions about that?" said Peter.

"Should you wish to enlighten me," said Albus, nodding, "I am all ears."

Following a prolonged pause, Peter exhaled firmly.

"Beauxbatons."

Albus knit his brow as Peter pursed his lips. "You went missing soon after."

"It all starts there," said Peter, wringing feverish hands. "Madame Ciernik asked me to escort one of their Herbology instructors as he made his interviewing rounds. She said he was hopeless at counter-Curses and the like, and that the safety of all the newly claimed Muggle-borns was a higher priority than the Headmistress' carriage."

"She would say as much, as would the Headmistress," said Albus. "You suspect Madame Ciernik's involvement?"

"Oh no, hardly," replied Peter, looking up at Albus. "She was more pro-Muggle than old Arthur. Rode a moped, wore the most ridiculous... anyway... no. No, we went to a party one night - me and Beppe, the herbologist. We'd been doing the rounds for a month and were, ah, pretty friendly, I guess. I never told him my real name," he quickly added, casting a skittish glance Albus' way, "so I can't for the life of me suss out how they knew."

"Who, Peter?"

"We were spiked that night, down in Corsica," said Peter, mouth contorting as he made a sniff of displeasure. "Of course we bloody were... one minute I was chatting up a half-siren lass - didn't even know that was possible - and then it was lights out. Fucking idiot. When I came to, it was just bright enough that I could see Beppe leaning against the wall... what was left of him, anyway."

Presumably expecting an interjection, Peter sighed amid the pause.

"They said they had Sirius. That was the first thing I heard."

"A group? Not just one?"

"Yeah..." Peter ran a hand over his mouth as he stared into space. "Couldn't see them. They blew out the lights after I started screaming. But I heard them, all right. Witches, wizards... but all Britons. Every last one."

Albus leaned forward. "You're certain?"

"Positive," said Peter with a sober nod. "The way they talked, the way they laughed... their incantations... I can still feel it now, the Cruciatus. Never leaves you, really."

"No," said Albus softly. "I admire you for enduring it, Peter. Lesser wizards have crumbled under the trauma."

"Oh, I crumbled," said Peter through a bitter laugh. "I bloody well shattered, I did. Not sure how long I lasted, but they drew it out. Not just the Curse... things they made me do... things they made me confess... P-prongs and Lily, they asked me about them last."

Peter sniffed heavily, eyes bloodshot.

"I was broken when they finally left. I was in too much pain to do anything - even change form. Just wanted to die. Then I felt the Body-Bind fading... and I got angry. Couldn't come back, obviously, so I looked for food as soon as I was well and trekked east."

"For twelve years, Peter?"

"I wanted revenge," he said, grinding fist into palm. "I want revenge, Professor. They said they had Sirius, so I went east. I've seen what they do to Muggles. Seen what they do to people that don't agree. I didn't find Sirius, but I did find that. So I did favours for some of the rebels out there, in Bhutan. They took me in - took me on some trips. And I learned things out there. I'm... I'm no Bright wizard, Professor."

Albus regarded the young wizard beside him for a time, struggling to stem his tears. Had he been so willing in his duty to stop Gellert that he had failed a generation? Peter Pettigrew was the first Hog of his family. He had shown promise and a healthy zest for mischief, as did his peers. Yet in the twilight of the Expansion, as the Trishula's methods deviated and the Ministry's intelligence floundered, the old guard of the Order of the Phoenix mined the Castle-schools for talent with an unrestrained zeal. Death and distrust were the rewards: their roster demonstrated such. As his eyes met those of young Peter, he thought of Nymphadora.

The Order might never be the same again, and possibly for the benefit of witchfolk the Union over.

"I have failed you, Peter," said Albus, clasping the shorter wizard's shoulder with a hand.

"No," he replied tersely, shrugging off the hand as he sprang to his feet. "I failed. Again and again. I've been following them ever since the Prophet ran that article about... Harry."

Albus tensed, and Peter seemed to shrink somewhat.

"To which article do you refer, Peter?"

"His Augo Profile," said Peter, huffing as he shook his head. "Potters are too damned bright their own good... News travels fast. I heard that Grindelwald threw a party when he caught wind. They finally knew where to find the last Potter: Hogwarts."

Albus could hardly believe it. Could Gellert be so bold? Had so much time passed since Nurmengard?

"I had to go myself," continued Peter, pacing before Albus, "because I wasn't about to let them get Harry. No way, forget Hogwarts' enchantments... But I wasn't the only one, so I heard. My contacts said Grindelwald sent his 'bird of prey as an angel of death', to off his opponents and rally supporters."

"The Albatross..."

"That's right," said Peter, snarling. "So I tracked him for a while... got into a bit of a scuffle, but I made it out and followed him to Hogsmeade. He tried to get to Pringle."

"At Hogwarts?"

"Not the School, no," said Peter, with a sheepish look. "That... that was me. I didn't need him finding out our secrets from Pringle, so I sneaked into the Castle to Confund him should the topic ever arise, and to swipe a couple of things from his office. It worked - almost - until Arthur's boy showed up. Had to Confund him too, and I think I cocked it up."

"Marvellous," mouthed Albus, standing up to follow Peter's suit. "But I must wonder why the Albatross hasn't yet shown the gall to do the same."

"Sneak into the Castle?" asked Peter, to which Albus nodded. "I don't think he has to, Professor."

At Albus' frown, Peter sighed again. "I know, I know... Hogwarts is the safest place and all that rot. But it's not just the Albatross, Professor. He's got friends out there, and in high places. Runcorn and Henleigh are only dead because they couldn't trust them, but I'll tell you now: if they're in the Ministry, then they're in St. Mungo's, they're in Gringotts, and they are bloody well for sure at Hogwarts. The night they took us convinced me of that."

Standing counted among the minority was a trend that had followed Hermione Granger from birth through to Hogwarts, and further yet into this exceptionally cramped classroom.

Throughout the duration of these gatherings - still unnamed as of December - she enjoyed the exclusive company of her own: Muggle-borns, one and all. Sally-Anne Perks was a self-confessed devotee to the temple of Madonna. Justin Finch-Fletchley had a place at Eton, at least before his parents made the choice for him. Clearwater's mother was a botanist.

They, like her, had exchanged reality for fantasy - stranded transplants in a body of magic threatening to reject them.

And therein lay the rub. They held onto hope steadfast where her grip had loosened. They sat entranced to stories of wonders inexplicable, while she had read between the lines and backwards in the same passage of time.

"You're no regular Muggle-born, are you?" Padma Patil once said of her, and it was true. She understood the world well enough to know that it wasn't hers.

Or at least, Hogwarts wasn't - her grades notwithstanding. She wasn't stupid; the recurring importance of blood and tradition across several branches of study had not eluded her notice. Here, Hermione's name held no power. Her blood ran only red: it held no Keys, and would nourish few rituals.

Unlike Harry's.

It mattered to her, but what mattered more was that she was a witch, on her own merits. She would not prove them right.

"And that, Madams and Wizards, is why our Muggle-born expats in communities like Waset have thrived against the odds," chirped Professor Burbage from the front. "The opportunities abroad are boundless, so make no mistake: this country needs you more than- "

The toll of the School bells chimed through the corridor, leaving Burbage to cut herself off with a resigned sigh.

Hermione grimaced as the other students charged past the door, though she quickly schooled her face when Clearwater stopped before her desk.

"Everything all right there, Hermy-poo?" she said with a wink.

Hermione's grimace returned with a vengeance. "It was."

Clearwater giggled, grabbing Hermione by the arm and leading her through to the corridor.

"I've figured your problem out, you know," she said, greeting a passing Hufflepuff girl with a wave. "Why do you care so much?"

Hermione frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard," said Clearwater, looking at her askance as they approached the Staircase Tower. "It's my job to watch you, remember?"

"That sounds needlessly invasive," muttered Hermione, shoulders hunched. "And creepy."

Clearwater smirked down at her. "Never said I enjoyed it. I mean, maybe a little -"

"- please stop -"

"But you're pretty interesting for a second-year, you know?" she finished, patting Hermione on the head. "Like I was saying, you care way too much, dear Madam."

"Could you be a little more, 'you know'," drawled Hermione, performing a distinctly Clearwater-ish (in her opinion) eye-roll, "specific?"

Clearwater stopped in her tracks to give Hermione an appraising look. A tiny Ravenclaw barged past them to leap for the migrating staircase ahead.

"That's three points from Ravenclaw, you sorry twat!" yelled Clearwater, her eyes drifting back to Hermione. "And no. I can't be more specific. You just care too much. Like, about everything and anything! You could get a Chocolate Frog from bloody McGonagall as a gift for perfect marks and wonder why she's never given you one before."

"But I don't have any lessons with Professor McG- "

Clearwater groaned softly, nursing her temples. "I need a fag..."

Hermione let out a gasp of outrage, and Clearwater groaned again. She didn't care; Prefects were supposed to lead by example, and the Ravenclaw witch seemed eager to abuse that responsibility.

"All right," mumbled Clearwater, shutting her eyes for a moment as she laid firm hands on Hermione's shoulders. "Just promise me... one thing."

Hermione squirmed a little. "Um -"

"One step at a time. Please," said Clearwater, her hazel eyes wide once more as she tightened her grip. "Baby steps, like. You're right brainy, you are - I don't need you burning out on me, Hermione."

Hermione nodded mutely, finding herself unable to muster an intelligent response.

"I know you're worried about the others," Clearwater pressed on, smoothing out Hermione's outer robe. "But look - even if we all got Os across the board, it wouldn't make a lick of difference to the Governors. Don't worry about Burbage, either. She knows what she's doing, and you've got enough on your plate. Do some more revision, I don't know - come back to the Historians meetings! I do notice when you're not around. Call me a hypocrite, but you need to focus on yourself, Hermione."

Hermione felt her stomach tighten; Clearwater herself cared either too much, or not enough.

"You think I'm being a know-it-all," she said, looking at her feet.

"I know that you're being a know-it-all," replied Clearwater, sniffing. Hermione stared up at her. "You know?"

Hermione chortled, caught unawares as she was engulfed in Clearwater's embrace.

"Off you go," she said, nudging a dumbstruck but giddy Hermione towards the staircase. "Oh - and another thing!"

"What's that?" asked Hermione, looking over her shoulder to meet Clearwater's face.

"Witch of first blood," she said, lifting Hermione's palm and crossing her fingers, "may you all be Madam."

"Hit me, whelp! Aestuo!"

In a vain attempt to smother the orange-tinted current that surged from Priscilla Yaxley's wand, an unarmed Harry clawed both of his hands. He seethed in pain; the crest of the wave licked his palms before it was cast aside, its glow burning brilliant against the mirrored walls of the unlit Blue Studio.

Yaxley laughed, taking leisurely strides towards the centre of the bronze duellists' ring as if to taunt him.

"So ickle Potter doesn't need his wand! Come on, then - Jinx me like you did that Hufflepufff berk!"

Harry wanted to - certainly enough to release Peeves, anyway. But even after deflecting Yaxley's spell, his body felt as if it was being cooked from the outside in, and it worsened with every step. Yaxley's hand was a blur, a pair of golden-green sparks encircling her wand; his muscles whimpered as he dove in anticipation of the cartwheeling spell.

"That's it - stay down there where you belong! Morde-"

"PROTEGO."

Harry heard a cry; he was surprised that it wasn't his, until he felt the membrane of a fading Shield Charm brush against his skin.

Ignoring the protests from his scalding joints, he forced himself to his feet, only to find Yaxley writhing on the floor.

"Enough, you," muttered a voice behind them. "Finite."

In an instant, Harry felt the excess heat flush from his pores. He took a deep, grateful gulp of air as Yaxley stood bolt upright, eyes wide and teeth bared.

"Coach!" she screeched as Professor Merrythought stepped into the circle. "You could've warned me, first!"

"The way you warned Potter about that Boiling Curse, I assume?" Merrythought huffed, clipping Yaxley about the head. "You halfway cooked the child!"

"I cast it out loud," whined Yaxley, rubbing her ear as she scowled at Harry. "I thought he was smart enough to Dance past it."

"But you tried to block it outright, didn't you?" said Merrythought, beaming down at him, "And with Percussion, no less!"

Harry frowned.

"You had spark in your fingers there," the Professor replied, nodding. "I could've sworn that you did when you duelled Hynes."

Percussion... He had never tried using Death's Grip without Holly in his wand hand, but it still appeared to dampen the effects of Yaxley's Curse - if only marginally so. So that's what Snape had taught him. Could all wandless Sorcery be defined as such?

"For all a wand's merits," Merrythought continued, presenting Harry with Holly's handle, "you can't rob a witch of her Percussion. They often forget that in the Lower School. We've our reasons for teaching it late, of course... that and Apparition."

Harry gulped as he accepted his wand, hoping that Lisa Turpin hadn't reported him for his summer transgression after all.

"You'd be in worlds more trouble if she had, idiot."

True... except for my already being boiled alive, and what have you.

"But you're our little trump card, whelp, so you better learn quick," said Yaxley, snorting as she flicked Harry's nose. She looked up at Merrythought. "I want him up against that Guan witch at the May Meet."

Merrythought drew her neck back. "Guan - from Pearlclyfe? She spars with Seniors, girl."

"So does he, now," said Yaxley, arms snapped to her sides with a groan as Merrythought quirked an eyebrow. "Come on, Coach - he still has a month of detention left! Who else is going to punish him properly? Hornby? Not if you want him hungry like Susie."

Despite her enviable ferocity on the platform, Harry hardly thought Susan counted as a favourable case study. He expected Merrythought to dismiss the idea, but her lips were scrunched to the side in thought - until her eyes abruptly latched onto Harry's with a hungry gleam.

"You work on your spark, Potter," she said, arching forward to point a finger between his eyes. "Or whatever you did in the Hall the other day. You make that happen - clear?"

Harry nodded, and she grinned wolfishly. He felt almost naked under her gaze; it commanded some inexplicable pressure over him, and he was painfully reminded yet again that this was indeed a detention.

"Smashing. Same time next week," she said, heels turning towards the Vanishing Cabinet ahead. "Send Professor Slughorn my regards!"

Harry almost cursed at the mention of Slughorn; as usual, he was now running late. He scarpered to the other end of the room, ducking at the scream of a lazy Jinx before diving into the Cabinet opposite Merrythought's.

"Come back soon, Potty!" he heard Yaxley peal as the Cabinet began to quake.

Harry knew precious little about Professor Slughorn, and less still regarding his personal tastes. Their supper in the Avery Room, however, dissolved all doubt that the Potioneering Master was anything but a Slytherin, through and through. Gaudy, emerald-studded leather armchairs aside, the velvet walls were tiled with impeccably dressed, pearly toothed wizards shaking hands and butting wands. The carpet itself was embroidered in silver from end to end with dozens of archaic names and extravagant titles, and unsurprisingly, names like "Malfoy" and "Longbottom" swam under Harry's nose more than once as Professors Slughorn, Doge, and Veness rambled for the Union.

He didn't quite care to get a word in, of course. To be frank, he would have preferred to chat alone with Randall Ogden, who incidentally sat opposite him, wide-eyed and skittish as always.

"I wonder why they invited him?" murmured Hollygalleon.

Same as us, I'd wager. Maybe they reckon he's trying to blow up the Castle.

"Please... he couldn't blow up a fart balloon."

Peeves giggled. "Old Sluggy would make a perfect pooper!"

Harry stifled a snort.

"And what do you make of the coming eclipse, Virdeen?" asked Doge, his gaze hovering over Harry for a moment before he turned to Veness.

"A definite close - it is the Wild's way of showing us the door, after all," she said with a florid twirl of a heavily jewelled hand. "If one wishes to flock to pastures new, now is a better time than any."

Slughorn hummed softly. "I heard Sibyll say as much the other day."

"She might have," replied Veness, nose deep in a cup of tea.

"It's most intriguing, that overlap," said Slughorn, lightly tapping the rim of his own teacup with his wand before taking a generous sip. "Ah. Divination and Astronomy... Aurora was saying this the other day. Imagine - just imagine we still learned it all the old way."

"Like Albus, you mean?" asked Doge, sitting up to his full (though modest) height.

"His insight aside," said Veness, reclining, "the Headmaster was still schooled at Hogwarts. He knows much of the Higher Mysteries, but he is today's wizard, make no mistake."

Harry frowned. "But don't we learn about them anyway, Professor? We've touched upon the very basics in Cardinals already."

"Yes. The basics," she replied simply, looking down her nose at him as she set her cup down, "as they embody the sacred, primal roots to every modern branch of magic from which we harvest our wisdom. Learning about them as opposed to actually learning them are two completely different paths... though one might find my own subject closer to the proverbial tree trunk. Thus, your ignorance, Mr Potter."

"Of a subject in which I have no talent?" said Harry, looking up at her pointedly. "I'm shocked that you're surprised, Professor."

"Not surprised, my dear," she replied with a small sigh. "Dismayed, perhaps."

Hollygalleon poked him in the ribs. You Flooed right into that one.

Likely sensing the rise in tension between the two, Slughorn loudly cleared his throat, flipping open the box of Cauldron Cakes before them.

"I'd think that there are few whom Harry could call his peer, actually," he said brightly, each hand plucking a treat for itself. "Surely in his year group. Granted, I haven't taught the lad, but I've heard the most glowing reviews from young Miss Pleasant in the Sorcery Department, as well as Severus, if you'd believe."

"Not to mention he's a bona fide Wandsinger," added Doge, straining a stubby arm over the table to pat Harry's shoulder. "Now if that isn't true magic, call Merlin a Muggle while you're at it!"

"Let's not drown the boy in praise, Elphias," said Slughorn, chuckling in-between bites. "Lest his head swell like his father's! No offence meant, of course."

Harry shrugged. "You're fine, sir. I've heard. I've read. So you taught him?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Slughorn after a pause, a wry smile peeking from beneath his moustache. "To believe that one could teach James Potter anything is a fancy of folly, in my experience. The lad taught himself whatever interested him... and if it did, by Jove did it mean trouble for us all."

"Undoubtedly his father's son," wheezed Doge, winking at Harry. "Charlus and James were one and the same!"

Not sure about that one. His conversations with his grandfather were decidedly more balanced and free of bluster when compared to those with his father - whom he had not written to since the Dementor incident. After Dumbledore implored him not to recover the Shroud of Fortune, it was all but unnecessary.

"You haven't got anything more to say to him, then?"

Peeves harrumphed. "I get it, Potty. I don't talk to my daddy either!"

I will exorcise you if I have to, thought Harry.

"Um..."

Four pairs of eyes latched onto the smallest frame in the room. Randall Ogden froze, save for his mouth, which flapped open and closed several times in a fight to find its voice again.

"Er... my, my grandfather knew yours. Like... friends, I think... h-he might've mentioned- "

"Really?" said Harry, grinning at his jittery House-mate. "You should've mentioned it too, Randall!"

"Mm. Good old Tiberius," said Doge, nodding as Randall smiled back. "He and Charlus Potter were something of a dynamic duo down in the Chambers... back in the golden age, at any rate..."

Slughorn jeered at his side. "Come now, Elphias! We can stand to go one day without waxing political, can we not?"

"I don't think we can, frankly," said Doge, suddenly weary-eyed as he studied his cup, "now that Madam and Wizard Malfoy are using Hogwarts to peddle their crackpot theories. It wouldn't fly if Roger was on this side of the Veil as well, I'll tell you that."

"Wizard Longbottom?" asked Veness. Doge nodded. "I would concur. Wizards of strong spirit know that the source of one's blood is of little importance as opposed to the mouth."

"What?" whispered Hollygalleon. No matter the meaning, it was clumsily phrased - even for Veness.

Harry rolled his eyes, and swore that he saw Randall smirk at him.

"Quite," said Slughorn soberly, "and it brings us full circle. Longbottom, Potter, Ogden -"

"- Moray, Jones -" added Doge, extending a finger.

"And poor old Ignatius Prewett... if it wasn't for them, the Muggles wouldn't even have a choice in giving up their little ones."

"Mm... to think they're long gone now," added Doge, shaking his head. "Roger and Charlus, Francis and James... now those two might've- "

Slughorn grunted. "Might've what, now? Stop it, Elphias. They weren't nearly thirty, either of them! And as for Frank Longbottom in particular, I've encountered mountain trolls with more composure. Fine student, gifted wandsman - but the boy was a lout."

Veness hummed in kind. "As a matter of fact, I do recall his ousting from the Duelling Squad's inner circle by Potter's own hand. Club politics rarely arouse my interest, but that I remember well."

"My dad? How?" asked Harry, eyes narrowed. "He was just a student. Wasn't he younger, too?"

Slughorn raised an eyebrow and laughed. "James Potter wasn't the sort of wizard to be thwarted by pesky barriers like age, now."

He laughed some more, as did Doge, but he quickly simmered down after seeing Harry's grimace.

"Intriguing," he said, quite a bit more subdued this time. "You think me hypocritical, don't you, Harry?"

Yes. He wanted to say it aloud; scream it, even. James was his father, after all, and as far as Harry was concerned, he had a right to say whatever he wanted about him. He was, however, quite cognizant of the fact that the Avery Room was not his domain, and that his invitation in the first place was likely marred by the events during Samhain. Veness' dour countenance said as much.

He would have to tread carefully.

"Well, I mean, it's like you said about Frank Longbottom... " He paused, searching the Professors' faces for imminent reproach. He saw none. "I just don't see why my father should be any different."

"Our opinions of him, I take it?" asked Slughorn, and Harry nodded. "For the most part, you would be correct - you should be, certainly. It's possible that I'm betraying my bias... he did marry Lily Evans, and she was as virtuous as they come. Your mother, m'boy... There isn't a witch like her, and I tell you with confidence. Never had there been, never shall there be."

"But he isn't Lily Evans, sir," said Harry, glancing over at Randall, who was engrossed in popping every last one of his knuckles. "What could Frank have done to allow a younger student to kick him off of the Squad?"

"Are you not a member, Mr Potter?" said Veness, her fingers loosely clasped in her lap as she smiled at him. "Surely you understand that the inner workings of the Hogwarts Duelling Squad are dictated by a most... clandestine fraternity."

Soft-spoken though she was, Veness' words tore away at Harry's gut long after that evening. He had been wilfully ignorant; Hogwarts was not a normal school, and never presented itself as such. For all his studying, practising, and mingling with wizards, the Castle and the wider world's customs were still largely foreign to him. One year in or not, he underwent total immersion, and while he had learned volumes of magic in that time, Harry knew nothing of wizardry... save one fact. Wizards and witches identified with mystery: secrets were their greatest weapons, as Daphne Greengrass once said.

As obnoxious as she was, Veness was correct. Harry was a member of the Duelling Squad, and as such, he possessed the key to unfogging his father's past - impartial and undoctored. The Grimoire was of little help in that regard.

"You know what they say about rabbit holes, idiot."

That they're infested with poltergeists?

Holly and Peeves giggled together, but Harry set his face straight as Doge rambled about his lesson plans for the next term. He was, of course, still occupied with thoughts of his own pursuits. He mused about the Grimoire, the Shroud, Pettigrew...

Indulging his curiosities had amounted to a damning net loss. Ron wanted nothing to do with him, now, and a helping hand from Hermione was entirely out of the question. In spite of everything it taught him, Harry cursed the sender of that grubby old book. He couldn't fault Neville for trying to dispose of his own: they were mountains more trouble than they were worth.

"What... what are you doing, pickle?"

"I - oh! It just happened, Mum. Honest."

"They just... floated. Your pencils started floating on their own, did they?"

"Well... well I got bored, and I was just waving them around, and- "

"And the Devil makes work for idle thumbs, as you well know. Time for bed, Hermione."

After years of reflection, Hermione was quite assured that her mother did not, in fact, believe that she was possessed. Nevertheless, said implication did leave a lasting impression on her self-esteem. People would always think Hermione Granger insane, and while she could make peace with that, having her behaviour explained away as a hostship of infernal spirits was an entirely different matter.

Therefore, when Ron finally confronted her about his troubled dorm-mate turned fellow truant, she found herself conflicted.

"You don't believe me," he said from the other side of their desk in the Library, his eyes shifting over to a pack of chatty Hufflepuffs behind her. "Not that I blame you or any- "

"It's not that I don't," said Hermione quickly, shutting her Potioneering book to grasp his trembling hand. "It's just... he's still our friend."

Ron looked at her, his mouth twisted into a pointed silence.

"He is still our friend, Ron."

A few tense moments later, Ron withdrew a tired breath.

"Yeah, yeah okay, fine," he said, slumping back into his chair. "Now let go of my hand, would you?"

"Oh! Sorry," she whispered, hurriedly releasing her grip with a sheepish look. "So you think he's possessed... but by a poltergeist? It's just that they can assume solid form all by themselves - they don't really do possession."

"I'm positive," said Ron firmly. "Harry's dad's mate told us all about him over the Floo. Peeves. Caused all sorts of havoc back in their day."

"His dad's friend... Lupin?" she asked, and Ron nodded quickly.

Hermione chewed at her lip. Lupin's involvement made Ron's concerns all the more difficult to dismiss, and further served to rouse Hermione's misgivings. James Potter, from the little that she could gather, pursued mortal peril with feverish enthusiasm. Beyond mere looks, Harry had undoubtedly inherited that much.

So why was Lupin humouring him?

"I don't like this. I don't like this at all," she said, looking down at Ron's curled fingers. "There's only one solution that I can think of, but... Ron, you'll think I'm dense for even suggesting it, but we have to- "

"- I'll go for anything at this point -"

"- talk to the Professor Dumbledore."

Ron leaned across the table, dipping his head so that they were eye-level.

"You're mental," he said, swiftly drawing himself back as he looked to the side. "Knew I shouldn't've asked."

Hermione grimaced. "I did say you wouldn't -"

" 'Talk to Dumbledore,' " he said, straight-faced as he renewed eye contact. "Talk... to Sir Albus Dumbledore. You know, the wizard who knows more incantations than we do actual words and is literally twenty times older than the both of us."

Hermione shrugged meekly. "Well, more like twelve- "

"He's already talked to Harry!" said Ron loudly, ducking his head in anticipation of Madam Pince's wrath. "Trust me, I've thought about this. Anything we could say, I bet you Dad's carp that Dumbledore's already cleared it with him."

"Car. It's a- " she stopped herself with a harsh sigh. "Look, I can't think of anything else. If this is what we're up against, then we've no other choice! We don't learn how to banish Imps until at least fifth year. We have exactly zero ideas of how to go about exorcising a poltergeist."

" 'Cept for one," said Ron, rapping the desk with a finger. Hermione frowned. "That's what we did - we exorcised Peeves from the Whomping Willow. It didn't go completely to plan, fair..."

Hermione goggled at him.

"Completely?" she half-chortled, ignoring his withering look. "But you're an expert now, I'm assuming? Or maybe you should ask his dad for help, like last time."

Ron looked down, face scrunched in thought.

"Nah... nah, we need the Baron," he finally said, "the other one, I mean. 'Thank the Baron', that's what he said..."

The Blue Room was empty that evening, which hadn't occurred to Harry until long after Yaxley left him pinned to the floor by magic most maddening. She had, in her defence, left the torches burning this time around.

Still, Miss Pleasant's Transfiguration practical was just around the corner, and he needed this final night to secure an O-grade performance.

Holly.

"Live and kicking, are we?" purred his wand from its resting place at the crook of his neck.

Can it. We need to get up.

"'We'? I was just getting comfy..."

Harry felt a tingling sensation course through his legs. "Pssst. Potty," whispered the other voice in his head, "Peevsie can help if you just- "

The suggestion was promptly drowned out by a resounding NO from both Harry and Holly. They would make do without the poltergeist's help. Like most Sorcery, performing a Counter-spell without a wand in hand was typically futile, but given their connection, he hoped that mere physical contact would be enough.

"Right," he grunted, numbing the Song as best as he could to the strain of Yaxley's Sticking Charm. "Here goes nothing - Finite!"

With an ear-piercing rip, Harry finally came unstuck - sans robe, which stayed rooted to the ground in shreds.

Guess that's my Christmas list sorted.

"Thank the Wild for hose", said Holly, wriggling a little as Harry bent down to retrieve the wand. "You could be at Beauxbatons."

Harry sniggered as he too recalled Mrs Plinny's lecture on summer wizarding attire across the Channel. Half of the class positively salivated at the scarcity of fabric on display in The Worldly Witch's diagrams, with Pansy Parkinson personally vowing to secure an exchange trip before her O.W.L year.

Considering her grades, he wished her every miracle.

Harry left the duelling ring with his sights set on the Vanishing Cabinet, steered only by thoughts of a well-deserved rest in his comfy four-poster - until the mirror-image from a nearby wall caught his eye. Unfettered by Dean's protracted morning ritual, Harry was free to closely study his reflection - and was surprised to find that he was quite a few inches taller compared to his first Christmas at the Castle.

"My little Harry's shooting up," gushed Holly, "All gangly and hairy..."

Well, I'm no Ron, he thought, twisting his mouth as he raked a hand through his hair, but I s'pose I could do with a... oh, piss off.

Harry sniffed in half-hearted contempt as Holly and Peeves pealed with laughter, though the shadowy, vaguely human figures leering over his reflection gave them all pause. Looking over his shoulder, Harry saw nothing.

"They're not really there, are they?" said Hollygalleon. "You can hear the Song, can't you? It's an illusion."

Harry nodded. My illusion - they're not real, but... they're here for me.

Most of the shadows were as identical in form as they were in motion: easily mistaken for naked mannequins in the dark. There was, however, one directly beside his reflection... tall and graceful. It snaked an arm around the mirror-Harry's waist, fingers closing around his wand hand-

"No!" Instinctively, Harry made to brush the figure's hand away. He did not expect the wall to move.

The shadows dissolved as soon as the pane began to revolve, revealing a dark corridor even longer than the parlour itself.

"Incen-" he began to incant as he spotted a torch hanging from the ceiling, but a whispered, "Shite! Leg it!" from the corridor's end stopped him in his tracks.

He recognised that voice.

"Cedric, is that you?" hissed Harry, squinting at a writhing hulk of robes pressed behind a bookcase before another figure bouldered into him.

He swore as he recoiled from the collision. Whoever it was, they were faster than his eyes could follow. "What was- "

"Swear I could Hex you right now... Incendio."

A bauble of blue light flickered in front of Cedric, and the corridor came into view.

"How long have you been back here?" asked Harry.

Cedric grunted, rubbing at his lower lip. "Could ask you the same thing, Peeping Potter."

"You what?" Harry spat. "I was stuck to the floor for almost an hour! And all you care about is how I walked... wait."

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Cedric shuffled his feet.

"What?" he mumbled.

Harry entertained asking Cedric exactly what he had interrupted, but the reddening blotches above the pale boy's collar told him more than he wanted to know.

"Valentine's is only a couple months away, you know," purred Holly over a sniggering Peeves. "I just know that Tracey would-"

"So is this the 'war room' Urquhart was on about?" asked Harry, diverting his sight to the basket of large, clear marbles hanging from a hook beside the bookcase.

"Well, ah, not so much," said Cedric with a hint of relief he ambled over. "The match boards and tables are all behind the Foe-Glasses on the other side."

Harry nodded slowly, remembering the term from his first visit. "Foe-Glasses..."

Not that Harry had any foes to speak of, unless that arguably feral duellist from Wimbourne counted.

"Well, she did set a snake on you..."

Sort of loses its sting when a god tries to suck out your soul, doesn't it?

"Daddy says ALL souls are his to feast on in the end."

Harry repressed the urge to shudder.

"So that's what those shadows were," he said aloud, "Opponents?"

"Could be," said Cedric, cocking his head. "I still spot Jenny Guan from time to time... so Yaxley's training you now, eh? Does that mean you're back already?"

"After the Solstice matches," said Harry, shrinking a little. "Sorry."

Truth be told, Harry was infinitely more wary of running into Susan during his probation, though disappointing Cedric was by no means a trivial concern.

"Don't be," said Cedric, clapping him on the shoulder, "I'm not. All Singles this time - Malfoy's filling in."

Harry did a double-take. "Malfoy's on the Squad, now?"

"Yep," said Cedric, laughing at Harry's gormless look. "Just a Junior reserve. For now. Toothill and the Chief have high hopes, but we'll see."

"I'm just impressed he's managed to keep a lid on it."

Cedric laughed harder. "Magic is a beautiful thing, pal. Speaking of which, you should snoop around here more often! Let me tell you about a primer on stances I found the other day..."

As Cedric proceeded to prattle on about the nuances of Solomonic symbology within the Levantine School of Duelling thought, Harry was puzzled in his assurance that he truly wasn't alone. If anything, he had found the perfect habitat - and possibly, even better company.

Cedric wouldn't guilt trip me about my blood, at least.

As bitter as it sounded, the point remained. His father was almost as irksome as Smith at times, but he represented a priceless connection of which Harry had been robbed in his infancy. How could Hermione, of all people, not understand that?

"She helped you, idiot. She'll help you again."

"It won't help none, Albus! Damage is already done. If."

"I'd have to agree with him, old boy. But it's a big 'if', let's be clear..."

Albus tore his eyes away from the reddening smog under which Muggle London began to retire, dispelling the most fleeting desire to live knowing nothing of magic. Despite all of his woes, he could not abide the bland, glassy obelisk they perched upon that evening.

"Alastor, Algernon," he said, gracing his companions with a plaintive smile, "we are behoved to 'face the music', as our Muggle friends down there would say. Young Peter will be released from Ministry custody within the hour, and the Albatross shall know. He may be one wizard, but he did not act alone."

"Bollocks he didn't," spat Alastor, crossing his arms. "We're dealin' with a spectre. A daemon. The hardest killers to catch're the ones that don't exist."

"Snap," said Algernon, rising from his seat at the roof ledge. "I don't think dissolving the Order will change that. We'll only be leaving ourselves blind."

"Blind, yet alive," replied Albus, studying the ruby ring on his finger as it caught the dying sun's glare. "I fear that our friend is using just that - ties, relationships - to access his targets at their most vulnerable. I maintain the utmost trust in our fellows, but you both know well that we are far from fully operational. Once this problem is fully addressed, we may reconvene, and properly. For the meantime, it shall be we wizards three."

"Well when you put it like that," muttered Algernon, looking down at the city with a wry grin. "It's the Golden Age all over again, isn't it?"

Alastor stepped in between them with a grunt, hand and hip flask outstretched.

"For Iggy," he said with a stiff nod. "May Woden tell him."

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

Author's note: Almost a year? Lies. But yeah - it's been a weird one. Still alive :) Thanks for reading!