The next day, the Dueling Club standings were posted. Harry and Hermione paused for a while,
perusing them before going into the Great Hall to run.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dueling Club Standings
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. Name Potter, Harry [captain] Granger,
Hermione Weasley, Virginia Weasley, Alfred Longbottom, Neville Davies, Evan Malfoy, Draco
Spinnet, Alicia Davies, Roger Bones, Susan Jordan, Lee Quirke, Niamh Johnson, Angelina
Weasley, George Patil, Parvati Weasley, RonaldWins 18 17 17 15 14 12 11 11 11 8 7 6 6 6
6 6 Losses 1 2 2 4 5 7 8 8 8 11 12 13 13 13 13 13
“Who’s Alfred Weasley?” Harry asked her, perplexed.
“Fred.”
“Fred is short for Alfred?” Harry made a face.
“Well, I suppose it could have been short for Frederick. But it’s not. You understand who
Virginia is, I hope?”
“Of course...”
“--or did you think ‘Ginny’ was short for ‘Gingivitis?’”
Harry glowered at her. She laughed.
“Sorry. Dentist humor. My background creeping through.” Then they both laughed together and
went into the Great Hall to run.
Harry, Hermione and Ginny had each lost to Neville, but he’d lost to some people in his first
week, so their standings were unaffected. And after this, they would all be learning together.
Harry had looked forward to talking to Neville about the dueling, but Neville hadn’t wanted to
stay after the meeting was over. He said he needed to work on Potions before dinner. Ginny
looked irked; Harry thought she might have been planning to go down to the dungeon with
Malfoy, and now Neville would be there. Neville was definitely doing better in Potions--perhaps from all that extra time he was putting in,
Harry thought. Harry had also put in some extra work, and was hopeful that he’d get O.W.L.s
in basic and intermediate potions both. Snape still seemed to go out of his way to humiliate him
in class, but the grades he was getting on paper were quite respectable.
Later that morning, just before dismissing the Potions class, Snape stood at the front of the
room and announced, “For those of you in Gryffindor, the headmaster wishes you to know that
you should report to the Great Hall for Charms class next period. Evidently, the substitute
professor has decided to grace us with his presence early. And Slytherins should report to the
Great Hall for Charms at your usual time, directly after luncheon.”
Harry’s heart sank; great, no free period. And it was someone Snape didn’t like, evidently,
based on the sneer on his pale face. When Harry was younger, that would have made him
pretty happy and optimistic. Now, however, he was actually getting along with Snape and
trusting him. Harry also realized, quite suddenly, that Snape hadn’t liked or trusted Quirrell, and
he was right--Quirrell had been trying to kill Harry. Then there was Lockhart-- tremendous
waste of space, thought Harry. Huge fraud. And another person Snape hadn’t liked. Of course,
Snape hadn’t liked or trusted Sirius or Lupin, but after what Harry had seen in the Pensieve, he
wasn’t too surprised. (Snape seemed to be moving past that now.) Then, during the previous
year, Snape hadn’t liked Crouch because he thought he was Moody, and Crouch hadn’t like
him because Snape had become a spy, and he knew it.
In a way, Snape had a pretty good track record for judging who to trust and who not. Harry
could imagine the new professor being quite like Lockhart. “Grace us with his presence,” didn’t
exactly sound like a ringing endorsement. How odd to be looking to Snape, wanting to know
what he thought about things, what he thought of people. Harry would never have guessed it, a
year earlier.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and the other Gryffindors ascended the stairs to the entrance hall with
trepidation, unsure of what to expect from this substitute, who could be the person responsible
for preparing them to be tested on Charms for their O.W.L.s, if Flitwick didn’t awake soon. If
Snape didn’t like him...
But when he entered the Great Hall and saw who the teacher was, Harry was shocked.
Dumbledore! No, wait, he thought; that’s not Dumbledore...
The fifth-year Gryffindors entered the hall cautiously, eyeing their new instructor suspiciously.
He looked like Dumbledore and yet not. He was just as tall and had the same twinkling blue
eyes, even the same style of half-moon spectacles; he had the same silver-white hair, but when
he turned, Harry noticed that it was only shoulder-length, not cascading down his back, like
Dumbledore. He had the same kindly face, marked with deep smile-lines around the mouth and
eyes, but his skin was darker, more leathery, as though he spent a great deal of time in the sun.
The lower part of his face was hidden by a close-cut white beard and mustache. He wore a tall
purple wizard’s hat with silver and gold moons and stars embroidered on it, which matched his
robes. He held his wand loosely, as though he didn’t particularly care where he waved it. At the moment he was using it as some sort of conductor’s baton, directing them into the hall, pointing
out where he wanted them to be. Silver sparks flew out of the tip as he did this.
“All right, class. Am I correct in assuming that you are the fifth-year Gryffindors?”
They nodded. Harry looked down at his silver prefect’s badge, and at Hermione. As the
prefects, should they be taking more of a lead? But he felt as unsure and dumbfounded as the
others, confronted by this Dumbledore-yet-not-Dumbledore.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aberforth Dumbledore. Yes, the headmaster is my
brother. Now, some of you may have heard that I was in a spot of trouble some years ago for
practicing inappropriate charms on a goat...”
Seamus and Dean could not prevent themselves from sniggering, trying to cover it up with their
hands, but unable to stop. Ron’s eyes were bulging and his mouth was clamped tightly shut;
Harry thought he would lose it in a minute, the thought of which was starting to make it difficult
for Harry not to burst out laughing. He caught Hermione’s eye, though, and her stern look was
enough to calm him again. He determined that he should not look at Parvati or Lavender, whom
he could hear tittering behind him. Neville was the only other person besides Hermione
seemingly unaffected by the goat remark.
“Yes, well,” he said, then cleared his throat, clearly aware of the effort some of them were
having to expend in not laughing. “All charges were dropped, although it did keep the Daily
Prophet gossip mill spinning for some time. And I still maintain that ‘inappropriate’ is in the eye
of the beholder...”
Ron lost it now, laughing openly. Hermione glared at him. He clapped his hand over his mouth,
a horrified look on his face. But then Harry saw that Aberforth Dumbledore’s eyes were
twinkling. Finally, he smiled.
“Just my way of breaking the ice. I’m not really a teacher, per se. I do specialize in Charms, of
course. Or rather, a cross between Charms and Herbology and Animal Husbandry. But what
you need for now is a Charms teacher, so I’m here as a favor to my brother. Now, as you
probably already call him Professor Dumbledore, calling me Professor Dumbledore as well
would probably make everyone’s lives needlessly confusing, yes? Therefore I have received
permission from my brother to tell you that you may call me Aberforth. You do not need to call
me ‘Professor’ Aberforth, after all, I’m not one, really, and this position is strictly temporary.”
He put his wand away and clapped his hands together, smiling in anticipation. “Now! Why
don’t you introduce yourselves to me and tell me what you know about Confundus-class
charms.”
Harry was relieved that when he told Aberforth who he was, he didn’t make a big deal out of
his scar and the whole Voldemort thing. Instead, he noted that Harry was captain of the Dueling
Club, according to the parchment in the entrance hall. Harry proceeded to have the most fun
he’d ever had in Charms--and that was saying something, because Harry had always enjoyed Flitwick’s classes. Aberforth would put the charms on them and then show them how to see
past the confusion so that they could still function effectively. It was a little like Defense Against
the Dark Arts, without the pain. Harry realized that Neville had already started learning this; that
was why the Reverso charm hadn’t seemed to have any affect on him when they dueled. But the
end of class, Harry could function completely normally under the Inverso charm; even while
having the sensation of hanging upside-down in the air, he could accurately point his wand at a
target (after about thirty tries).
They stayed in the hall after class, since it was time for lunch. The fifth-year Gryffindors were
already sitting at their house table, excitedly discussing the Charms class, when the rest of the
students started pouring in. Harry looked up at the staff table. Dumbledore was smiling at his
brother and beckoning him to sit next to him. Harry looked at the two men, so alike and yet
with subtle differences.
Dumbledore always seemed to be hiding--something. Harry would ask him questions, and he’d
give answers, but they never seemed to be quite complete. Or he’d ask a question to which
Dumbledore simply didn’t want to give an answer, and Harry had to be content with that
(although he usually wasn’t).
Aberforth, on the other hand, seemed completely open and straightforward, nothing hidden. The
chief characteristic they shared, Harry felt, besides their looks, was their sense of humor.
Perhaps that was why Snape disliked him, Harry thought. A sense of humor wasn’t high on
Snape’s list of priorities.
When there were only about ten minutes left before afternoon classes would start, Will Flitwick
came hurtling into the hall and ran to the Gryffindor table. There was a space open next to
Harry, and Will slipped into it, banging his rucksack down and reaching for a roll before he was
even sitting. He bumped into Harry as he positioned himself, mumbling something that might
have been, “Sorry,” through the bite of bread he was already chewing.
“S’okay,” Harry said, trying not to laugh at him. His normally pale cheeks (puffed out with food
now) were quite pink; he pushed his gold curls off his sweaty forehead and reached for a
chicken leg to put on his plate, taking a large bite out of it first.
“Where’ve you been?” Harry asked him, smiling. Will tried to speed up his chewing so he
wouldn’t have to answer with his mouth full. After what looked to Harry like a rather painful
swallowing process, Will was ready to speak.
“Hospital wing. Visiting my uncle.” He said this with not a trace of recognition that the vast
majority of people in the school were blaming Harry for Flitwick being in a coma. Harry
swallowed and looked down at his empty plate.
“Sorry, Will,” he mumbled. Will swallowed another larger piece of chicken after chewing it only
briefly.
“What’re you sorry for, Harry? You didn’t do anything.”
Harry jerked his head up, staring at the eleven-year-old boy who had stated this as
unequivocally as if he’d been saying the sky was blue and Snitches were gold. Then he realized
that everyone else at the Gryffindor table was staring, too. Will looked back at them all, a
strange maturity, Harry thought, in the way he met the eyes of every person there.
“Well, you all know that, don’t you? You don’t honestly think Harry could have done anything
to hurt my uncle, or Cho Chang?”
Harry waited for the affirmations to come; but Ron’s and Hermione’s voices were feeble and
too late; they knew, of course, but to say how they knew would be to tell far too much.
Now Will was standing glaring at them all, his blue eyes frowning stormily. “Is that what you
think? Is that what you all think?” His voice had risen, the high-pitched, young timbre cutting
through the murmur of luncheon conversation, which ground to an abrupt halt. “Is that what
everyone thinks?” he said, looking around the hall, his voice carrying to the farthest corners.
“You all think Harry Potter hurt my uncle?” Silence greeted him, as even people Harry knew
didn’t believe this didn’t dare to speak.
Will’s voice grew louder. “Whoever did this to my uncle was a coward. Harry Potter is not a
coward! Most of you watched him lose a duel here yesterday. Did he hide afterward? No! He
voted for his opponent along with everyone else! He dueled with You-Know-Who! He won the
Triwizard Tournament! He deserves the respect of everyone here, of everyone in the wizarding
world! Harry Potter has not done anything wrong!”
The echo of his treble voice took half a minute to die away. Harry looked at the other
Gryffindors. After what seemed like a long minute of silence, Alicia stood; she nodded, and the
others at the table, first through seventh years, also rose. She said softly, “Go on then, Harry.
We’re all behind you.” He stood also, striding toward the door, flanked by Hermione and Will
on his right, Ron and Parvati on his left, the rest of the Gryffindors walking in his wake.
The other houses watched this show of Gryffindor solidarity in silence. Once they were in the
entrance hall, his housemates fell on him, some hugging him, others pumping his hand or slapping
him on the back. Harry almost felt like crying; for two weeks he’d been living under a cloud,
and now this outpouring of support was almost unbearably touching. This is what houses are
for, he thought.
He smiled at the other Gryffindors, waving to the ones moving off to go to their afternoon
classes. He saw Ginny look over her shoulder at him. He frowned; her expression was hard to
read. He realized she had not joined in the hugging or back-slapping. She had kept her distance
from him. She did believe he was innocent, didn’t she? Could she have traveled out of the Great
Hall in the pack with the other Gryffindors just to avoid calling attention to herself? Harry
swallowed, watching her go, wishing her opinion did not mean so much to him. But that was
something he could not help.
* * * * *
On Thursday, Ron asked Neville to stay in the Divination classroom for a few minutes after
class so he could try doing another Tarot reading for him.
“I need the practice,” he said. “You know, for the O.W.L.s.”
Neville looked skeptical. Since when had Ron cared about O.W.L.s? his expression seemed to
say. Ron went to the shelves near the fireplace and took down a Tarot deck; they were still
trying to plumb the mysterious depths of Augury, still staring listlessly at the insides of dead
birds. The Tarot cards hadn’t been used in a while.
As Harry was leaving, he heard Ron ask Neville, “All right. When’s your birthday again?”
Harry could tell Ron was trying not to smile. Neville looked unsurprised that Ron did not
remember his birthday.
“Today. Um, February twenty-ninth, that is,” he stuttered.
“Today? You don’t say. Happy birthday, Neville. Right then. We’ll just do you a birthday
reading...”
Harry smiled, going down the ladder. Ron knew very well that it was Neville’s birthday. Ginny
had gotten wind of it and organized a party, as she had for Hermione. Was Ginny still interested
in Malfoy? he had to wonder. He had mixed feelings about this. Perhaps Ginny was just
organizing the party as Neville’s friend, not a potential girlfriend. She’d talked Ron into being the
delaying tactic, keeping Neville from coming back to the common room until they’d gotten
everything ready.
When Harry arrived, Ginny and Hermione were still running around frantically. “Harry!” Ginny
said imperiously. “Get out your wand! Fix those falling streamers by the stairs!” He did as she
asked--or rather commanded--trying not to show how amused he was by her perfectionism.
Hermione charmed the glass punch bowl so that it was suddenly frosted over; then she etched
fairy-like designs in the frost with a wave of her wand. Over the mantel hung a banner declaring,
“Happy 4th Birthday Neville.”
Harry frowned. “Uh, Ginny? I believe Neville is sixteen.”
She laughed. “He’s sixteen years old, but this is only the fourth birthday he’s ever had.
Because it’s the Leap Day! You know, it only rolls around once every four years.”
Harry was nodding with understanding before she was finished. Neville would certainly be
surprised, he thought. When the song ended, he separated from her and went up the stairs to his dorm to get the
Invisibility Cloak. He tucked it under his robes, almost dropping it when climbing out of the
portrait hole, but he saved it in time. Ginny looked at him coldly as he left. What was with her
lately? he wondered.
Once he was in the corridor, he looked around carefully before donning the Invisibility Cloak,
hoping he would not run into Moody. He proceeded carefully to the Transfiguration classroom,
so he wouldn’t accidentally collide with someone coming around a corner suddenly.
As he neared Transfiguration, Sandy hissed to him, “A bull wants a fish...” Harry frowned. A
bull? A fish? Whom had Sandy called a fish before? Parvati. Harry had a feeling he knew who
the bull was. They must be nearby, Harry thought, for Sandy to be Seeing anything. He hissed
to her, “Thanks for the heads up, Sandy, but while I’m wearing my Invisibility Cloak, I need to
be as quiet as possible.”
“I understand.”
“Thanks, Sandy.”
He reached the Transfiguration classroom. The door was open; the moment he entered, he saw
them in the far corner, partially concealed behind a stack of extra chairs. Ron had his arms
around Parvati, his hands were on her bare back under her thin violet sweater. Harry could see
her smooth golden brown skin; in fact, he could see almost her whole back. She didn’t appear
to be wearing anything under the sweater. Subtle, Harry thought. Then he remembered
Hermione on the day he’d first kissed her--but that wasn’t planned. Parvati seemed to know
exactly what she was doing. Well, Harry realized, she’d started to notice Ron after the
Gryffindor/Slytherin match in the fall. Padma had too. Perhaps the two of them had reached
some sort of agreement about who was going to “get” him.
But the question in Harry’s brain was, Why had Ron suddenly decided to be with Parvati? After
all, Hermione was on the verge of being rid of Viktor, and he hadn’t seen any indication that
Ron had suddenly stopped caring for her or being attracted to her. In fact, Harry was well
aware of the fact that Ron’s hormones were in as much of an uproar as his own. He had caught
him on more than one occasion looking at a Muggle skin magazine that Dean kept stashed
under his mattress. (Harry had also had a look at it.) But then he remembered Ron’s panic
when he’d tried to speak to him about Hermione, his fear that she’d either laugh in his face or
that if they did try to be a couple and failed, everything would change. Why didn’t I ever think
of that? Harry wondered. It simply hadn’t seemed like a problem to him. Parvati, on the other
hand, was very pretty, attracted to Ron, and not exactly Ron’s friend; a rejection or failed
relationship with her wouldn’t be the same as with Hermione.
Hermione! She would be here soon, Harry thought. He looked over at Ron and Parvati again.
Ron had moved his hands down below her waist; she was clutching him around the middle as
they kissed; he could see their tongues shooting out, then Ron moved his mouth down her
throat, down the low V of her sweater, while she threw her head back, an animal-like sound escaping from her which Harry did not associate with Parvati. Her hands started to move lower
on Ron as well, and Harry’s mouth went dry.
Then he remembered Malfoy saying, “Who knows what you’ve seen in that Invisibility Cloak of
yours,” and admitting to spying on Hannah and Ernie. I am not like Malfoy, he insisted to
himself. He carefully backed out of the room, waiting for Hermione, wanting to make absolutely
certain she did not see Ron and Parvati. He tried to resist the urge to look again to see why Ron
was making that moaning sound...What if McGonagall were to come in? he wondered.
Harry felt like he was waiting years for Hermione to show up. Finally, he heard a step at the end
of the corridor. She was walking forward briskly, swinging her arms, her prefect’s badge
gleaming, her black robes billowing behind her. Harry smiled at the sight of her. He walked
down the corridor to meet her, well away from the Transfiguration classroom. Somehow he
managed to forget he was wearing his Invisibility Cloak. He kept expecting her to stop any
second. She seemed to be looking right at him. Then they collided painfully, both falling onto the
hard stone floor.
“Ow,” she groaned, wincing. “Harry, watch where you’re going. I was almost at the
Transfiguration classroom...”
“That’s the problem.” he whispered, helping her up, then adjusting his cloak again. “Someone
else thought of it first. I thought we could go up to Fluffy’s old hangout.”
“You mean where you were ducking the prefects’ meeting?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that--”
She sighed as she walked, speaking lowly, trying not to move her lips too much. “I can’t really
blame you. Roger was being a real prick.”
“Hermione!” Harry said in shock, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
“Harry, if there’s one person who does not inspire me to watch my language, it’s Roger Davies.
And if there’s another person, it’s Draco Malfoy.”
“Where?” Harry said, looking around anxiously.
“I didn’t mean he was here, silly. Oh, be careful; are you in front of me? We’re coming up on
one of those trick steps Neville always used to forget.”
“Thank goodness for Neville!” Harry said softly. “Davies was so happy about him beating me
he was less of a prick than usual at Sunday night’s meeting.”
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Hermione said softly. “Language.”
“Hey, if you can say it, I can say it.” He smiled under the cloak.
When they reached the door, Hermione opened it quietly, looking up and down the corridor.
She lit her wand and held the door open so Harry could slip past her. She closed the door and
he removed the cloak, practically throwing it on the floor. She looked at him with a helpless,
open expression that made him catch his breath. She slid her hands around his neck and he
pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his, feeling her open her mouth, clutching at her
desperately. She dropped her lit wand and it went out.
They held each other in the total darkness, mouths ravenous, hands more adventurous than in
the recent past. It’s amazing how brave you can be in the dark, Harry thought as he drew her
down onto the floor. They were sitting side by side against the door, turned to each other,
mouths linked, her hands in his hair, his on her back, slowly and cautiously moving one to the
front, remembering that night in the common room when they were interrupted by Ginny and
Malfoy.
Suddenly, Hermione pulled away from him. “Ow,” she said, grunting softly. “why do stone
floors have to be so hard?” she asked rhetorically.
“It’s not so bad in here,” Harry said, reaching out to find her again, running one hand lightly
down her leg.
“It’s not being in here, really,” she said, although he thought part of the problem was being in
such a comfortless place. “It’s that fall I took downstairs. I feel so sore now.”
“Well then you shouldn’t be sitting on a hard stone floor. Come here, sit on my lap.”
He wished he could see her face. He heard her hesitate. “Well, all right,” she finally said, and
crawled into his lap, sitting on him sideways, her legs extending to his right.
“Is that better?” he whispered in her ear, making her shudder from his mouth being so close to
it. She put her right arm around his shoulders.
“Much. It’s just that--I’m so sore,” she said again.
“How’s this?” he said softly, moving his left hand down below her waist, caressing in light
circles. He leaned forward and found her ear again, kissed it lightly, then moved his lips down
her jawbone, down her neck, feeling the insistent pulse beneath the skin.
“Oh, Harry,” she sighed, sinking her fingers into his hair again. Whether it was because of his
hands or mouth, he didn’t know, but he kept on, wanting to hear her sound like that again.
He tried not to think about Ron and Parvati and what Hermione might have done if she’d seen
them. He lifted her chin and found her mouth again. He didn’t want to think about them right
now. He just knew that he wanted to kiss her and hold her and touch her, and as it went on he
became sadder and sadder, because he knew that soon they would have to stop. He didn’t want her to remember being with him on a cold stone floor in a dark room the first time; he
wasn’t sure how to manage it, but he wanted it to be special.
Finally, he decided it was time to stop, before they couldn’t. He fumbled for his wand, lit it so
he could see to fasten his robes, fasten hers, straighten his glasses. She was beautifully flustered
in the dim light, her hair in her face, sweat beading on her forehead and upper lip. She stood up
to brush down her robes, and he tried not to sigh with relief too loudly when she got off him.
Having her sit on him had been both wonderful and excruciating. He also stood, shaking out his
robes. She stooped to get her wand, then handed him the Invisibility Cloak. She seemed so
practical and businesslike suddenly. He pulled her to him again, opening his mouth suddenly,
feeling her respond immediately, losing that core of reserve she wore like a suit of armor most of
the time. He ended the kiss, looking down at her, running his thumb along her bottom lip. She
looked back at him as though she might lose her composure at any moment.
Harry looked away from her; that look was almost the end of his own self-control. He opened
the door, clutching his Invisibility Cloak, and then put it on. They walked back downstairs,
Hermione looking for all the world like she was alone, Harry walking unseen beside her, aching
for her and very, very grateful that she had not seen Ron and Parvati.
* * * * *
Harry was glad he and Hermione had taken some time to be together on Neville’s birthday.
Now that he was done his Animagus training (McGonagall just wanted him to check in once a
week) he was able to concentrate on Quidditch more. They had a match against Hufflepuff
coming up on March sixteenth, only about two more weeks to prepare. The weather had
already started to warm a bit. Harry felt that might be a red herring, as it had snowed in April in
years past, but as the day of the match approached, the warm spring-like weather persisted,
and Harry was optimistic about a fair day.
After Will Flitwick’s show of support, many of the students had evidently decided that he
probably had not cursed the Charms classroom doorway . Harry decided to go visit the hospital
wing on a regular basis, talk to Cho and Flitwick, in case they could hear anything. Hermione
went with him, looking very concerned about little Professor Flitwick. A possible solution for
their comas was mandrake root, but Sprout’s mandrakes wouldn’t be mature for another month
or two. Someone had Spellotaped Flitwick’s many get-well cards to the wall behind his bed, as
well as a banner saying, “We miss you Prof. Flitwick.” Cho always seemed to have fresh
flowers on her bedside table, Harry noticed. They were replenished every day, although he
never saw it happen.
A few days before the Quidditch match, Harry thought he saw Viktor Krum leaving the
entrance hall after he finished breakfast. Harry had left before the others; now that the weather
was warming, he just wanted the chance to stand on the front steps and breathe in the fresh
almost-spring air, look at a real blue sky scattered with fluffy white clouds, rather than the
enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall. But as soon as he saw Viktor, his plan changed. He waited for Ron and Hermione by the front door and asked them to go down to Hagrid’s without him
and give his apologies for being late. Hermione looked like she was about to ask why, but
Harry turned from them and headed for the marble stairs. Looking over his shoulder, he saw
Ron take her arm and draw her away, out the door.
When he entered the infirmary, he saw again the fresh flowers on Cho’s table, and he went to
look for Madam Pomfrey in her office, but she wasn’t there. He went to a door on the far side
of the office which had frosted glass in it etched with the legend APOTHECARY. Harry had
never been here before. He thought he saw a shadow moving about on the other side of the
door and rapped gently on the glass.
He heard steps approaching the door, which was opened by a flustered-looking Madam
Pomfrey, wearing a voluminous grey apron over her black robes, her face flushed with heat,
wiry grey hair escaping from a sloppy bun. Harry saw a large bubbling cauldron hovering in the
air above a purple fire, shelves with as many potions and potions ingredients as Snape’s office,
if not more.
Madam Pomfrey looked quite harried. Harry thought quickly. The way to get information, he
knew from talking to McGonagall, was to behave as if you already have it.
“Madam Pomfrey, would you be sure to tell me if Viktor Krum doesn’t come to see Cho in the
next few days? I promised him I’d make sure she still had fresh flowers if he couldn’t make it.
The Cannons might be stepping up their practices.”
She told him what he wanted to know without hesitating for a moment. “I’d be happy to tell you
if he doesn’t come, Potter, but I’ll be surprised if that happens. Not a day has gone by since
she’s been in here but he’s bringing her flowers and sitting by her bedside talking to her...usually
more than once a day.” He’s been coming every day, Harry thought. He had suspected, but
now he knew. He thanked Madam Pomfrey and returned to the infirmary to look at Cho and
Flitwick before leaving.
A side effect of people knowing she’d broken up with him but not blaming him for her current
state was that girls were suddenly asking him out. There was a Hogsmeade weekend coming up
on the twenty-third, one week after the Quidditch match. After the most recent Dueling Club
meeting, Susan Bones had shyly asked him if he wanted to go with her to Hogsmeade. He was
shocked; she’d never said two words to him in Herbology. He had deflected her invitation by
saying he wasn’t ready to date again yet, thanks. Perhaps she thought he was harboring hopes
of making up with Cho when she awoke. Mandy Brocklehurst then waylaid him after the
prefects’ meeting and asked him out for the same Hogsmeade weekend. What was so
important about that weekend? Harry wondered.
He soon found out. A large parchment went up in the entrance hall announcing a traditional
Scottish ceilidh on the day of the Hogsmeade trip, to be held in the town hall where they’d gone
to the opera. Admission would be ten Sickles. The well-known wizarding bagpipe group
Screaming Haggis was on tour, and they were stopping in Hogsmeade after playing Glasgow and Edinburgh but before going up to the Orkneys. Harry learned that ceilidh was pronounced
“kelly” when Dumbledore announced it at dinner the evening after the parchment went up. But
Harry was still mystified.
“What’s a seelid--I mean, a kelly?” he asked Hermione across the table while they ate.
“A ceilidh,” she said it more like kay-lee, “is a gathering, a dance. With traditional Scottish reels
and that sort of thing. You know, lots of bagpipes, usually some sword dancing. And the men
are supposed to wear kilts.”
Kilts! Harry thought, alarmed. Had Susan and Mandy been asking him on a date that would
required him to wear a kilt? But soon, Susan and Mandy were the least of his problems. A
fourth-year Slytherin girl he didn’t know asked him to the ceilidh. He turned her down. She had
a thick Scottish burr and he could barely understand what she said. He did think, though, that it
took guts for a Slytherin to ask him out. Then, to make matters worse, Katie Bell cornered him
in the common room and asked him to the same dance. He deflected her, stuttering nervously
the whole time. But the really difficult refusal came when Alicia trapped him in the Quidditch
changing room after practice the day before the match.
She put her hand on his arm and stopped him leaving after the other players had left. No one
seemed to miss them. He looked at her quizzically.
“Alicia, what--” he started to say, when she pushed him up against the wall and slid her hands
up around his neck. The next thing he knew she had pulled his face down to hers and put her
mouth against his, then an insistent tongue was trying to slip between his teeth...
He sputtered and pulled back, the taste of her still in his mouth. He swallowed and looked at
her. She appeared as perfect as ever. Her straight blonde hair shivered around her chin, her
crystal-blue eyes looked at him curiously. Her smooth porcelain skin had not a blemish or
freckle, and he could easily picture her in a riding habit, nodding imperiously at a groom holding
her mount. But for some reason, he pictured her in an old-fashioned habit with a large skirt and
fitted black jacket, a lace jabot at her throat and a jaunty black bowler with black netting pulled
down over her aristocratic face as she sat side-saddle on a gleaming chestnut thoroughbred...
She took advantage of his mind wandering to kiss him again, and this time she was more
successful; he found himself kissing her back, hands holding her shoulders, mouth on auto-pilot
for almost ten seconds before he came to his senses and pushed her away.
“Alicia! Stop!” he said when he had his brain back.
She was smiling knowingly. “Your words say stop, but your actions--”
“Alicia! You--you caught me by surprise. This isn’t about the ceilidh, is it? Because I’m not
going with you.”
She looked rather hurt. “Yes, I was going to ask you to the ceilidh--” she said, tears in her
voice. He knew he shouldn’t have said that; he should have let her ask him out, then tactfully
turn her down. He realized he probably seemed awfully conceited to assume she was going to
ask him to the dance.
“I’m sorry, Alicia, I didn’t mean to--” but she backed up from him, laughing and yet seeming
like the laughter was to stave off her tears.
“What was I thinking?” she asked, as if she was talking to herself, not him. “What made me
think I could--that Harry Potter would--”
“Alicia!” he shouted to get her to look at him. “Are you all right?”
She looked at him, rather dazed, then shaking her head as if to clear it. When she spoke, she
sounded closer to normal.
“Harry--I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I just--I just felt this compulsion--I know that’s
not a good excuse, but you’re not seeing anyone now--”
“And I don’t want to,” he said, trying to soften the edge of his voice a little. “I’m just--not
ready to do that again, not yet--”
She nodded, swallowing, wiped her eyes delicately, so that there were no longer unshed tears
there, ready to spill over her cheeks. “I understand.”
But did she? wondered Harry. In a way, he was seeing someone else, but it seemed more
tactful to wait and see whether Cho and Flitwick could be wakened by the mandrakes before
going public with a new relationship--especially with one of his best friends.
Alicia whispered, “Can we just pretend this never happened?”
Harry nodded. “Of course. Total amnesia.”
She smiled. “Almost as good as a memory charm.” Then, looking at him wistfully for a moment,
she turned and ran out of the changing room. Harry let his breath out, not having even realized
he was holding it. Clearly, he needed to figure out what to do about the damn ceilidh.
* * * * *
Gryffindor beat Hufflepuff by a respectable two-hundred ten to thirty. Gryffindor was now in the
lead for the Quidditch cup, with five-hundred and twenty points. Slytherin only had twohundred
and ninety from their match against Hufflepuff, since they were scoreless against
Gryffindor. And Hufflepuff had a paltry one-hundred-ten points and no wins after three
matches. Ravenclaw only had two-hundred and ten, but unlike Slytherin, they still had two matches yet. The schedule had been rearranged by Madam Hooch so that Ravenclaw was
playing in the late April match and the final match of the year in early June; everyone was hoping
that Cho Chang would be recovered and ready to play Seeker by then, with little Flitwick
looking on and cheering for his house team.
Even though the Quaffle had only gotten past him three times, Ron was enormously chagrined
about this. The new Hufflepuff captain was Ashraf el-Madi, who played Chaser. He had scored
the thirty points, looking venomously at Ron the entire time. Harry thought el-Madi seemed
more like a Slytherin than a Hufflepuff. He had given Harry a funny look when they shook hands
before the match. Harry had shuddered afterward; he was glad el-Madi was a seventh-year.
The Hufflepuffs would have to choose another captain next year.
The rest of the team just wasn’t up to el-Madi, however. Ernie Macmillan struggled as the
Keeper, letting Gryffindor score on him six times. Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones were the
other Chasers; Susan wasn’t bad, but Hannah wasn’t any better at Quidditch than she was at
dueling. The Beaters, a fourth year named Drumm and a sixth year named Carson, were almost
more of a danger to their own teammates than to the Gryffindors. They reminded Harry of how
Hermione had played at the Burrow. Four times Justin had almost been struck by Bludgers hit
by his own teammates.
Harry felt in his element again. Even though it wasn’t shaping up to be very difficult to play
Hufflepuff, Harry didn’t want to be lackadaisical about catching the Snitch. If Justin got to it
first, Hufflepuff would still win. When Harry spotted the Snitch, he zoomed for it on his Firebolt,
executing a perfect roll before going into the dive, as Justin followed half a field behind. Harry
flew around the pitch, holding the Snitch over his head, smiling.
When both teams landed and Harry shook el-Madi’s hand again, he couldn’t help but notice a
sadness in his hooded eyes that seemed to have little to do with losing at Quidditch. Perhaps his
hostility earlier had simply been loyalty to his house, rather than a Slytherin-like quality. All of
the Hufflepuffs seemed pretty subdued. It wasn’t just that they were out of the running for the
Quidditch Cup, Harry suspected. They’d all looked like they’d been carrying a heavy burden all
year. Cedric should have been their captain still, and their Seeker. Instead, Ashraf el-Madi had
been tapped to be captain, and Muggle-born Justin, who was small and lithe but had never
played Quidditch before, was now their none-too-sharp-eyed Seeker. Perhaps el-Madi
resented Harry for living when Cedric was dead. Harry himself felt this way quite often.
The other Gryffindors seemed to get the idea that this wasn’t the sort of win to be gloated over.
This wasn’t beating Slytherin. They walked back to the castle talking quietly, Fred and George
clowning rather half-heartedly, no one discussing the match. Ron walked with his arm around
Parvati’s shoulder, her arm around his waist. They both looked rather serious somehow. Harry
trailed behind everyone else, and Hermione noticed and slowed her pace.
“Are you all right, Harry?” she said softly, putting her hand on his arm. He didn’t look at her,
nodding. “If you say so,” she murmured, obviously unconvinced. “Oh, I almost forgot. You
know the ceilidh? Viktor says he can’t come. I had hoped he would show up to break up with me, or maybe I could break up with him. But now--anyway, everyone else is going, and it
sounds like fun...”
“Actually, I was going to ask you. But to tell the truth, I’ve been fending off all of these
invitations from other girls. Rather amazing. I mean Cho did break up with me, but she is in a
coma now. You’d think they’d be a little more sensitive.” Then he notice Hermione’s face. “I
didn’t mean you too! It’s just that--well, we’ll have to tell people we’re going as friends. You’re
still with Viktor, technically, and I’ve been telling all these girls I don’t want to be in a
relationship again already--not that I ever really felt like I was in one--oh! I almost forgot!” He
stopped and turned to face her. “Hermione, I--well, it wasn’t really me--okay, it kind of was,
but I didn’t start it--oh, dammit! Here!” He extended his foot out toward her. She stared down
at it.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Mash it! Stomp on it! Go on!”
“Harry, what are you talking about?”
He sighed. “Listen, don’t be mad at her. And don’t tell anyone. Alicia is one of the girls who
asked me out. And she--she kissed me.”
Hermione took this in, looking strangely calm. “And?”
“And, well, I kind of kissed her back for a few seconds. But then I put a stop to all of it!”
Hermione continued to look at him with a strange calmness. “So that’s it?” He nodded. “Harry,
I’m not going to mash your foot. It certainly doesn’t sound like you were trying to get Alicia to
kiss you. I’m fine.”
“You’re fine?” he said, incredulous.
“Harry, I know that--that I once said I wanted this too much, that I felt out of control, but that’s
not true anymore.” She looked at his face for a moment, then, as if realizing how this sounded,
she got a horrified look on her face and plunged on. “Oh, Harry, I don’t mean--I mean I still
want us to be together. I just don’t feel--I don’t know how to put it--insane? Desperate? None
of this is probably coming out right. I feel confident that everything will work itself out. That’s it.
I think I lacked that confidence before, and it made me feel rather frantic about us. In the last
month, I’ve felt a kind of calmness come over me. I just feel that we’re inevitable, somehow,
and to expend a huge amount of mental energy obsessing about us would just be a waste. I
have no doubts about us, Harry. I know we’re going to be fine. I don’t care how many girls
throw themselves at you. I think I know you pretty well by now, Harry, and you haven’t given
me any reason to worry.” She paused. “Well, except for one thing...”
“What?”
“Well--you do seem rather--odd about Malfoy and Ginny.”
Harry tried to keep his face impassive. “You tried to warn him yourself about his behaving
himself with her.”
“That was because of her age. You told him he had to keep behaving himself after her birthday
as well. And the way you said it--”
“I thought you said you didn’t care how many girls threw themselves at me?”
“Yes, but Ginny isn’t one of those girls, is she?”
Harry looked at her, a lump in his throat. “I’m just thinking of Ron. He’ll be mad enough when
he finds out about them--and that goes for you now too. We’re both keeping this from him. I’m
just trying to keep what he doesn’t know to a minimum.”
But although she nodded, Harry could see she was unconvinced. It wasn’t surprising. Harry
didn’t feel particularly convinced by his own words. He reached out for her hand and she gave
it to him. He took a deep breath before continuing.
“I’ve been meaning to mention something to you, Hermione. There’s this potion, it’s called
Prophylaxis Potion--”
“Yes. I know all about that.” She sounded very calm again, like she’d forgotten about Ginny.
“You do?”
“Don’t worry Harry. When the time is right--”
She squeezed his hand, then released it. They were at the door to the castle. She walked in
ahead of him, and he stood watching her, having difficulty breathing suddenly. Maybe this would
happen after all, Harry thought. Perhaps she was right, and everything would work out. He
certainly hoped so.
Then, he realized that if they were going to the ceilidh in one week, he would need a kilt.
Suddenly, wearing a kilt to go to a dance with Hermione didn’t seem like such an onerous task.
But how to get it?
Then he remembered what he had done when he needed a Pensieve, and Muggle newspapers:
he’d contacted Sirius. But he didn’t have time for Hedwig to fly all the way down to
Manchester and back. How to do it?
As he passed the doorway to the Great Hall, he had an idea. He stopped and turned, walked
into the enormous room, the enchanted ceiling showing the same brilliant blue sky he’d just been playing under. His steps sounded very loud and echoed as he briskly crossed the hall, and he
hesitated for only a moment before opening the door to the passage Snape had shown him.
He lit his wand and closed the door behind him, carrying his broom carefully and descending the
stairs lightly, instinctively walking on tip-toe. When he reached the hidden passage that he and
Snape had accessed by going behind the tapestry, Harry was momentarily flummoxed; where
had Snape touched the wall again? Harry leaned his broom against the wall so he could run his
left hand over the slightly damp stones, still holding his wand up so he could see.
Finally, part of the wall gave way; he put his shoulder to it and felt it pivot, groaning and
complaining. When there was enough space for him to pass through, he turned himself sideways
and slipped into Snape’s office, carrying his broom, putting his wand away first. He breathed a
sigh of relief and started to brush himself off, then looked up and into the inquisitive eyes of
Severus Snape, sitting at his desk.
“And to what do I owe this visit?” Snape’s oily voice met his ears. Harry felt himself redden.
He’d been accused of breaking into Snape’s office in the past, and now here he was actually
doing it. He’d been hoping to use the powder on the mantel to call Sirius without Snape
knowing about it, but now--
“I, um needed to talk to you and I didn’t want to take the chance that someone might be in the
Potions Dungeon and see me coming in,” he lied, although, he thought, that could have been
how it happened...
“What did you need to see me about?”
“Well--all right. Not really you. I needed to contact Sirius and I was hoping you’d let me use
your fireplace to do it.”
He nodded. “And why do you need to speak to Black?”
Harry fought the urge to shuffle his feet and look like a four-year-old. “Because--he’s my
godfather and I need a kilt for the ceilidh next week.”
Snape sat up and looked concerned. “You’re going? Are you sure you want to do that?”
Harry frowned. “Is the band that bad?”
He sneered. “I don’t care about the damn band. We have some intelligence that there might--
there might be some Death Eater activity...”
Harry’s eyes opened wide. “Are you positive? Because a lot of the students are planning to go.
Would they all be in danger?”
Snape sat back and put his fingers together, his brow knit in thought. “On the other hand, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing for the captain of the Dueling Club to be there. If anyone
could probably manage Death Eaters...Are you taking a girl?”
“Hermione.”
“Well, there you go. The two top students in the club. And you’ll be prepared, since you’ll
know ahead of time. But don’t tell the other students; I don’t want to create a panic. We’ve had
other leads go south. It’s unclear whether one of our informants is actually a double-agent,
giving us bad information on purpose. Four times in the last two months while Black was sent on
a wild goose chase, elsewhere Muggles were being tortured or just played with by Death
Eaters. The Ministry dispatched their Memory Charms people to take care of the aftermath, but
Fudge is still ignoring the root problem. There is yet to be anything in the Daily Prophet about
the Dark Lord returning, or about these Muggle attacks. Let alone the Westminster tube
station.”
“I didn’t know about those attacks,” Harry said, feeling a little left out.
“Black didn’t see the need to tell you about every little bit of mischief they’re up to, and I
concur. You need to focus on school, on learning everything you can. On the one hand, I hope
that everyone at the ceilidh will be safe. I’m going myself. But you’re right; you’ll need a kilt.
Black should be able to get you the right clan. He’ll know.”
“I’m Scottish?”
He nodded. “I seem to remember your father mentioning something about his mother, or
grandmother.”
Harry nodded. Then he remembered something. “So, do you have a Clan Campbell kilt?”
Snape had been looking for something in a desk drawer, but now he snapped his head up;
Harry had never before mentioned to Snape anything that he’d learned in the Pensieve. He had
brought up the goblet of blood with Sirius, but never with Snape.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I have one.”
Harry looked toward the fireplace, wanting to dissipate the awkwardness. He put his hand near
the powder on the mantel. “May I?” he asked. Snape nodded.
He threw some into the fire, saying, “Remus Lupin.”
After a few moments, Lupin’s face appeared in the flames. Harry smiled; he hadn’t actually seen
him in some time.
“Harry! How are you? Looks like you’ve been playing Quidditch. Was it a practice or a
match?”
“Match. We won. Against Hufflepuff. Two-ten to thirty.”
“Excellent! I’ll get Sirius.” His head disappeared.
In a few more moments, Sirius’ head appeared in the flames. “Hello, Harry. Why the call?”
“Well, you know the ceilidh in Hogsmeade next week? I’m going. So I was hoping you could
get me a kilt. Snape said you knew what the right clan would be. I didn’t even know my dad
was Scottish.”
“Clan MacGregor. Very nice tartan, red and black primarily. Are you going with Hermione?”
Harry looked down, coloring, then caught Snape’s eye; he seemed interested that Sirius knew
about Hermione. “Yes.”
“All right, I’ll get a length of tartan for her to wear around her shoulders. Women don’t wear
kilts; they drape the tartans on themselves and hold it in place with a large sort of brooch with
the clan crest on it.”
Harry hesitated now. “Sirius--are the Death Eaters going to attack the ceilidh? If that’s a
possibility, shouldn’t Dumbledore cancel the Hogsmeade trip?”
Sirius sighed. “I don’t know what to think, Harry. I feel like we’ve been getting as much good
information as bad lately. I mean, look at your situation; someone managed to bewitch the door
of the Charms classroom in Hogwarts! How did someone infiltrate Hogwarts?”
Harry was perplexed. “I didn’t tell you anything about that.” He thought of Malfoy and the
mystery of who had sent him the school owls.
“Yes, and I’ll be hacked off at you about that another time. Severus told me.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“At any rate, I’ll hopefully see you there.”
“Where?”
“At the ceilidh. And there will be other operatives there as well. Hopefully we’ll be so wellcovered
that the Death Eaters won’t dare pull anything. Plus, this will be a wizard gathering, not
Muggle. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to a wizard ceilidh, Harry?”
“Never been to any kind of ceilidh.”
“Well, it used to be that only the men danced. But Scottish magical folk gave women more freedom and equality than Muggles pretty early on. Now the only wizard-only dancing is with
the swords. Although, I suppose that if a witch wanted to join in the sword dancing, no one
would stop her.”
“But Sirius--how will you be there? You’d be recognized, thrown back into Azkaban!”
Sirius smiled cryptically and flashed his eyes at Harry. “ I didn’t say I would look like myself,
did I?” Harry caught on; Polyjuice Potion.
“Be careful,” he cautioned him. Sirius took the warning in the affectionate way it was intended.
“I will,” he said to his godson gently. “Well! If I’m to get you and Hermione some Clan
MacGregor gear, I’d better get going. I know the perfect place in Sloane Square in London. I’ll
Apparate there and back this afternoon and you should have your kilt, tartan and everything else
you need by tomorrow. And I don’t need to get you a dirk; you can use that knife I already
gave you. It’s a magical dirk.”
“What does that have to do with the ceilidh? Not that I mind having another weapon...”
Sirius smiled. “I’ll also send a book so you know how to dress yourself properly. The dirk goes
in your sock. Perhaps you can explain it to him, Severus.”
Snape nodded, and Harry tried not to laugh; if anyone had ever told him he’d be getting advice
on how to dress from Snape...
“Well, I’d better get shopping then, Harry. Good bye for now. See you both next Saturday.”
And he was gone. Harry thanked Snape and left through the secret passage again, grateful that
Snape gave him a way to contact Sirius that was faster than owl post, but also somehow
grateful that he wasn’t also in Clan Campbell, like Snape. He wondered what tartan Sirius
would wear. And what face.
* * * * *
The next day at breakfast, Lupin’s owl delivered a large package to Harry from Sirius with his
kilt, plus something called a sporran, some diamond-patterned socks, and several other alienlooking
things he supposed he’d have to look up in the book Sirius also included about the
Scottish Clans. A paper-wrapped parcel inside Harry’s larger package had Hermione’s name
on it. She was surprised, opening it after moving her breakfast dishes aside.
“Oh,” she breathed when she took out a beautiful length of the red and black MacGregor
tartan. Harry put out his hand and felt the material; it was a heavy wool, but silky soft. The kilt
was slightly rougher. There was also a silver-colored brooch with a lion’s head in the middle,
wearing a crown; it was flanked by a unicorn and a stag. Harry held it, looking at the stag
wistfully, tracing it with his finger.
“Prongs...” he said softly, under his breath. Unfortunately, Katie and Alicia were sitting across from them at the Gryffindor table that
morning. Alicia eyed Hermione in a rather unfriendly way now.
“What’s that for?” she wanted to know, nodding at Hermione’s tartan.
Hermione looked at her as though she had no knowledge of her kissing Harry and asking him to
the same dance.
“Harry and I are going to the ceilidh. As friends. But since I’m not Scottish, I’ll be wearing his
tartan.”
Alicia and Katie looked at each other knowingly; perhaps their suspicions were just fueled by
jealousy, but Harry started to worry about how much longer they were going to be able to keep
things covered up. It was getting very awkward, and here they were, preparing rather publicly
for what amounted to a date.
“As friends?” Katie said, sounding doubtful.
Hermione nodded, then started speaking rapidly. “You know, it’s quite fascinating how most
Scottish wizards didn’t start wearing robes until the wearing of the tartan was outlawed after
Culloden, in 1754. Before that, you couldn’t really tell a Scottish Muggle from a wizard, unless
you actually saw him Apparate or do some other kind of magic. And did you know that Robert
the Bruce was actually a wizard? Well, of course, that explains Bannockburn. I mean, if he
hadn’t been a wizard...I’ve been reading this book from the library, ‘Great Scottish Wizards’,
and it’s just amazing how many of the really famous Scots were magical...”
Alicia and Katie rolled their eyes and rose to leave. Harry smiled. Hermione really knew how to
clear a room when she wanted to (and sometimes, when she didn’t want to). Of course, the
really foolproof tactic was for her to start reciting ‘Hogwarts: A History’ verbatim, but any
obscure book would do.
On her other side, Ron was wincing. “Is there any book in the library you haven’t memorized?”
He was sitting with his arm around Parvati. Hermione looked at him coldly.
“Is there any book in this school you’ve actually opened?” she responded, then rose, taking her
package from Sirius, leaving the hall. Ron followed her with his eyes, his expression inscrutable,
then turned to Harry.
“So. You’re going to the ceilidh.”
Harry nodded, unsure whether he meant ‘you’ as singular or plural. Ron made a face. “Couldn’t
pay me to wear a kilt. And I’m always hard up for money, so that’s saying something. We’re
just going to hang out at Honeydukes and the Three Broomsticks.” Harry realized after a
second that Ron’s ‘we’ included Parvati. He was still getting used to this. It felt rather odd.
Parvati also looked relieved, as though a ceilidh were the last place on earth she wanted to be.
This was confirmed for Harry when she said, “Bagpipes...” and shuddered in revulsion.
“I rather like bagpipes,” Ginny said. She’d been sitting next to Katie. Next to her, Neville got a
strange expression on his face. He turned to her now, looking a bit nervous.
“In that case--would you--would you like to go to the ceilidh with me, Ginny?”
Ginny looked at him, her mouth open. Ron was frowning. Harry wondered what she would do.
She looked like she was afraid to hurt Neville’s feelings in front of so many people. She finally
mumbled, “All right,” looking like she’d been tricked into it. Neville smiled.
“Thanks. I have to find out from my gran if she can send my dad’s old kilt. I don’t even
remember what clan it is. I’m sure there’s a length of tartan too. Unless you have your own
clan.”
She shook her head. “No. Yours will do fine.”
He smiled again and rose to go. Ginny remained, looking helplessly at Harry. She checked to
see that Ron was speaking in low tones to Parvati before whispering to him, “Oh, dear. What
do you suppose I should tell--you know who?” she whispered.
Harry hoped nobody present could hear Ginny; they might think she was talking about
Voldemort. “If he’s going,” he said softly, “then he could probably cut in at some point. You
two might actually have a chance to dance together.”
Ginny looked thoughtful. “Hmm. I hadn’t considered that. Do you think he would go?”
Harry sighed. “Well if you tell him you’re going with Neville, do you think you could keep him
away?”
Ginny smiled. “You have a point. I mean, though, he isn’t Scottish, is he?”
He nodded, taking a piece of bacon from his plate. “Clan Campbell,” he said casually, biting the
bacon. Ginny was perplexed.
“How do you know?”
He looked guiltily at her. The Pensieve wasn’t even something he could really tell Ginny
about...But he managed to answer truthfully. “I heard Lucius Malfoy mention it once.”
Ginny didn’t have to know that the Lucius Malfoy in question had been twenty years younger,
and that he’d heard it in a Pensieve. Ginny seemed satisfied. Harry thought, that’s two more.
Three, counting Malfoy. He agreed that if Hogwarts students were going to be there, having
many of them be members of the Dueling Club was an excellent idea. He wished he could warn
more of them besides Hermione that they needed to keep on their toes, however. But he didn’t
dare. He would just have to hope that it would be all right.
* * * * *
On Thursday afternoon, Harry and Ron were staring dispiritedly at the entrails of yet another
dead chicken, having, over time, grown inured to gazing at the mess. Trelawney came over to
their table and leaned over, looking at their bird. “Ah,” she said in that misty way of hers. “I
know what I see. The question is, do you see it?” She looked at Harry expectantly; she’d been
waiting all year for him to display his Inner Eye again, to no avail, since he had stopped wearing
Sandy to Divination for a while. Even though he was wearing her now, he was determined to
ignore any of her predictions unless she told him something of life-and-death importance.
Harry squinted at the bloody mess in front of him, trying to look thoughtful. Ron had that I’mjust-
going-to-make-it-up look on his face. Harry couldn’t wait to hear what he would say.
“What do you think?” he said to Ron, trying to keep a straight face.
Ron looked like he was pondering a question for the ages. “I think--that the sleeping will awake
and feel refreshed. A curse will be lifted.” Yeah, thought Harry; those of us sleeping in here will
awake refreshed and the curse of being in Divination class will be lifted as soon as the bloody
bell rings. Once when he’d told Dumbledore he’d fallen asleep in Divination, the headmaster
hadn’t even been surprised. He seemed to expect it.
Trelawney frowned. Harry could tell she knew she was being played. She didn’t comment, but moved on to Lavender and Parvati, who had also grown used to the dead chickens, even going
so far as to volunteer to strangle their own, which still gave Harry the willies. Some dueler I’ll
be, going up against Death Eaters, he thought. Girls can bring themselves to strangle a chicken,
but I can’t.
After class was finally over, they found Hermione waiting for them at the foot of the ladder that
led down from Trelawney’s. She was practically hopping up and down with excitement.
“Harry!” she said excitedly. “They’re awake!”
He frowned, confused. “Who?”
“Cho and Flitwick! I just found out! Let’s go!” She pulled his hand and Harry looked at Ron
helplessly.
“See you in the common room,” he called to him. Ron nodded. He didn’t seem inclined to
come with them, which Harry thought was just as well. He saw Ron put his arm around Parvati
and start walking along to Gryffindor Tower while he was pulled along the corridor to the
hospital wing by Hermione.
When they reached the door to the infirmary, Harry hesitated before putting his hand on the
knob. Hermione was in no mood for that, however, and she put her hand on the knob instead,
turning it and rushing inside. Harry followed her, as she started across the room. Little Flitwick
was sitting up in his bed, talking with Will and some Ravenclaws who had already come. He
waved cheerily to Harry and Hermione. A curtain had been drawn around Cho’s bed, which
was where they went now. But when they pulled back the curtain, they found Viktor Krum
kissing Cho Chang on the mouth, holding her face in his hands. They stood still, struck dumb.
Viktor turned, becoming the same color as the bedsheets. Cho looked embarrassed.
“Herm-own-ninny! And Harry! I--uh--”
Hermione smiled at him. “It’s okay, Viktor. I--I knew you were coming every day to see her. I
kind of suspected...”
Cho Chang looked at Viktor. “Every day?” Viktor got his color back, and then some, looking
down at his feet. Cho smiled and laced her fingers through his, and he looked down at her,
covering their linked hands with his other hand. Then Cho looked at Harry, horrified. “Oh,
Harry--I’m sorry--”
He gave her an understanding look. “You already broke up with me, remember?”
She looked confused, then looked as though she remembered again. “That’s right. And--hey!
Why’d you send me that note? Are you the reason I’ve been asleep for--how long has it been,
Viktor?”
“Forty days.”
“Well,” Harry began. “Yes and no.”
“Yes and no what?” Cho demanded.
“Yes I’m the reason you’ve been asleep for forty days, but not because I sent you the note. I
didn’t send it, in fact.” He explained to her how Ron and Hermione had also received notes,
and he had prevented them from going. He hadn’t known she’d received a note, so he hadn’t
been able to warn her. “We still don’t know who did it,” Harry told her. “But you clearly did
the right thing to break up with me. I wondered for a while if I ever should have gone out with
you, whether it would make you a target...”
She grimaced. “I’m the one who asked you out, Harry. I had my eyes wide open.”
He nodded, not wanting to argue with her. Viktor looked at Hermione again. “I am sorry for the
vay things vorked out, Herm-own-ninny...”
She patted Viktor on the arm, smiling. “I’m not. You two look pretty happy.” Cho and Viktor
gazed at each other; they did, actually. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all, Harry
thought. He felt a kind of matchmaker-smugness come over him. He and Hermione decided to
leave Cho and Viktor alone when they started to kiss again, clearly forgetting they weren’t
alone.
Outside the curtain, they saw that Flitwick’s visitors had left
