PART ONE

At precisely eight o'clock in the morning, the esteemed Professor Albus Dumbledore was found knocking on the Weasley's front door the day after a bedraggled group of Quidditch World Cup spectators arrived safely back at the Burrow. The Weasleys and their guests, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, were tucking into their eggs, toast, and bacon when Mrs. Weasley jumped about a foot in the air at the unexpected knocking, and then a foot more when she looked out the window to see who had come to call.

Professor Dumbledore calmly explained (with every look of sympathy he could fit into his no-nonsense attitude that morning) that Harry was to be returning to Privet Drive as soon as possible. This proclamation was met with an astonishing feat of argument, though with a distinct lack of shouting, before Mrs. Weasley finally deferred to the Headmaster's judgment and shooed Ron and Harry upstairs to gather Harry's still mostly packed belongings.

Harry himself, feeling confused and outraged at this displacement, made an effort not to stomp up every flight of stairs before flinging Ron's door open. He stuffed a small assortment of clothes, World Cup souvenirs, and his Firebolt back into his trunk, responding to Ron mostly in displeased grunts before Ron finally burst out with a justified "This isn't fair!"

"No," Harry responded, "it's bollocks. Why should I have to go back? They're still going to be angry about the Ton-Tongue Toffee too! This is going to be absolutely miserable."

And he was right; just as he and Dumbledore arrived on his relatives' doorstep, Uncle Vernon open his door unsuspectingly to drive to work. He took one look at the purple and green clad wizard standing with his surly looking nephew and slammed the door in their faces. Harry could hear him hollering for Aunt Petunia inside the house.

"Well that was certainly uncalled for," said Dumbledore mildly. The old man knocked politely and waited a moment while they listened to a heated argument on the other side of the door. Uncle Vernon was of a mind to run out the back with Petunia and Dudley, make a break for the car, and drive for as long as they could. ("I'm sure they'll decide to just go back where they came from when they see we don't want anything to do with him!") Aunt Petunia was taking a more logical approach, insisting he open the door and tell the professor that under no circumstances would they be housing "the brat" for the rest of the summer.

Perhaps feeling a bit of unease as the Dursleys argued how not to take his student back, Professor Dumbledore took the matter out of their hands by simply opening the door that Vernon had carelessly forgotten to bolt. The argument came to a grinding halt.

Harry was sure that he would never possess the skillful control over language and persuasion that Dumbledore revealed to the Dursleys that day, though he was quite certain that his Headmaster had been building toward a debacle such as this in years past considering his ambiguous reminder to Petunia about "his last." Regardless of what tools Dumbledore had used, the Dursleys agreed to take Harry back for the remaining few weeks of the summer holidays.

Seeing his means of escape quickly dwindling from slim to hopeless, Harry made to plead one last time with the Headmaster as the old man made for the door and Uncle Vernon continued to glare. "Professor—"

"Harry, I am sure you are about to make a valiant effort to convince me that it would be wisest to simply bring you back to your friends, but I really must insist that you remain here," Dumbledore interrupted. "There are powers at work that have been in place since the night Voldemort lost his body, and with the Death Eaters on the move I feel that you will be much safer with your family. Voldemort cannot touch you here."

"But—"

"I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry," Dumbledore said, ignoring Harry's last effort to communicate how bad of an idea this really was. "Please do not wander during your stay. Your safety must be your top priority." With that, the Headmaster Disapparated right from the hallway.

Harry could have roared in fury at the injustice of it all, but ended up having to deal with the much more pressing issue of Aunt Petunia barking him to get back in his room and Uncle Vernon shoving him out of the way to get on to Grunnings and escape the havoc that Harry's return would wreak upon the family.

Harry lasted for about two hours before he decided that staring at the ceiling for one second longer would likely drive him insane. He had tried to write another letter to Sirius to send when Hedwig returned from her last delivery to his godfather, but found that he was still so angry about his new predicament that he couldn't find words that didn't sound childish and tantrum like. He had scrapped the idea and attempted to work on Snape's ungodly Potions essay on the usage of newt feet in at least eight different brews instead, but without Hermione setting a good example, he had little cause to actually write anything just yet. Therefore, he nearly ran into Dudley on the stairs around noon, got another shove for his trouble into a nearby lamp, and decided that it was time for a rebellious outside jaunt.

Oh, how Aunt Petunia screeched behind him that it would be no fault of hers if he got himself killed by maniacs when it became apparent that he wouldn't be staying despite Dumbledore's warning. By ignoring this, Harry had a fine afternoon in the park observing Dudley's gang chasing cats, dogs, and children down on their bikes; enduring Mrs. Figg's polite small talk; and telling Mrs. Number Eight about how Saint Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys decided that (apparently) he was one of the few well behaved students that was permitted to leave for the summer holidays under the recently announced year-round regime. Fine afternoon indeed.

Harry, though deep down he was sure Dumbledore told him to stay near Number Four with good reason, found great satisfaction in his frowned upon journeys through the Muggle neighborhood. So much satisfaction that he did not decide to return to the Dursley's until well after the street lamps came on and his aunt and uncle were sure to be in bed. All the better for him to make a sandwich when he returned.

Harry made it back to the house sometime after his cousin, and ended up carefully crawling into the kitchen window that his aunt had luckily forgotten to lock. He made his sandwich quietly, ate it quickly at the kitchen table, and finally felt tired enough to go to bed. He flicked off the kitchen light and plunged the house back into darkness.

Running his hand along the wall, Harry felt his way toward and up the stairs; the path was well traveled, and without having to worry about trick steps or ending up in a different part of the house, Harry didn't pay the Dursleys' staircase any particular attention other than one foot following the other. He soon found that he should have, for just as he reached the top, his foot landed on a mass of fabric that caught on his toes and put him off balance. Distantly he realized that Dudley had once again neglected to bring some piece of his clothing all the way to his room, abandoning it wherever it was most convenient for him. This was not, however, at the forefront of Harry's mind when he toppled backwards down the flight of stairs, flung out an arm in a vain effort to stop his fall, and heard more than felt it snap when he hit the landing.

If the banging did not wake his relatives, the scream certainly did. A moment later, Vernon Dursley came storming out of the master bedroom; a light was turned on in the hallway, and Harry heard Petunia say "What's he up to this time?" With the light cascading from the upstairs lamp, Harry rolled over in an attempt to assess the damage on his right arm, only to moan when he saw the appendage and his brain gave him a little nudge as if to say "That's really going to hurt in a few seconds." His forearm was bent at an unnatural angle. It was indisputably broken.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?" demanded Uncle Vernon.

The only response Harry could think of was "Dudley is a slob." Deciding it would be best to get up instead of staying under a rapidly reddening Uncle Vernon, Harry tried to climb to his feet, but was forced back down by his own body when his vision blacked out for a second and his head started to pound. He found his brain couldn't quite send the message to his legs to make him vertical.

As if time had suddenly decided to move at double speed, Aunt Petunia was inexplicably by his side with a boney hand hovering over his chest. "Vernon, I think he needs to go to the hospital."

"Well I'm not taking him. It's his own damn fault if he decides to come back in the dead of night and get injured for his troubles," Vernon said snidely.

"Vernon, they'll blame us for this, come back here! We have to do something!"

Harry, having decided to remain with his head firmly planted on the ground even as his arm began to throb, thought dazedly that once upon a time his aunt would have been worried about the school reporting them to Child Protective Services instead of wizards turning her family into newts for Snape's potions, which made him laugh.

Vernon gave a weak "There, he's fine," from the top of the stairs. Petunia's face swam in and out of his vision. He thought she was watching him, but he couldn't be sure because his glasses seemed to currently be dangling in front of only one eye.

"I think he hit his head," his aunt said.

"My arm's broken," Harry pointed out. "Don't tell Lockhart." Everything seemed strangely funny to him in that moment, but his relatives didn't seem to get the joke.

Harry spent the rest of the night in the nearest hospital, having been driven there by Aunt Petunia who had determined that it was better to just go herself than to attract the neighbors' attention with an ambulance. After going through a series of examinations, it was concluded that Harry had a mild concussion in addition to his broken arm. In retrospect the doctor may have felt his condition to be worse than it was considering some of the answers Harry gave to the simple questions he was asked sounded like he was reciting a story book. Apparently the doctor had no idea what sort of sport Quidditch was.

Aunt Petunia had been mortified. In the end though, the doctor had went along with his business without much fuss; he saw that Harry's arm was set and put in a cast before setting him up in a shared room with a lovely man named Mr. Faulkner, whose main appeal was that he was a heavy sleeper. Aunt Petunia went home without saying whether she was coming back or not in the morning. Harry found he didn't particularly care since she had admittedly gone to the trouble of getting him medical attention, and now he would not have to try and sleep with Dudley's snores penetrating the walls.

Aunt Petunia did show up around eleven the next day. She collected the information packet from the nurse, signed some paperwork, and drove a more clearheaded Harry back to Privet Drive where the two came to an agreement.

Harry had settled himself in his pitiful bed when Aunt Petunia entered unannounced with a ham sandwich and a glass of water. A peace offering. She shoved the plate at his left hand, set the glass on the desk (her nose wrinkled when she caught sight of his open Potions text book), and forced a neutral expression onto her face. Without preamble, she asked, "What are you planning on telling them?"

Harry was not prepared for this question and was immediately on the defensive at his aunt's unexpected, unprecedented visitation. Before he could formulate an answer, he blurt out, "I have no idea."

Whether or not Petunia was relieved, Harry couldn't guess. Her face was twisted into a half worried, half annoyed expression. "Well you're certainly not going to tell them we were responsible. This was your fault."

"It was an accident," Harry said. "They do happen sometimes."

Petunia sneered. "Like they'll believe that; those freaks are out to get my family, and I will have none of this nonsense coming back on us. You'll probably lie and say you were pushed just out of spite."

Harry sighed; the pain medication the hospital had prescribed was starting to wear off. He really did not want to have to deal with an irate Petunia who was going out of her way to talk to him for the first time in either of their lives. "Look," he said, "I'm not going to lie or anything once I get back to school. It's not like I'll have this cast on for long anyway—once I'm back the nurse can fix it, so it's not that big a deal."

"I'll not have you bringing my family into question, boy," Petunia spat, immovable.

Harry fingered the cast with curled fingers, resisting the urge to try and itch where his skin was covered. His aunt continued to stare at him, her hands on her hips. She looked almost as stern as Professor McGonagall on her best of days. Still holding the sandwich plate in his left hand, Harry glanced at it and back at Aunt Petunia.

"You know," he began, setting the plate in his lap and probing the crust, "not many people are going to believe that a half-starved kid just happened to fall down the stairs. Most of the teachers know about your attitudes." He ripped off a piece of crust, then looked back at Petunia. She was listening attentively. "If I show up looking like, well, like I've been on Dudley's diet all summer, they're going to think something's wrong no matter what I say."

Petunia was seething. "So you want more food in exchange for not telling your filthy lies. You're blackmailing us."

"It's not blackmail—I'm not going to tell anyone anything but that I tripped. I'm just saying that if I turn up to school any scrawnier than I already am, assumptions will be made about how I broke my arm. Fatten me up a bit and the teachers will be more likely to believe me when I tell them the truth. Not to mention my godfather."

Without seeing any other options, Petunia agreed. Harry got a normal amount of food for the rest of the holidays despite Dudley's whining and Vernon's grumbling. And that was that.

For the remainder of the holidays, Harry stayed mostly in his room, occasionally venturing to the kitchen or the bathroom when the need arose. Though he still would have rather roamed the neighborhood during the day, Dumbledore's warning seemed to be more ominous now that he had disobeyed it suffered the consequences, albeit ones the Headmaster could not have foreseen. Instead, he spent his time attempting to make his essays legible while writing with his left hand. During his time at Privet Drive, Hedwig did not return with Sirius' response to his letter earlier that summer, nor did a letter show up having been forwarded to him by one of the Weasleys. In the meantime though, he responded to letters from Ron and Hermione carefully, shortly, and slowly. He decided it would be best not to tell them about his predicament lest word travel to a fully grown witch or wizard (probably Mrs. Weasley) who would make it their mission to show up unannounced on the Dursleys' doorstep to save him from Muggle medicine. If there was anything that would shatter the remaining vestiges of Vernon Dursley's patience, that visit would certainly have taken the cake.

He did, however, inform his relatives that he had received word that on the morning he was to return to Hogwarts, someone would be showing up to escort him to Kings Cross. This news was met with an angry retort that Vernon would take him to the station himself rather than let another one of "those unnatural bastards" under his roof. Harry sent a response with the little barn owl that had arrived in a politer manner that it would be unnecessary, but thanks all the same.

Harry's uncle was surprisingly helpful at the train station with setting Harry's trunk on the cart, and even pushing it all the way to Platform 7 before turning on his heal and abandoning him without another word. It was the nicest goodbye he had ever given his nephew.

Harry didn't care; his ordeal was finally over. Tonight he would get the itchy monstrosity off his arm, stuff himself with possibly the best puddings and cakes he had ever tasted, and finally be back with his friends. Admittedly, he was still a bit angry with Dumbledore, but it was all behind him now. Another year between him and the Dursleys!

Uncle Vernon had dropped him off surprisingly early, so Harry was able to claim an empty compartment with ease since the platform was, for the most part, deserted. Getting his trunk onto the train was another matter. Fortunately, Justin Finch-Fletchley happened to show up with his parents shortly after Harry had tried and failed at lifting the trunk with his left arm and knee. Jokingly, he asked whether he could sign Harry's cast after the trunk had been heaved aboard the Hogwarts Express, and Harry, surprising even himself, agreed. Justin even added a little snake after his name.

After Justin left to find a compartment of his own, Harry sat by the window to hold their place while he waited for the Weasleys and Hermione. His friends arrived at their usual time of "just in the nick," and Harry waved them over with his good arm. With the train just about to pull out of the station, they hastily shoved all of their trunks aboard. There was just enough time for Bill, Charlie, and Mrs. Weasley to tease them all about the mysterious event happening at Hogwarts before the train started to pull away from the platform.

The group's grumblings over the injustice of the secret were interrupted when Ginny was the first to notice Harry's odd accessory.

"Harry? What's that on your arm?" the youngest Weasley asked, never having seen a cast before. Fred and George, about to leave to find Lee Jordan, turned back in sync curiously while Ron looked befuddled.

Hermione, having glanced at the limb in question, didn't give Harry a chance to respond. "Oh my goodness! How did you break your arm?! Are you alright?!"

"What d'you mean 'break his arm?'" Ron asked. "What is that thing?"

"It's a cast, Ronald. Muggle doctors use them to keep broken bones from moving around while they heal," Hermione supplied.

Fred and George were looking at it in fascination. "Can you keep things in it?" George asked. "Say, hide a fake wand and swap it with someone's real one without having an extra wand sticking out of your pocket?"

"I suppose," said Harry. "Though I'm not very keen on the idea of one of your wands turning into a chicken while it's in this thing."

"No fun in it if there's no risk," said Fred, who had already taken out what was presumably a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes replica wand and made to measure it against Harry's cast. "Hey, why have you got Justin Finch-Fletchley's name written on here?"

Harry laughed. "He signed it after he helped me get my trunk on the train. It's a Muggle tradition, like a get well soon card that stays on your person, I guess."

So the group took a few minutes to all scrawl their names on Harry's cast with a scavenged marker from Hermione's trunk. Fred and George took it upon themselves make a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes advertisement along the topside that was enchanted to change colors every few minutes. When Harry's arm was satisfyingly covered, they and Ginny wandered away to find their friends.

Settled in for the trip, Hermione reiterated her previous question about how he had broken his arm in the first place. "It's stupid really," Harry said. "Dudley left some clothes on the stairs and I tripped. It's not a big deal." Hermione narrowed her eyes skeptically, and Harry found himself continuing his story. "Really, Hermione! I came back really late because I was angry about Dumbledore sending me back, and I came up the stairs in the dark. Aunt Petunia took me to the hospital and everything. She even took me off Dudley's diet!"

"Well…if you say so, Harry," Hermione said.

"You're lucky Mum didn't see back at Kings Cross," said Ron. "She would have had a conniption if she found out. You should have written, mate. Somebody would have fixed it for you."

"I didn't want anyone showing up; Uncle Vernon wasn't exactly pleased when I came back. He slammed the door in Dumbledore's face at first," Harry said, feeling a hint of repressed satisfaction at his Uncle's rudeness. Maybe one of these days Dumbledore would get the message that the Dursleys did not want their nephew, and Harry did not want them.

Hours later, Harry and Hermione found themselves shepherded to the side of the Entrance Hall after Professor McGonagall spotted Hermione using a drying charm on Harry's cast. After its trip through the torrential downpour and Peeves' water balloons, Harry's cast had been left in a state. Harry really couldn't wait to take it off; the rain that had seeped into the cast, though pleasantly refreshing at first, was starting to set in as annoyingly moist even as Hermione's charm started to take effect. He should have remembered that water repelling charm, or perhaps a plastic bag.

Students glanced curiously in their direction, but the promise of food and warmth in the Great Hall was too enticing for anyone to linger. Ron looked on hopelessly as he was carried away by the tide calling "I'll save you seats!"

Professor McGonagall, her eyebrow raised, asked, "What have you gotten yourself into this time, Potter?" She had an air of resignation about her, as though her student had been in unusual situations so many times that she had come to accept them as commonalities that simply would require her attention.

A bit nervous, Harry began to explain "Well, my arm's in a cast, Professor. Muggles use them to—"

"I know what a cast is, Potter," McGonagall said shortly. "What I am wondering is why you have it rather than getting proper medical attention over the summer."

"Erm..."

"Professor, he doesn't live near St. Mungos," Hermione filled in as she ended the charm and Harry tried to itch his skin just under the edge in vain.

"Granger, if you are quite finished here, you should make your way to the feast," McGonagall said, no room for disagreement in her tone. Hermione, having no argument to give, threw Harry a sympathetic look over her shoulder as she left. The crowd of students was beginning to thin.

"Potter..."

"Hermione's right, Professor. I'm not near anyone who could have fixed it. My aunt took me to the Muggle hospital after I fell down the stairs. I figured I would just stop by the Hospital Wing later and ask Madam Pomfrey to set it right." Harry explained sheepishly. His stomach grumbled unhappily and he pulled his sleeve over his cast, grateful for wizarding clothing in that moment.

McGonagall gave him a piercing look. "You fell down the stairs, you say?"

"Yes, Professor. My cousin left his clothes out and I didn't see them," Harry said unwaveringly. He didn't want trouble over this, he really didn't.

McGonagall, her duties to the first years about to overtake her time, looked him up and down. "Alright, Potter, but I will be informing the Headmaster of this. Be sure to get that taken care of first thing tomorrow morning. I expect your arm healed before I see you for scheduling."

Madam Pomfrey was not at all pleased to see Harry at the start of term. "Really, Potter! You've been here for one night and have already gotten yourself into trouble!" The matron fiercely looked him over, as though she had x-ray vision. She froze when she saw the edge of his cast on his hand. "Broken your arm, have you?"

"Erm, yeah," Harry mumbled, pulling up his sleeve. His cast's advertising was vaguely shifting between purple and red, the colors molting together further and further. "I fell down the stairs at my uncle's house."

At that, Pomfrey adopted a skepticism similar to McGonagall's the night before. "You fell down the stairs? However did you manage that?"

"I didn't mean to!" Harry protested. Pomfrey directed him to sit in one of the chairs and lay his arm on an examination table.

"No one means to fall down flights of stairs, Potter," she said. "Hold absolutely still." The healer used her wand to carefully cut through the plaster of the cast, a straight line from his elbow to his hand. She had him turn his arm over slowly to repeat the process on the other side before gently removing it altogether.

Harry's arm was very pale compared to the rest of his skin having been covered for so long; it was also smaller than he remembered, from lack of use he supposed. There was purple and brown bruising around where the fracture was located, but otherwise it seemed normal. No terrible deformities or crooked limbs at least.

Madam Pomfrey scanned it with her wand, tutted, and continued her spellwork for several minutes without speaking to him. After a while, she directed him to make a fist, bend his arm at the elbow, and even lift a small paper weight she summoned from her desk.

"Any pain, Potter?"

"No, ma'am," he said truthfully. She released him, sternly reminding him to mind his feet lest he find himself back again before Quidditch resumed next year.

Eager for breakfast and grinning ear to ear, Harry nearly jogged to the Great Hall.

After the first week of term, things had seemingly gone back to normal. There was a growing excitement about the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Draco Malfoy had spent a brief stint as a ferret, and Harry received Sirius' long-awaited reply. Harry assumed that his broken arm had been forgotten and was happy to just get on with his life in peace, or in as much peace as he could get in his mad world. It certainly freed up time for classes and worrying about whether his short letter to Sirius would be enough to convince the escapee that a few moments pain in his scar was no reason for the man to get himself caught and kissed by some Dementor.

As such, Harry was caught completely off guard when Professor McGonagall told him to stay after class the following Thursday.

"The Headmaster would like to speak with you during lunch today, Potter," she said solemnly. She handed him a piece of parchment with the words "Licorice Wand" written neatly in black ink.

"What about?" he asked. Harry could think of nothing that he had done to get himself an audience with Dumbledore this early in the term. Had Sirius mentioned Harry's scar after getting his letter?

"Professor Dumbledore will explain everything, Potter," said McGonagall. "Off with you now, before you're late."

The time leading up to lunch was spent whispering with Ron and Hermione about what Dumbledore could possibly want rather than dedicating any brain power to learning. Hermione was adamant that it had something to do with his previously broken arm while Ron hung on to the possibility that Dumbledore wanted to take him out of Divination after hearing about the morbid predictions he and Harry had invented for last week's homework assignment, in which case, Harry was to plead for Ron's release as well. Harry suspected that Hermione's answer, as always, was more akin to Dumbledore's purpose.

Therefore, he was less than surprised when the Headmaster did indeed question him about the incident at Number Four.

Sitting on either side of Professor Dumbledore's impressive desk, Harry told the old man as plainly as he could (trying not to reveal that he had been roaming the streets just prior to his accident) that he had simply fallen down the stairs.

"Now, Harry," Dumbledore said when he had finished his short tale, "please do not take me for the old man that I've found myself becoming over the years. Is there anything, anything at all about this incident that you would like to add?"

Assuming that Dumbledore was wondering about why he had been coming up the stairs in pitch blackness in the first place, Harry said, "No, Professor, nothing." Dumbledore gave him a penetrating look over his half-moon spectacles. Harry found himself remembering faintly how red Uncle Vernon's face had been at the top of the stairs while his piggy eyes glared down at his nephew crumpled on the landing. Most of Harry's recollection of the incident was foggy, but Harry's subconscious had apparently been particularly impressed with how out of sorts Vernon looked at his nephew's dilemma and had stowed it away for future reference.

Dumbledore sighed. "You may go then, Harry. I will keep you informed of any developments in this matter."

Harry, though his stomach protested due to its hunger, did not move. "What do you mean by 'developments'?" he asked. Fawkes gave a chirp from his perch, almost seeming to echo Harry's question. Dumbledore glanced at the phoenix before answering.

"Nothing, nothing, dear boy. Just poor word choice on my part. Please, return to lunch before you find yourself with no time to eat it—I believe there is a delicious chicken dish on the menu today."

Suspicious but unable to find a suitable argument to negate his dismissal, Harry found himself on the other side of the stone gargoyle without any answers.

Harry did not have long to wait to be filled in on the whole matter. That evening after dinner, Professor Dumbledore once again summoned him to his office, where he was surprised to find a glowering Professor Snape.

Sullen and angry as he ever was, Snape hovered next to Dumbledore's desk, not speaking or even acknowledging Harry's presence with a customary glare.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Harry said, doing his best to ignore the Potions Master who so obviously did not want to be wasting his time dealing with whatever this was.

"Yes, Harry. It occurred to me that your memory of the events the night I returned you to your relatives' home may have been a bit, shall we say, inaccurate." Dumbledore was looking at him patiently over steepled fingers, and Harry shifted nervously in the seat he had been offered.

"Professor Snape is quite accomplished in the art of Legilimency and has agreed to assist us in ensuring that you have your chance in telling us the whole truth of what happened the night you...fell down the stairs."

Affronted, Harry quickly said, "Professor, that's all that happened. My cousin—"

"Yes, Harry, that is what you remember, but head injuries can be tricky things, and we want to rule out every possibility. Your safety is the top priority," Dumbledore said.

"Headmaster, if we could begin? I am currently in the midst of an intricate potion that will need my attention in precisely one hour and thirty-seven minutes." Snape looked like he was less thrilled with the situation than Harry himself. He removed his wand with a practiced conciseness and pointed it at Harry.

"Wait! What are you going to do?!"

Snape hesitated and looked at Dumbledore, wand still at the ready. "Ah, of course, you are unfamiliar with this branch of magic," said Dumbledore, holding a hand up in Snape's direction. "Legilimency is the art of examining another's mind, their feelings and memories if you will. Professor Snape has agreed to analyze the incident in question to be sure we are aware of exactly what occurred that night. The concussion you were suffering from at the time may bring some difficulty to Professor Snape's examination, but I have every confidence in him."

Harry's mouth hung open in horror. He made to stand up but Snape snapped at him to stay put. His brain numbly, traitorously, obeyed. "Professor Dumbledore, please, I told you what happened!"

Dumbledore's face was resolute even as he radiated sympathy. "It's for the best, Harry." He nodded at Snape, who raised his wand again.

"Think of your ordeal, Potter; I have no interest in sifting through your recollections for longer than is necessary," Snape directed, taking a step closer to Harry's side of the desk. Seeing the man's arm raise, Harry's brain finally communicated that he should move—that he did not want to be here anymore. He rose half way from his chair before Snape hissed "Legilimens," and he was no longer in control.

Harry did not know how long he watched images of his life at the Dursleys' flash around him. One moment he was a small child picking spiders off his socks in his cupboard, the next, splitting a bowl of cold soup with Hedwig in his bedroom. Dudley and his gang were chasing him in the playground, at school, through the neighborhood...the whole family laughing at him as Ripper snapped at his ankles in the tree...Aunt Petunia wielding a frying pan in her spotless kitchen...Uncle Vernon driving and muttering to himself, "Shake 'em off, shake 'em off." Dumbledore was in the Dursleys' doorway saying "I really must insist that you remain here..." Uncle Vernon at the top of the stairs with Aunt Petunia hovering nearby with an odd look of concern...climbing in the kitchen window after finding he had been locked out...mumbling "Dudley is a slob" from the floor...

Suddenly, Harry found himself back in Dumbledore's office, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. His stomach was churning remorselessly and his head pounded. He was still seated in the chair before Dumbledore's desk, and he lowered his head to his knees in the hopes of calming his rebellious gut. He felt a bony hand on his shoulder, but did not respond.

"Severus?"

"I have found no evidence that Potter's relations were the cause of his injuries. It seems that Potter was attempting to return to his room unnoticed after his curfew and indeed tripped over something of his cousin's."

Harry felt slightly relieved that at least something beneficial would come out of this ordeal-that people would stop asking him questions and leave well enough alone—but the nausea quickly overruled any positive emotions he may have felt. He kept his head down and his eyes closed.

"That is excellent news; Harry will be able to return next year and retain his mother's protection." They were talking about him like he was not sitting right in front of them. It annoyed him, but still his body refused to cooperate. It was all he could do to keep his dinner where it belonged.

"Headmaster..."

"Yes, Severus?"

"Potter's...family..."

"I am aware of the situation, Severus. And if I'm not mistaken, your potion will need your attention in approximately thirty-one minutes."

The door opened and shut with a snap. Harry heard Dumbledore move back to his own side of the desk and settle himself in his magnificent chair. Knowing it was probably a mistake, Harry took one last deep breath, opened his eyes, and righted himself in his seat.

"It seems I did not place as much trust in you as I should have, Harry," Dumbledore said after a tense beat of silence. "I am sorry, my boy."

At a loss for words, Harry stared at the old man silently. A minute later, he gathered himself carefully and stood. He stumbled on his way to the door, ignored the Headmaster's call for him to sit back down, and let himself out.

PART TWO

Harry jerked awake to a cool morning in early October. He shivered in his light pajamas, rolling haphazardly off the sofa he had fallen asleep on in the common room a few hours previously. He hit the floor with a light thump, jostling his glasses so that they almost slid off the end of his nose. There was a cacophony of silence in the common room known only to those who find themselves the sole conscious body amid a large clutch of sleepers. According to Harry's watch, the indent of which he could still feel on his cheek from his brief nap, it was half past five. Carefully, he worked himself up into a crouch before hefting his body from the floor with the arm of the sofa.

He moved as quietly as he could back to his slumbering housemates and unused bed, grateful to have Ron and Neville's snoring to cover the noise of his trips and fumbles on the way to his four poster. Once his curtains were drawn, Harry took his glasses off and climbed under his covers, planning on shutting his eyes just long enough for the sun to come up.

Much later, Harry was awakened by a fully dressed Ron shaking his arm and saying, "C'mon, mate, you're going to be late for breakfast." Harry fumbled for his glasses halfheartedly, only to have Ron shove them in his hand. Once they found their way onto his face, Harry was vaguely surprised by the look of concern Ron was giving him. "You were muttering in your sleep again."

"Was I?" said Harry wearily. After the incident in Dumbledore's office, Harry's sleep had been plagued by memories of the Dursleys' house that he had long since forgotten, none of them pleasant.

"Yeah, something about dogs," said Ron without humor. "C'mon. Hermione's waiting."

Harry dressed without much commitment to the day, not bothering to retie his loosening laces or comb his hair. He splashed some water on his face in the bathroom and decided it would do. His reflection called some criticism out as Harry retreated, but he didn't pay the mirror any mind. Ron had a puzzling look on his face, but quickly started talking about the Chudley Cannon's training season as they descended the stairs.

In the common room, Hermione bit her lip when she caught sight of Harry. "How did you sleep last night?" she asked.

"Alright," said Harry smoothly even as he stifled a yawn. Hermione looked like she dearly wanted to comment, but decided against it.

Ron continued his explanation of the finer points of the Chudley Cannons' keeper on their way to the Great Hall, giving Harry time to scan the staff table from the Entrance Hall without causing a lull in the conversation. Dumbledore was showing Madam Hooch something from a magazine at the end of the table, and the old man looked up just in time to see Harry trailing behind Ron and Hermione at the doorway.

"Oh, I've forgot my…Transfiguration book," he said lamely, skittering to a halt.

"You can borrow mine for class," said Hermione. "You'll be late if you go back now."

"No, I…I have some notes I need in it," said Harry, turning back before either of his friends could stop him. He hurried away, but stopped on the second floor at an unused classroom near the stairs. Inside the room, he waited a good twenty minutes, thumbing through his Transfiguration book partly to figure out what he was supposed to have studied, partly to pass the time. When he determined he was almost late to class, he left the room, made his way to McGonagall's classroom, and nearly toppled over when he stopped himself from running into Ron in the hallway.

"Snagged you this from breakfast," he said after pulling Harry to a steadier position. Ron handed him a stack of toast and bacon wrapped in a pilfered napkin.

Feeling more queasy than hungry, Harry made to shove the toast in his bag. "Thanks," he said, but Ron stopped him before he could put the food away.

"You should eat that before class," Ron said casually. "McGonagall won't appreciate the crunching."

"I'll be late," Harry said.

"She's busy anyway," Ron assured him. "Hermione's distracted her with some O.W.L. question in her office."

Ron was right; Professor McGonagall was not in the classroom, only a group of fidgety students chucking paper at each other and going over the homework questions. "Why didn't Hermione just wait until class?" Harry said, unwrapping the food reluctantly as he followed Ron to an open desk.

"Extension of breakfast time," Ron said without looking at him.

Harry, having convinced himself to try and swallow a piece of bacon, paused before saying "That's a bit devious of her."

"Yeah, well, hanging 'round with us for three years was bound to do that," Ron said with a snigger. He plucked a well done piece of toast from the top of the pile. "You should really eat this, you know," he said around a mouthful of bread and marmalade. "Seeing as Hermione went through the trouble of distracting McGonagall."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered before taking a bite of toast against his better judgment.

Professor McGonagall walked into the class ten minutes later with Hermione trailing behind. As McGonagall apologized for her tardiness and brought the class to order, Harry noticed that his bushy haired friend had a strange, almost sad look on her face. He leaned over the desk and whispered, "Thanks for the breakfast, Hermione," and was confused to see her face fall a bit more at his words.

Before he could say any more, the professor started her lecture with gusto.

At the end of Transfiguration, Harry was about to sidle out of the room behind Ron and Hermione when Professor McGonagall called him back. "Potter, a word?" Harry tensed. This was it, the moment Dumbledore finally called him back to his office. Ron and Hermione each cast him a worried look as they left.

When the rest of the class had gone, McGonagall led him down the hall to her office in silence. Harry, fully expecting to see Dumbledore waiting for him, debated the pros and cons of ducking into the next corridor and making a run for it. His brain though, working on as little sleep as it did these days, could not come to a decision quickly enough, and Harry found himself seated in front of McGonagall's desk in her thankfully vacant office a minute later.

"Miss Granger asked me to speak with you before class this morning, Potter," the teacher began without preamble. "Your friends are concerned for your health."

Harry blinked. "I thought she wanted to know about O.W.L.s," he said hollowly.

"Potter, your friends are worried about you. I am worried about you. You look like you haven't eaten or slept in weeks. Professor Snape has reported to me that you haven't attended Potions in three weeks." Harry shifted nervously, avoiding McGonagall's eye. No, he had not gone to Snape's classes since September, nor had he stayed in the same vicinity of the Potions Master for longer than it took to flee the area. He probably saw less of Snape than he did of Dumbledore.

When he was not forthcoming with an answer, McGonagall asked, "What's brought all this about, Potter? What is the matter?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but found he couldn't form the words. He eventually managed to choke out an unconvincing, "I'm fine, Professor."

McGonagall sighed heavily. "Harry, please, I want to help you, but I can't do that if I don't know how. I'm not a mind reader." Harry flinched ever so slightly, but let his eyes trail down to his shoelaces without responding. His silence extended until it became uncomfortable and finally unbearable. In a strained voice she asked, "Would you be more willing to talk to another teacher? Or the Headmaster?"

"No," said Harry quickly. He finally looked at McGonagall. "I...I haven't been feeling very well lately and…and the fumes from the potions make me feel worse." He could tell she didn't believe that was the whole story.

Professor McGonagall decided to escort Harry to the hospital wing after that excuse, probably seeing that Harry would not be forthcoming with any more information. If he was being honest with himself, she had probably decided he looked the part for his fabricated illness. He made sure to quicken his pace in the corridors in case they came across Snape or Dumbledore and one of them decided to intervene.

When Madam Pomfrey saw him, she seemed torn between being livid and alarmed. The matron wrestled him into a bed in under two minutes where Harry did his best to downplay his own horrendous condition. He knew he was bad, but this was a record for Madam Pomfrey. Usually he was unconscious for this bit of his hospital wing visit.

He decided, for once, to just let it be; he probably wouldn't be getting out of the hospital wing for the next few hours at least, and being here meant he didn't have to worry about avoiding certain classes or meals or….

But what if Dumbledore heard he was here? Or if Snape wanted to confront him about missing class when he knew Harry couldn't escape?

Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey seemed reasonably distracted by a quiet conference, presumably to fill Madam Pomfrey in on what the Head of House knew. Harry carefully lifted himself out of the bed, but his escape was irredeemably flawed in its execution: there was a chair in the way that made a terribly loud clatter when he bumped into it, causing the adults to swivel their attention back to Harry.

"Back in bed this instant, Potter!" exclaimed Madam Pomfrey. "You are in no fit state—"

"Potter, I seem to recall you being able to leave a room without bumbling into any piece of furniture you come across," said Professor McGonagall evenly. "Perhaps you should think about that in retrospect to your current state of health."

Harry decided it was best not to respond to that cutting remark.

Madam Pomfrey kept Harry detained in bed until the next morning, prescribing rest and food for the time being. She supplied him with several potions to help with his insomnia and watched him intensely when he was supposed to be eating to ensure that he ingested a satisfactory amount of nutrients.

Harry was twitchy all day about visitors to the hospital wing, twisting his neck nervously toward the door every time he heard it open. Much to Madam Pomfrey's displeasure, he didn't sleep much during the day, waking quickly during the few times he nodded off to remain vigilant of his surroundings. He tried to be less obvious about it after the matron threatened to drug him.

After classes were over, Madam Pomfrey permitted Hermione and Ron to keep him company for the evening lest they come back in the middle of the night instead and further disturb her patients.

Hermione, though nervous about what Harry's reaction might be after her discussion with their Head of House, was pleasantly surprised to find that Harry had learned from their experience the previous year and was not angry with her.

"I've brought your books for tomorrow's classes," said Hermione, heaving her bag onto the end of the bed and extracting his History of Magic, Charms, and Potions texts. "I thought we could catch up on some of our work this evening." Her voice was cheerful, even as Ron groaned and Harry rolled his eyes good naturedly. "I think we should get our Potions essay out of the way first…or maybe Charms," she amended, catching Harry's look of disdain toward Snape's chosen text.

The next day, Harry felt significantly better and accompanied Ron and Hermione to breakfast after swearing to Madam Pomfrey that he would not duck out early. It was lucky he did go, because otherwise he would have missed a tremendous food fight at the Gryffindor table (orchestrated by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan). He managed to nail Seamus Finnigan in the ear with a heap of scrambled eggs before McGonagall swooped in on them all and docked a good fifty points for their behavior.

The day that followed, while normal for Hogwarts standards, was absolutely fantastic for Harry. Whether it was the full stomach, or the good night's sleep, or even the breakfast mischief, Harry felt more like himself than he had since the beginning of the school year. Everything was going great until he realized he had forgotten to slip away from the rest of the Gryffindors heading to double Potions. He made to backtrack, mumbling an excuse about the bathroom to Ron, but wasn't quick enough.

"Potter," drawled Snape from the front of the line of students. "If you would be so kind as to grace the rest of us with your presence, there is a desk in the front of the room we have been saving just for his majesty." A combination of sarcastic chuckles and pitying noises rustled through the line. Hermione pulled on his arm ever so slightly; her look made it clear that if he did not follow the rest of the class into the dungeon there would be no pleasant ending to the scenario.

Once inside, Snape shut the door with a sharp snap and pointed him to the empty table in front of the teacher's desk. Ron muttered, "Sorry, mate," as he and Hermione took the only other open seats, near the middle of the room.

While the rest of the class went about working on their projects from Tuesday afternoon, Harry was subjected to a barely audible tirade from the greasy professor from his towering position over the scratched and stained table. "Do you think you're above the rest of your classmates, Potter? That you can come and go to my classes as you please?" Harry clenched his fists under the table and kept his eyes partially lowered. "Do not presume that just because your name is in the papers more us underlings that you can do whatever your tender heart desires. I'll have you scrubbing so many cauldrons that Madam Pomfrey will have to regrow the skin of your hands." He leaned closer to Harry's ear sinisterly. "But I suppose that sort of activity must be one of your best skills, considering—"

"Shut up, SHUT UP!" Harry yelled before he could stop himself. Snape, to Harry's surprise, flinched backward. Harry shoved the table away from himself and stood, enraged and feeling more alive than he had in ages. He didn't notice that the sound of knives and stirring cauldrons had stopped around the room. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

"How dare you, Potter!"

"How dare I?" Harry spat. "What gives you the right to say a word about it?!"

"Detention, Potter—for the rest of the term," Snape sneered, bringing himself to his full height with murderous intent written all over his slimy face.

"Yeah, good luck with that," Harry barked. He made to grab his bag from where he had dropped it on the dank floor at the start of class, but Snape caught his arm in a cold and practiced grip.

"Let go of me!"

"My office, Potter. Now." Somewhere behind him, he heard the scrapping of chairs.

It was a good thing that Harry was not in his right state of mind at that moment. Otherwise, he probably would have gone straight for his wand and tried to hex the life right out of the Potions Master. Instead, he yanked his arm back hard, catching the student directly behind him in the stomach. Harry recognized Ron's grunt when his elbow made contact with the other boy. His friend grabbed Harry's still ensnared arm and helped him pull it out of Snape's grasp before Snape could get a proper grip on him again.

The room around them gasped in awe and fear as the boys overpowered their teacher, no one else daring to move lest Snape turn his attention on them next. When Snape stumbled back, Harry and Ron fled from the room, Hermione about a second behind them. They ignored the commotion and terrifying roar from the dungeon as they sprinted away from the danger, not sure where they were going or what they would do when they reached the end of their escape. When the trio made it to the first floor, Ron and Hermione started toward the marble staircase while Harry ducked toward the slightly ajar doors to the grounds. All three of them stopped, panting.

"I'm going to the Whomping Willow," Harry said through his heavy breathing.

"We should just go back to the tower," said Ron a bit more evenly. "Snape can't get in there."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron, of course he can. We should go to the library. He won't think to look for us there," said Hermione with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Of course he will," said Ron. "That was literally the first place you thought to go. He won't think we'd be stupid enough to go to the tower where we'll be at a dead end."

"Yes he will," said Harry. "He thinks we're idiots. That's why I'm going to the Shrieking Shack."

"Harry, we can't leave the grounds! That'll make everything worse," Hermione snapped. "And what do you mean, 'I'm going'? Ron and I are coming with you."

"But—"

"Shut up, Harry," Ron snapped. Somewhere below, they could hear a door banging open. "We need to move right now," he said. Ron grabbed Hermione and Harry and pulled them both up the stairs, picking a corridor at random when they reached the third floor. The castle halls were mostly empty at this time of day, so while they didn't have crowds of students to contend with, they also had very few places to hide if Snape was indeed chasing them. Either they would have the rest of the double Potions period to figure out what to do, or they had a few precious moments.

"I wish I had the map," said Harry at the end of yet another corridor. And then it hit him—the map! Fred and George had showed him how many secret passage ways when they had given it to him last year? And as far as he knew, Snape either didn't know most of them or didn't know that he knew. "I know a place!" he exclaimed. "Come on!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, after checking the staircase for a furious Potions Master or any other teachers that might already be on their tails, sprinted to the fourth floor and quickly located the sizable mirror that covered the collapsed secret passage. They slipped inside and carefully slid the mirror back in place behind them, immediately cutting off most of their light. In the dark, Hermione transfigured a scavenged rock into a suitable dish and conjured one of her little blue flames in it; the stone tunnel was filled with flickering streams of light, enough to carefully sit and examine the area.

The passage behind the mirror had once been large; the space remaining after the collapse was enough for the three to stand or sit comfortably and extend their arms on either of their sides. Fred and George had been right: there was no way to get out of the castle from here now, but for the purposes of a hiding place, there were worse choices. Harry's cupboard was much smaller.

"That is the stupidest thing we have ever done," said Hermione after a while. She put her face in her hands and shook her head as if trying to change their predicament just by denying the fact. "Snape will have our heads."

"Yeah, but he was out of line," said Ron. "Dumbledore will side with us. He nearly attacked Harry!"

"And then we ran off," said Hermione. "Who's Professor Dumbledore going to believe?"

"There were witnesses," said Ron. "They'll side with us."

"And how many of them are going to stick their necks out for Snape to bite off when he gets a chance?" said Harry somberly. This sort of thing wasn't new to him. What the teacher says goes; people don't side with you if it looks like they'll be dragged into it; if you run, you're the one to blame. He shouldn't have ran. He should have just gone to Snape's office and gotten it over with. Now there was no telling what the man would do—and he went and dragged Ron and Hermione into the whole mess. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"There's nothing to apologize for," said Hermione firmly.

The three Gryffindors spent the rest of the afternoon silently doing what homework they could from the supplies they had. Hermione had managed to snag her bag before their dash from the dungeons, but Harry and Ron's had been left abandoned somewhere underground. Harry had a strong suspicion that if none of the housemates picked them up for them, their bags would soon be floating in some acidic concoction in the near future.

A few times, they could listen to the students in the corridor as the rest of the school went about its business. According to their eavesdropping, Snape had primarily followed them after threatening the class to stay put. Dennis Creevey had been quite unnerved when Snape had caused a huge ruckus in the library not twenty minutes into the first years' study period. Later, they heard that the Potions Master had barged into the Gryffindor Common Room to demand their location from whatever students were unlucky enough to there at the wrong time. It happened to be Fred and George, who were now serving a weeks worth of detentions for not giving Snape a straight answer.

Word spread quickly that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were on the run. As dinner came and went, the chatter about them from their classmates grew in intensity as people passed the mirror on their way back upstairs or down to wherever they were going on a Friday night in Hogwarts. Eventually, the voices died down. From time to time, a prefect would wander by; Cedric Diggory even called Harry's name a few times before melting back into another corridor from which the three hideaways could hear nothing. Harry supposed it was lucky that Mad-Eye Moody hadn't limped by at any point. His eye would have given them away in a second.

After a while, Hermione replaced her quill carefully in her bag and sat back away from the little flame. "We're going to have to come out of here sometime," she said reluctantly. Even in the bad light, Harry could see her brow was furrowed with worry.

"I know," he said.

"This is just going to get worse the longer we stay here. And we haven't heard of Snape hunting since dinner time."

"Yeah."

"We're going to starve in here," Ron piped in.

"You're right," said Harry. He capped the ink he had been using for doodles more than homework for the past hour and stuffed Hermione's Charms book back in her bag.

"I think we should go straight to Professor Dumbledore's office," said Hermione cautiously. "Explain what happened and why we ran off."

That was probably as high up on the list of things that Harry did not want to do as going swimming with the giant squid. But she was right. Best to just get it over with.

"Or," started Ron, "we could just go back to the tower. Just mix back in with everyone like nothing happened." Hermione and Harry gave him looks of incredulity. "What? It's what I do when Mum's in a state. About five times out of ten she ends up getting distracted by Fred or George or Ginny and I'm off the hook."

"Ron—"

"Great idea," said Harry, jumping on the escape route. Anything to put off talking to Dumbledore and Snape again. Reluctantly, Hermione agreed. She had the air of someone who had accepted going down with the ship rather than trying the send up wet flares and jumping into a leaky lifeboat.

Their trip back to Gryffindor Tower left all of them on edge. It was just past curfew and the corridors were fairly dark. Harry noticed that some of the paintings seemed to be taking an interest in them; he pointed this out silently to his friends, and the three quickened their pace. A few times they had to dodge behind a tapestry or into a bathroom to avoid a patrolling prefect and once Professor Flitwick. Harry had a moment of unease when he thought about letting the people looking for them continue on when they would just be back in the common room, but that quickly faded. Dumbledore, if he was paying attention, would probably know where they were exactly when they stepped over the Fat Lady's threshold. If not then, he would know very soon after the Fat Lady ran off to report them, which she did with a shriek after swinging the portrait hole open.

"Still think this is going to work?" Hermione deadpanned to no one in particular. Rather than responding, Harry let himself fall heavily into an arm chair by the fire, closing his eyes and trying to tune out the students that had begun to swarm around him. The day was catching up with him.

Not half an hour later, after an impromptu party for their success in avoiding Snape was organized around Harry's dead to the world position, the escapees sat before a pacing McGonagall and a somewhat bemused Dumbledore in the Headmaster's office. The Headmaster and his Deputy wisely had decided not to include the Potions Master in the present discussion. According to reliable sources, the man was currently breathing hellfire on anyone who came within fifty feet of him.

"Would any of you like to explain just what happened this afternoon?" said Professor McGonagall in a tight voice.

Hermione broke the oppressive silence first in a voice that grew from a squeak to a measuredly calm tone. "Professor Snape was out of line in during class today. He wanted to put Harry in detention for the rest of the term. Harry protested and Professor Snape grabbed his arm. Harry told him to let go and he wouldn't. Ron helped him pull away and we left the class before the situation could escalate."

Professor McGonagall shot a glance at Professor Dumbledore. Dumbledore had turned his gaze to Harry, who refused to meet his eye.

"Potter, could you perhaps explain this from your perspective?" asked McGonagall when it became clear Hermione had no more to say and Dumbledore had nothing he wanted to offer.

Harry frowned. "I think Hermione's summed it up pretty well, Professor," he said evenly to a silver instrument on Dumbledore's desk.

McGonagall sighed. "Have you anything to offer, Weasley? What did you hear?"

"Snape was bullying Harry again," said Ron. "He puts him in that much detention for no reason and expects Harry to just go along with it? It's mental!"

Harry, as nasty as the situation was, could not help but be impressed by his friends' steadfast explanations and loyalty to him even in the face of Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall. He really couldn't have asked for better friends.

"Professor Snape was reacting to Potter's continued absence in his class over the past three weeks. He was perfectly within his rights to assign that punishment," said McGonagall. She had stopped pacing to turn her gaze on each of her students in turn, arms crossed over her chest.

"Professor, no matter what Professor Snape's rights were in assigning a punishment for truancy, he had no right to grab Harry in that situation. I've read in the Hogwarts Code of Conduct that—"

"Granger, please do not quote the Code of Conduct to Professor Dumbledore and myself, well as you might know it," McGonagall cut her off with another heavy sigh. "I am not saying Professor Snape was in the right, just that he was not entirely in the wrong."

"I believe," said Dumbledore, finally entering the conversation, "that it would be best to discuss this with Harry himself. Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, you may both be excused."

Without being able to stay without directly opposing the Headmaster, Ron and Hermione reluctantly left the office. Professor Dumbledore waited a moment for their footsteps to fade away down the steps outside before looking at Harry again. He sat in his overbearing chair behind the desk opposite Harry, who suddenly felt very alone.

With Professor McGonagall standing off to his right, Dumbledore fixed Harry with a stern gaze. "I'm honestly surprised at you, Harry. Of all of my students, I did not think I would ever be speaking with you about insubordination."

Professor McGonagall made an odd noise that could either have been agreement or astonishment but otherwise remained an observer. "I would not have believed that you had missed so much of Professor Snape's class if it hadn't been for Professor McGonagall's own word on the matter. You say you've been feeling ill?" Harry did not answer. "If you felt you could not attend class, you should have spoken to either Professor McGonagall or Professor Snape, not simply ceased putting forth an effort. This leads me to believe that this situation was more akin to not wanting to rather than not being able to come to class. Is this true, Harry?"

None of the excuses that came to mind seemed likely to sound like anything but something he imagined a whiney child would say. Harry didn't want to go because he couldn't look at Snape. He didn't want to go because Snape knew something he shouldn't. He didn't want to go because he was tired of waiting for the moment when Snape would turn and tell the whole class about his life at the Dursley's just because Harry looked at him funny.

"Harry, look at me," Dumbledore said quietly, and despite his trembling fingers and constricted throat, Harry did. He felt his stomach turn over when he met Dumbledore's eyes and pursed his lips. Harry found himself thinking back on the scene in today's potions lesson.

After a moment, the Headmaster continued in the same disappointed fashion. "I'll be in touch with your guardian, Harry."

PART THREE

Harry resigned himself to returning to Potions in the interest of avoiding any more unpleasant scenes due to his absence with either Dumbledore or Snape. In class, Snape had fallen back on his "ignore Potter and he doesn't exist" routine, barring the times when he docked points from Gryffindor for disruptions to the class, which were normally Harry sneezing or chopping ingredients too loudly. Though he was given detention for the rest of October, Dumbledore assigned him to help Hagrid with his Blast-Ended Skrewts in the evenings. While this was a terrible punishment in itself, the company was infinitely better than spending time with Snape or Filch.

At meals, Hermione would continuously sneak extra pieces of food onto Harry's plate when she thought he wasn't looking, and Harry found he didn't mind. It was all a bit like staying at the Burrow really. He still would not enter an empty Great Hall though. Ron and Hermione made a point of making their group a little late to each meal so that it was always crowded when they ate. Whether this was an official agreement between the two of them or an unspoken understanding, Harry never knew.

As for his nighttime activities, Harry found that if he did his History of Magic reading directly before bed, his subconscious focused more on giants and goblins instead of frying pans and headmasters. Gradually, his sleeping habits returned to what Ron could report to Hermione as "normal," and the enormous bags under Harry's eyes began to fade. Despite coming back from Hagrid's most nights sporting the odd burn or cut from feeding the skrewts, Harry's life seemed to be returning to normal.

Halfway through October, Harry was pleasantly surprised one morning by Hedwig bearing Sirius' reply to his letter from earlier that term. After checking to be sure the other students were distracted by their own conversations, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bent over the letter eagerly while Hedwig munched on Harry's breakfast.

Nice try, Harry,

I'm back in the country and well hidden. I want you to keep me posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts. Don't use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don't worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don't forget what I said about your scar.

I got a letter from Dumbledore this morning. Something about Potions and "insubordination." He said he wanted me to talk to you about "your behavior," which is a right laugh considering how your dad and I acted in school. Where's this coming from?

Sirius

"He wrote to Sir—Padfoot?!" Harry hissed, shoving the letter into his pocket. "What's Dumbledore playing at?"

"That's what happens when there's adults who give a damn," said Ron conversationally. "Suddenly it's all 'you're jeopardizing your future,' and 'you can't fly a car to school what were you thinking?'" he said in an impressive imitation of his mother.

Hermione headed Ron off before he could go off on a tangent. "So the Dursley's never spoke with you about letters from the school? You said Professor Dumbledore wrote to them too about the flying car," she said.

Harry gave her a look. "What do you think? They probably had a good laugh before chucking them in the fire. Why's he want me to keep changing owls?"

The rest of their conversation was waylaid by the impending morning classes, but Harry's thoughts lingered on Sirius' letter for the rest of the morning. He been told off before of course, but this nonchalant mention of it from Sirius felt like something else altogether. He didn't know what to reply with or how to explain what had been going on at Hogwarts. And really, was Sirius even going to be interested in a bit of drama at school?

A bit of drama, he scoffed to himself. That's all it was—a misunderstanding that got blown out of proportion sure, but presently everything was fine. Harry tried not to think about the exhaustion and paranoia that had followed the "misunderstanding." There was no reason to be out of sorts when Dumbledore was just trying to do his job. The Headmaster probably had to ask those types of questions all the time, just in case some kid was getting knocked around by their family. It was all part of the man's job. Everything was fine now.

Harry found that being under the Imperius Curse wasn't all that bad when Professor Moody cast it on him for the first time a few days later in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione, of course, did not want anything to do with the illegal activity, but really, it had its uses. Harry was floating in blissful ignorance of all the wrongs in the world for a few precious moments. Everything around him seemed lighter, gentler. He felt at peace.

Of course, all that was ruined when he both tried to jump on top of a desk and stop himself from doing so simultaneously. When Harry crashed headlong into the desk before him, he was immediately confronted with pain, confusion, and an unexplained melancholy.

"Now, that's more like it!" growled Moody. "Look at that, you lot…Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We'll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention—watch his eyes, that's where you see it—very good, Potter, very good indeed! They'll have trouble controlling you!"

Moody cast the Imperius Curse on Harry four more times. By the end of it, Harry could throw the curse off completely, but with every shove he gave himself back to reality, his mood worsened. At the end of the class, Harry's feet were dragging as he hobbled on his sore legs, and all he could look at was the stone of the floors. When Ron tried to engage him in conversation about the lesson, all he could give in response were noncommittal grunts until finally Ron gave up entirely.

Rather than going to dinner, Harry made a lame excuse about getting something for his legs and limped away from the Great Hall all the way back to Gryffindor Tower. The boys' dormitory was empty when he arrived, so Harry crawled into his bed and drew the curtains shut. He really just wanted to be alone.

Later that evening, Harry was rudely interrupted from his staring contest with his bedframe by an irate Hermione and a sheepish Ron. "'Lo," he said vaguely from the bed, not bothering to sit up.

"Harry, this has gone on long enough," said Hermione. "Something is wrong and you obviously need help."

"What?" said Harry. "No I don't! I'm fine, Hermione!"

"You haven't been 'fine' since September!" exclaimed Hermione. "Let us help you!"

Harry felt himself go on the defensive. He sat up, swinging his legs over the bed so he could plant them on the floor, his hands clasped tightly into fists in his lap. "Hermione, I didn't ask for your help! Why don't you go bother the house elves if you're so desperate to meddle in someone else's business?" Even as the words left his mouth, Harry knew he hadn't wanted to say that. Hermione's face immediately showed hurt and sadness, but she stood her ground.

Ron intervened. "Harry, we don't want you dropping dead. You're going to end up starving yourself or be so sleep deprived you take a header off the staircase."

"I'm—"

"Do not say you're fine again, Harry Potter," Hermione snapped. "You think you have to be infallible because you're the Boy-Who-Lived, but guess what? You don't. We're not Death Eaters, Harry, we're your friends."

A tense silence followed, Hermione's face contorted in anger at Harry's obstinacy; Ron was looking nervously between them, his ears red. Finally, Harry's shoulders slumped and his hands opened, exposing his slightly sweaty palms.

"I…I'm sorry, you're right," Harry said miserably. What was the point in arguing anyway? As much as he wanted to make his excuses and pretend everything was okay, he knew it wasn't. Everything had felt so serene under the Imperius Curse that day, and once that was gone, once the numbness had worn off, he felt worse than he knew he could feel. Harry tried to say something, felt his throat swell, and clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to cry in front of his friends. Hermione seemed to sense what was happening, and she sat down on the bed next to him, her arm going around his shoulders in a comforting manner. After a second, Ron sat down on Harry's other side.

No one spoke for a few minutes. After a while, Harry built up the courage to tell them his story. He started at the beginning, when Dumbledore had dropped him off at the Dursley's after the Quidditch World Cup. How the old man had listened at the door with Harry to his family desperately trying to find an excuse, any excuse, not to let Harry back in the house. How despite all, Dumbledore left him at Privet Drive yet again regardless of Aunt Petunia's history of hitting him with cooking utensils and Uncle Vernon locking him in cupboards and tiny bedrooms. Harry explained how when he had returned to Hogwarts with a broken arm, Dumbledore would not take him at his word. How the one time that Dumbledore need not have worried, the headmaster had to get Snape—Snape of all people!—to run his greasy fingers through Harry's private thoughts and memories.

"He said he knew," Harry said hollowly. "He knew all along what it was like there and he still just left me. I always thought he didn't know what they were like, that that was his reason for leaving me with the Dursley's all this time. And somehow, that made it better, because Dumbledore wasn't leaving me with them on purpose, he thought they were okay. But he knew how bad it all was. I trusted him."

Harry told them more about his life at the Dursleys', about how Snape had used his memories to mock him that day in Potions. About the times Dumbledore looked at him and Harry could feel himself thinking about things that had no reason to be on his mind at the time.

"I see why you don't want to be around them," Hermione said. "That was such an awful thing to do." Her arm squeezed Harry's shoulders gently. Ron ran a hand down his face, pulling at his own mouth. "Harry, Sirius asked you what Dumbledore wanted him to talk to you about, didn't he? …Well, I think you should write him back with the whole story. What you just told us. He's your godfather, and that's what he's there for."

"I don't want to bother him," Harry muttered. "It's over and done with anyway."

"Not to you it isn't," Hermione said.

"Dumbledore's being a git," said Ron. It was the first time he had spoken since they all sat down. "He's being a git and you can't complain about it because you're a student, but Sirius can come in and either tell him to shove it, or give him a punch in the teeth."

"Ron, I think you're going a bit far there," Hermione ventured, but Harry had already given a hearty chuckle, so she let it go.

"Yeah, I'll do that," said Harry. "Dumbledore needs to be told off for once," Harry said a little vehemently. He knew that Sirius would never be able to come to the school or really tell Dumbledore off seeing as he needed to stay on good terms with the few people who knew he was innocent. Now that he had gotten the whole thing off his chest, he desperately wanted to tell his godfather, just so he would know. Any advice Sirius could give on the matter would be invaluable.

Feeling relieved, Harry allowed Hermione and Ron to lead him back to the common room, where they claimed the comfortable chairs by the fire, and helped him write his letter.

On Monday next, Harry, Ron, and Hermione hung back from the rest of the Care of Magical Creatures class after the bell rang in the distance, lagging behind to wearily help Hagrid corral one of the larger skrewts back into its cage. After it was safely contained, the trio began to make their way safely back to the castle, but before long Harry stopped short. In the distance near the edge of the forest, he thought he had spotted a large black dog.

"Padfoot?" Harry wasn't sure if he was seeing things, but the enormous grim-like dog was the happiest sight he had witnessed in weeks. Harry broke out into a run, coming to a halt only when he realized how suspicious it would look for him to run pell-mell into the forest after what people would assume was a stray dog.

Glancing around, he saw that the only people in sight other than the three of them were a few first or second years far off by the greenhouses. Everyone else had gone inside for lunch. Harry walked at a more reasonable clip toward the tree line, Ron and Hermione steadfastly following him. Once there, the great dog turned and led them a short distance into the forest until their view of the castle was almost obscured. Harry turned to be doubly sure that no one had followed them, and was caught unawares by the bony hug in which Sirius encased him.

Sirius' face had retained its gaunt look from the previous June, though from his time out of the country he had obtained a bit of a tan. His hair, while not neatly cut, was a lot shorter than it had been when they last met, cut unevenly at his shoulders. He had not gained much weight, but was at least less of a skeletal being.

"I got your letter," Sirius said unnecessarily when he released Harry. "Thought I would drop by for a visit with a certain Headmaster."

"You didn't have to," said Harry quickly.

"Nonsense! I'm always up for an unsanctioned adventure," Sirius insisted, clapping him on the back.

Sirius claimed that being a wanted felon on the run from the law made his appearance at Hogwarts all the greater, as it offered him the element of surprise in confronting the Headmaster. During lunch, Sirius stayed in the forest while Harry ran up to fetch his invisibility cloak and Ron and Hermione gathered all the food they could from the Great Hall to feed the four of them on the grounds. After Sirius ate as much as he could fit in his stomach, he transformed back into a dog, and Harry threw the cloak over him so that he could follow them into the castle without a massive grim-like animal drawing unwanted attention.

With a promise from Ron to cover for him in Divination, Harry led Sirius up to the stone gargoyle. Luckily, the password had not changed since September, so Harry didn't have to waste any time guessing random candies before the statue let them through.

They found Dumbledore alone in his office when he bade them enter, sitting regally behind his large desk and a large stack of parchment. As Harry watched, a quill floated between the unrolled forms, scribbling at the bottoms.

"Harry," said the Headmaster. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry gave a rare smirk, and closed the door behind him when he was sure Sirius had entered the office. Dumbledore was unsurprisingly able to keep his face from slipping into a dumbfounded expression, but Harry saw his eyes widen behind the spectacles as Sirius Black threw off the invisibility cloak with a wolfish grin. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses gave varying exclamations shock and indignation. A clever-looking wizard with black hair on the wall said snidely, "If it isn't my great-great-grandson."

"I got your letter, Professor Dumbledore," he said. "Thought I might stop by to discuss just what has been going on in this school of yours." Without invitation, Sirius pulled a chair away from the desk and planted himself roguishly. Harry remained standing, drifting to stand beside Fawkes' perch to observe.

Dumbledore, perhaps being experienced with Sirius sitting on the other side of his desk, adopted his usual presence of a calm and collected master of the school. "Yes," he said. "I was hoping to have the chance to discuss the matter with you, Sirius, though I assumed we would not be meeting in person given your predicament."

A cheeky grin glanced across Sirius' face for a second. "Yeah, well considering Harry's my godson, I decided I should make an appearance." In the chair, he stretched his arms up and folded his hands behind his head.

The parchment and quill, which had continued to scribble in the prelude of their conversation, dropped neatly to the desk. Dumbledore steepled his fingers and his gaze travelled to Harry for a moment before returning to Sirius. "As I explained in my letter, Harry, for reasons he has yet to share with me, was absent from his Potions lessons for three consecutive weeks this term. When Professor Snape confronted him, Harry acted with a lack of respect or maturity that I would never have expected from him."

"Oh," said Sirius. "And why is it that he didn't go to Snape's class? Was it because Snape, who I'm sure was only being his regular greasy self, might have been bullying my godson?"

Dumbledore chose to ignore the jab at his staff and instead responded, "It was my assumption that Harry decided not to attend Potions with Professor Snape because of some altercation between the two. I will not deny that Professor Snape has always been a difficult man to work with."

"You assume?" Sirius spat. "You mean to tell me that you don't even know what happened?"

"I am sure this would be a surprise to a great many people, but not even I am aware of all that happens in this castle," Dumbledore admitted.

Sirius lowered his hands to his knees and leaned forward in his seat. "You may be surprised to hear then that I've learned otherwise."

"Please enlighten me then."

"Oh, I intend to. See, Harry has been a bit out of sorts this term due to you and Snape messing with his head. Not only did you lot decide to go digging around in a teenager's memories, you also let Snape learn quite a few things that I think you're aware he doesn't have the capacity to resist bringing up in conversation." Sirius' tone was tinged with a matter-of-factness that Harry was certain he would not be able to retain if it had been him speaking. "The way I see it, Harry was perfectly in his rights to skive off Potions if it meant Snape wouldn't have a chance to blurt out that sort of information, as he undoubtedly would at some point."

Dumbledore missed a beat of the conversation. He lay his hands on the desk, fingers knitted together. "Sirius, I understand your frustration on Harry's behalf. However, you must admit that you have never found yourself in the position of an educator. If Harry was uncomfortable in Professor Snape's presence, he should have voiced his concerns to me or another teacher. Harry must understand that his actions will have consequences if he allows situations to get out of hand." Dumbledore glanced over at Harry with a disappointed expression. "Again, you surprise me, Harry, allowing Sirius to put himself at risk and come to Hogwarts when you yourself could have discussed this with me at any time."

Harry felt his stomach drop. Professor Dumbledore was right, of course. Sirius was in danger here; what if Professor Moody were to spot him in the office, or another teacher or student were to enter unannounced? He felt ashamed for putting Sirius in danger for something so trivial.

"Excuse me," said Sirius through clenched teeth. "I am an adult, and it was my choice to be here. Harry had no idea I was coming. I would have been here weeks ago if I had realized just what has been going on in this school."

"Sirius, you are being foolish," Dumbledore said evenly. "Harry is perfectly safe here. You put him in danger by coming onto the grounds at all."

"Safe from who, exactly?" Sirius snapped. "Voldemort? The Death Eaters? If Harry's so safe from them, why is it the past three years have brought nothing but stories about how Harry Potter fought a dark lord, a basilisk, and—dare I say—an escaped convict? The grape vine is long and plentiful, Dumbledore, and I've heard some interesting stories these past few months.

"How many times did you let things get a little worse before stepping in? How many times did you think to yourself, 'let's see what he can do,' and look the other way? Is that what you thought would happen after you messed around with his memories? His mind? That Harry would just bounce back from whatever measures you felt you needed to take and be all the better for it?

"You're lucky Harry is who he is. Otherwise we could be having a very different conversation today given what you have put him through."

Sirius' monologue hung heavily in the air. Not even the portraits dared utter a sound. Dumbledore's expression was unreadable. He let the silence linger, perhaps turning his thoughts over. Once or twice he glanced at Harry, who avoided the Headmaster's eyes.

When it became clear Sirius was waiting for a response, Dumbledore said quietly, "It was never my intent to cause him any harm. When Harry returned from the Dursleys' injured, I was afraid that Vernon and Petunia had finally reached their limits. That I had made a grievous error in judgment by returning him to their care in light of the events at the Quidditch World Cup. I had to know if it was still safe for him there. If I had miscalculated what little devotion the Dursley's had to their own blood and ruined Lily's last act of love forever.

"When Professor Snape told me that Harry had been telling the truth about his accident, I was relieved. While Privet Drive was never the ideal place for Harry to live, the Dursleys' acceptance of him in their home is all that protected their nephew for the last thirteen years when he could not be in the company of trusted witches and wizards." Again, Professor Dumbledore looked at Harry, and this time their gazes met. "I am sorry for what I put you through, Harry. An old man's mistake."

Sirius watched the apology with his eyebrows furrowed. When no more was said, he resumed control of the conversation. "Harry is not going back to the Dursley's this summer." Dumbledore made a noise of protest, but Sirius continued with deliberation. "I refuse to let him go back again. Not after all this. You can say what you like, but in the end I am Harry's godfather and I'll look after him."

"Sirius, you must see how difficult that would be. You are an escaped felon, the most wanted wizard in Britain. I cannot allow Harry to go on the run with you. You would only put him in more danger."

"Then find a way to fix this, Dumbledore. As far as I'm concerned, you no longer have any say in how or where Harry lives when he is outside Hogwarts. You're the one who contacted me as his guardian. At this point, you can either help or get out of the way."

As Harry listened to the Headmaster and his godfather argue and brainstorm in the following discussion of next summer, Harry was a little embarrassed to find himself swallowing a lump in his throat. This must be what it's like, he thought. This is what it must be like to have a dad.