Chapter 21 - Meanwhile, Back at the All-Hands Meeting

July 27, 2001 -- Rest of the Day

As the four wizards left the Great Hall, the headmaster gazed after them somberly. As the doors closed behind them, his eyes swept the large conference table. "You have just heard from someone representing our natural allies," he reminded everyone. "That these people are not certain what to believe speaks volumes about the Ministry's current course."

Of course, it could "speak volumes" either way, thought Terri Weasley, carefully turning over the professor's statement in her head. The Ministry hasn't convinced my own people that there isn't some sort of cover-up going on. Yet. She brought her full attention back to the meeting as the headmaster introduced the next speaker.

"And now, someone from a little closer to home. Firenze, would you please inform the teachers and the parents of our students about the current situation among your people in the forest?" Dumbledore requested, with just a hint of strain in his voice. Whatever news he brought, Terri suspected two things: the headmaster had heard it already, and it wasn't good.

The centaur gave Dumbledore a graceful half-bow and looked around the conference table before speaking; his eyes rested a moment on Hagrid, and he nodded a quick acknowledgement, which the half-giant returned. "The skies have foretold many changes during my lifetime. Rarely, there has been disagreement as to the interpretation; even more rarely, there has been disagreement as to what is to be done about what is seen." He paused for a moment, in the way of someone not accustomed to speaking to such a large crowd. "Not since my great-grandsire trod the paths of the Forbidden Forest -- or even, perhaps before -- has there ever been a disagreement on both at the same time. Until now."

What is he talking about? Terri wondered. She mentally reviewed what she knew of centaurs. Besides the obvious, they were great diviners, using the sky as their main means of predicting the future. They were also well-versed in astronomy, of course, and healing, and archery. At one time, if the Greeks and Romans could be believed, they involved themselves more in the world of humans, but eventually withdrew, saying only that what knowledge they shared was at best misunderstood and at worst abused. Arthur Weasley had told her that "being sent to the Centaur Liaison Office," which no centaur had ever used, was Ministry slang indicating that the person was shortly to be fired. This made Firenze's very attendance at this gathering unheard of -- and his words were not to be taken lightly.

"This -- disagreement -- has caused great dissent in the herd." Firenze sighed. "No, let me be blunt: it has split the herd in two, between those who believe we should seek greater contact with wizards, and those who believe we should not."

Several people began talking at once. The fact of a centaur addressing the wizards -- and not talking in riddles -- seemed to overwhelm a number of those present. Even more, a centaur, talking to humans, about centaur matters? It was incredible. Before the babble of voices could overwhelm the hall, however, Firenze stamped his feet, and his hooves rang loudly on the stone floor.

"I have come here," he said patiently, "to offer a warning, and a hand. First, the warning. The Forbidden Forest has always been unsafe. With matters as they stand between my people in the forest, it is even more dangerous than it has ever been before. I cannot guarantee..." he hesitated. "I cannot guarantee that even Hagrid would be safe."

At this amazing statement, the groundskeeper stood up, outrage clearly written on his face. "Firenze!" he exclaimed. "I can take care of meself against anything in that forest -- even a few things a centaur can't handle -- and anyone traveling with me is --"

"Hagrid." Firenze stopped the tirade with a word. "I said I could not guarentee anyone's safety, and I meant exactly what I said." He turned to a knot of adults which included Mrs. Weasley; Terri knew, from the little she had spoken with Molly before the meeting, that those were the parents of students (including students who would be starting this term). "I do not believe," said Firenze, "that those in the other herd would attack foals -- children. I know those in my herd will not attack children. But since you have no way to distinguish my people, I must ask you, as the parents of these children, to please emphasize that the Forbiden Forest is particularly off-limits this year." Firenze sighed again. "I want no innocent blood on my conscience."

A shocked silence permeated the hall. After letting those words sink in for a few seconds, Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "You mentioned that you have also come here to offer a hand, Firenze," he reminded gently.

"Yes." The centaur again looked around at the assemblage. "We have seen Mars, and Venus, shine brightly in the constellation we call the Hermit. The Scholar's Hat -- that which you call Cassiopeia's Crown -- travels ever closer to the Hermit. As we have once been teachers, so we shall be again." He hesitated. "I can speak for, and promise, only myself -- and even that, without full certainty. But I will share my knowledge of astronomy and divination with those who wish to learn -- for now is truly not a time to hoard knowledge. We all face the same peril." He bowed gracefully. "And now, I must take my leave; my duties will not wait." So saying, the centaur trotted out of the Great Hall.

Murmuring threatened to take over the Great Hall as Firenze left. "Centaurs attack wizards? Unthinkable!" "But a centaur talking like that is also unthinkable..." "Mars and Venus in the Hermit? What's he mean?" "Attack children?!" From the sounds of the comments, Terri got the sense that some of the parents saw Firenze's address as one of the signs of the coming of the Apocalypse, with Firenze himself, perhaps, as one of the Four Horsemen. She herself felt less worried about this latest threat to the safety of Hogwarts students -- all they have to do is stay out of the Forbidden Forest, after all, and they're supposed to do that anyway, she thought. The threat to her own research, however...

"Headmaster." The single word, spoken in a deep, resonant voice, cut through all the murmuring. Terri turned to see who had spoken. A tall black wizard in his mid-fifties stood up in the area reserved for Hogwarts parents. He quirked his bald head toward Dumbledore, and when he spoke again, it was with the practiced ease one would expect from such a voice. "Firenze has raised a serious concern for us -- hardly the only one, and perhaps not even the most important...but it seems to be the most immediate. What measures are you taking to safeguard our children?"

"I'm glad you raised that issue, Mr. Jordan," the headmaster responded. "In fact, our next speaker will address exactly that matter. Charles, if you please..." Dumbledore gestured to the youngest Weasley then present in the Great Hall.

Charlie Weasley stood up, looking as if he'd rather be back facing dragons in Romania than parents of Hogwarts students in the Great Hall. It was all Terri could do to stifle a chuckle as Deidre gave him an "encouraging" look that verged on fawning. Charlie cleared his throat and took a quick glance around the table, trying not to let his gaze rest too long on the parents. Which is a shame, Terri reflected; Molly looks like she's about to bust with pride. "I'm more used to presenting papers at conferences," he confessed, "so if I get too technical, please bear with me.

"You may have heard of my mentor, Professor Draconis Scamander -- cousin of the wizard who authored Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them." About a third of the witches and wizards sitting around the conference table nodded, and a healthy proportion of those were parents. "He has devoted his life to the study of dragons. For the past four decades...he has been attempting to train them." Everyone again started speaking at once; "with some success!" Charlie shouted into the fray, which only increased the noise. Terri noticed that Hagrid was now staring at Charlie with a look of longing that rivaled Deidre's.

Before Dumbledore could jump in to demand silence, the black man addressed as Mr. Jordan slammed his hand down on the table, effectively stilling the voices. "Please continue," he said, with just a hint of coldness in his resonant voice. "As the parent of a seventh-year Hogwarts student -- a close friend of two of your brothers, in fact -- I want to hear all the details about this plan to protect my son and the other students."

Charlie licked his lips nervously, bobbed his head at Mr. Jordan, and continued. He was clearly struggling not to use some of the more obscure terms involved in dragonology. Some of his nervousness finally dropped away as he warmed to his topic. He's like a cross between Crocodile Hunter and Marlin from "Wild Kindom," Terri reflected in amusement. It had long been common knowledge that dragons build and protect hoards; Professor Scamander, and, to a lesser extent, Charlie Weasley, had studied this behavior in detail. Once he felt he understood it well enough, the professor began performing experiments that would determine whether this "hoard protection" behavior could be used to protect things other than hoards the dragon had itself collected. His delight when he discovered that this behavior could be transferred to another object knew no bounds. "In fact," Charlie explained, "our own research station in Romania is protected by three of Professor Scamander's early dragon students," he said, grinning. "These dragons have never harmed him or any of his assistants in the thirty years they've maintained their guard." Charlie grinned. "I can't say the same for the dragons that have tried to attack us while they were on guard." Now, according to Charlie, Professor Draconis Scamander believed he could protect Hogwarts with some of his other trained dragon guards.

A somewhat lengthy discussion followed, during which several parents expressed worry and skepticism...and Charlie was forced to admit that he had suffered "one or two mild burns" from the guard dragons "but it was clear that they were trying to keep me from doing something they thought was dangerous." One of the parents, a pasty-skinned wizard with stringy brown hair and glasses that kept sliding down his nose, asked Charlie a number of pointed questions about which, if any, of the Hogwarts staff would be involved with the guard dragons' care and training. "I'll be staying for at least this entire school year," Charlie revealed, "and I will be working closely with the Care of Magical Creatures instructors -- Professors Lupin and Hagrid. And, of course, the headmaster."

That seemed to satisfy some of the parents, though one or two muttered darkly about "having one of Lupin's kind as a teacher." Professor Dumbledore seemed not to hear the comments, but Terri did, and bit her tongue. There's at least three people on staff here who can brew a Wolfsbane potion, Terri reflected: me, Madame Pomfrey, and Snape. Professor Snape, she hastily corrected herself. Actually, make that four: Gavin told me he could do it, too -- learned it at his daddy's knee, so to speak. I bet Professor Dumbledore could get in touch with him in a hurry if he had to. Heck, if it comes down to it, I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to be able to brew it, if we were really pressed.

"That's all well and good for exterior threats to Hogwarts," the pasty-skinned wizard continued, "but what about the threats within its walls? It wasn't so long ago that some of the students were turned to stone! And the year after that happened, that madman Sirius Black broke into the castle and attacked several other students -- and he escaped and is still at large!" The wizard glared darkly at the other parents around him, an effect that was partially spoiled by his glasses nearly sliding off his nose again. He gave them a determined push back up, and faced the headmaster with the same glare. "If what you said at the Leaving Feast is true -- if You-know-who really has returned -- and a madman like Sirius Black can come and go at will here -- and if he's met up with his master..."

"Those are a great many `ifs,' Mr. MacMillan." Professor Dumbledore's steady, benevolent voice cut through MacMillan's fearmongering like a lumos-lit wand through a darkened corridor. No longer the center of attention, Charlie Weasley discreetly sat down, sighing softly in relief."You have also asked before, if I remember correctly, why we did not keep Dementors for protection. Like Firenze, I will not bear innocent lives on my conscience. The Dementors proved themselves to be uncontrollable, and therefore a major threat to the very students they should have been protecting." Mr. MacMillan opened his mouth to protest, but the headmaster raised a silencing hand. "I ask you to consider carefully what you would be saying to me now if, instead of Harry Potter, it had been your own son facing those Dementors. I assure you, I am doing everything within my power to deal with your `ifs' -- and a great many other `ifs' as well." At Dumbledore's words, Mr. MacMillan closed his mouth, but still seemed dissatisfied. He has his own son to worry about, Terri thought as she watched the exchange, but Professor Dumbledore has to worry about the lives of every student at this school. I don't think Mr. MacMillan enjoyed being reminded of that fact.

"We do in fact, have a number of safeguards in place -- safeguards which have been reinforced in the wake of previous security breaches. I am not at liberty to tell you about all of them." Professor Dumbledore's statement caused some discontented muttering from the parents, which calmed quickly when he continued speaking. "These safeguards do protect your children in many ways; I can give you examples, some of which you may remember from your own days at Hogwarts." The headmaster turned to the trembling house elf sitting beside him. "Dobby, if you would?"

Like Jim Lee Gleeson, Dobby stood up on his chair to speak; he looked even less happy about speaking to this group than Charlie Weasley, however. He bowed low to those assembled around the conference table. "Dobby is here at the Headmaster's request," he began in a quavery voice. "Dobby was the only house elf willing to..." he dipped his head, flapping his ears in mild consternation. "Dobby is also not used to speaking to such a large group...especially about house elf magic."

That caught everyone's attention. House elves were not common, except perhaps in large, wealthy households. Even when they were intimately involved in caring for the household and its occupants, they often made themselves nearly invisible. And they never discussed how they accomplished any of their tasks, whether it was cooking for an army or restraining a mad wizard. "Is house elf secret," was all that anyone could get from a house elf.

"Headmaster said that Dobby did not need to say much," Dobby continued haltingly, with a quick glance to Professor Dumbledore for reassurance. "And Dobby...Dobby cannot reveal house elf magic. Dobby can only...`point to it,' was what Headmaster said. So Dobby will point." The jittery house elf put one steady finger in the air, as if physically pointing. "Dobby points to food poisoning -- which has never happened here in all the time there have been house elves at Hogwarts."

Silence lasted for a couple of seconds, quickly broken by Mr. MacMillan. "What? But that's hardly significant --"

"Yes it is," came another voice. Terri grinned as she recognized her former teacher. Gavin half-rose from his chair and turned to face Professor Dumbledore, eyebrows raised in an "if-I-may?" expression. The headmaster granted him permission to speak with a smile and a nod. "For the past few years, I have been the Charms teacher at an obscure little school of which some of you may have heard -- the Salem Witches' Institute." All of the parents nodded, some of them with mild displeasure on their faces. Terri noticed the reaction; a sense of competition, perhaps? "The institution has grown quickly in the three hundred or so years it has been in existence -- indeed, I believe its student body is now larger than Hogwarts' by a wide margin."

"At least half again, according to the numbers I saw," said Dumbledore amiably.

"Indeed," Gavin agreed. Taking off his wire-rimmed glasses to wipe them on his brown tweed robes, he picked up his train of thought. "I mention this because, from the very beginning, the Institute's policy has been to never use house elves under any circumstances." Gavin checked his glasses, breathed on them, then wiped them on his robes again. "Their -- employment -- reminded the school's founders uncomfortably of certain other practices that they were staunchly against." He placed his glasses back on. "So we have found alternatives. Our kitchen help is made up of several witches and wizards, who also supervise some of the students. They are very good at what they do -- but even so, over the last school year three of our staff and 25 of our students came down with food poisoning." He looked meaningfully at the knot of parents seated at the conference table. "So you see," he said slowly, "the perfect record that the house elves maintain here at Hogwarts is not to be taken lightly." So saying, Gavin reseated himself.

"I would like to add," Professor Dumbledore said, "that this is hardly the only example of house elf magic within these walls." He gazed at the large knot of parents, and to Terri at least, his eyes seemed to stay longest with those who appeared to be most discontent. "For example, it may seem only a little thing, but do any of you remember ever having to mend any clothing during your days as students here?" The professor paused while the group of parents chewed over this question; a few seemed mildly impressed, but many shrugged it off. Terri noticed that the ones who seemed least impressed by this bit of news were also the best-dressed. Probably wealthy, with house elves of their own, Terri thought.

"I still say that's not very significant," Mr. MacMillan insisted.

P:rofessor Dumbledore focused on MacMillan. "Then I would ask," he continued, "if you remember your clothing ever becoming damaged at all while you were here. Except for any spells that may have accidently hit you, of course."

"No, but --" The rest of Mr. MacMillan's reply was lost while several of the parents spoke at once. The mothers, at least, knew how difficult it was to keep their children in undamaged clothing. A number of them talked at Mr. MacMillan all at once, but he kept shaking his head.

An older woman, notable for the vulture decorating her witch's hat, got the pasty-faced wizard's attention by the expedient of grabbing his shoulder and shaking it hard enough to rattle his head. "Horatio MacMillan, if you would look beyond the tip of your nose, you'd see the headmaster is making a point!" she all but growled.

"What? That my son is safe because he won't get sick from his food and his clothing won't rip up?" He glared at the older woman. "Didn't your grandson break his wrist here on his first time on a broom?"

"Yes, and he learned from it, too!" she shot back. "Did you stop your son from running too fast so he wouldn't fall down and skin his knees?"

"You are both getting off the topic." A melodious female voice with an odd accent cut in. Where have I heard that voice before? Terri wondered. "Headmaster Dumbledore is asking you to use your imagination." Well, thought Terri, he didn't actually say that, but...She reflected that some of the parents, witches and wizards though they were, would have some difficulty with this task. Not to mention one or two of the teachers, perhaps...Terri glanced up the table to Snape at this thought, and, much to her surprise, found him staring in rapt attention and -- admiration? -- at the speaker. "If house elves could do this much for the students, they could certainly do much more if they needed to." The woman brushed her dark brown hair from her face in one exasperated move, and Terri suddenly remembered where she'd seen her: at the herbalist's shop, with her precocious daughter. Mrs. Elizabeth Snape.

"The house elves also are not the only ones working to protect Hogwarts students," came another female voice. A spectral woman dressed in the style of several hundred years ago approached the table. She inclined her head to Professor Dumbledore before turning to the parents and continuing. "Many of you remember me as the Grey Lady, the House ghost for Ravenclaw. As far as I know, none of you ever wondered how I became Ravenclaw's House ghost, or what exactly that means -- beyond perhaps being a sort of mascot." Here she glared at Nearly-Headless Nick, who looked away from her with his nose so upturned his head was in some danger of falling backwards. Terri puzzled over their body language -- or should it more properly be called disembody language? Either way, she wondered what sort of rivalry hid behind the exchange.

"It's just as well," Nick grumbled, slowly turning back to the table, "because we can't tell you. It's absolutely not allowed -- and even if we could tell you --"

"Sir Nicholas." The words came from Professor Dumbledore, not the Grey Lady, and they stilled the ghost at once. He bowed stiffly to the headmaster, and while clearly not pleased, he seemed prepared to keep his own counsel for the moment.

"Thank you." The Grey Lady resumed her thread. "As House ghosts, we take responsibility for the students in each House as much as we can. Guiding first years to their classrooms is just one of the things we do; we also find ways to keep them from harming themselves or getting into trouble --" Nearly-Headless Nick began to clear his throat, but stopped at a glare from the Grey Lady. "--which I cannot tell you in detail," she finished, through clenched teeth.

"Why not?" piped up one parent, which was followed by several parents expressing their desire to know the details, and right now. As voices rose yet again, Terri regretted not learning a spell to prevent headaches.

A deep, sepulchral voice cut through the clamor. "Even we who are dead may have our secrets." As if a switch had been thrown, all noise stopped. The Great Hall became silent as a tomb. Terri looked around to find the speaker, and saw the Bloody Baron at last leaving his corner and approaching the table. Slowly, the House ghost of Slytherin gazed around the conference table, making even Professor Snape, head of that House, more than a little uncomfortable. Finally, after the temperature in the Great Hall dropped several degrees, he spoke again. "For fifty years, we have worked to prevent any human deaths within the walls of this house of learning. We seek no increase in our number. Our success you may judge for yourselves."

Terri recalled what she had learned about the school's history both from her own reading and from picking Hermione's brain. She knew about Moaning Myrtle, of course; given the time frame of which the Bloody Baron spoke, she guessed that Myrtle's death had been a "wake-up call" to the ghosts. But Diggory's death...had not happened on Hogwarts' grounds, let alone within its walls, Terri realized. If the ghosts were limited to protecting those within the walls of the castle, they could not have prevented the Hufflepuff's death.

Distracted by these thoughts, the next thing Terri heard was Professor Dumbledore speaking in summing-up tones. "While it is true that the threats we face are real, there is no other wizarding school as well-prepared or well-equipped to defend itself. If you are concerned about the safety of your children, please understand that moving them from Hogwarts to another school would actually decrease their safety. Indeed, several students from other wizarding schools have applied to continue their education here -- and have cited the safety of this school as one of their top three reasons for wishing to transfer."

"And how do we know that they're not in league with You-Know-Who?" demanded one parent.

"The Sorting Hat is quite capable of detecting both active spies and those under the Imperius curse," the headmaster explained patiently, "and even transfer students must pass its scrutiny." A small smile appeared on the venerable wizard's face. "Of course, before they pass the Sorting Hat's scrutiny, they must pass both my scrutiny and the scrutiny of my deputy headmaster." Professor McGonagall inclined her head at Dumbledore's statement.

At last almost all of the parents seemed satisfied; soon after the headmaster finished speaking, they gathered in a large group at one of the fireplaces in the Great Hall, and began leaving via Floo Powder. Finally, the group was down to only a handful, including the woman with the vulture-decorated hat, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Mrs. Snape, Mundungus Fletcher (and how could I have missed seeing him?! Terri wondered), and several others.

"Good enough," Professor Dumbledore stated, waving the remaining parents back to the table. "You may sit back down now." Terri got the distinct impression that these parents were in on something the others weren't -- an impression which grew when the headmaster let his face relax into an expression of relief. "I believe we have prevented a mass exodus. Now, we must turn to other important matters." He inclined his head to Mrs. Weasley. "I read your report, Molly; we seem to be missing a few." The headmaster peered at the remaining parents as he spoke.

"Not very many, Albus," Mrs. Weasley replied. "I'll be visiting those who couldn't make it but agreed to participate, to let them know the plans. Except for Mrs. Flitwick -- unless of course you'd rather I did, Professor," she finished, casting a meaningful look in the little Charms professor's direction.

Professor Flitwick smiled. "You're always welcome, Molly, but Fiona would have my hide if I didn't tell her everything!" He did a mock shudder; Hagrid chuckled, and a number of the other professors (including McGonagall) hid grins. Apparently, this was a running joke among the staff.

"Very well," said Dumbledore, regaining control of the floor. "For those of you who may not have been informed," the headmaster continued, addressing himself to the teachers, "we will be doing things a little differently this year. These Hogwarts alumni have agreed to assist both the teachers and the students for this school year -- as tutors, mentors, assistant teachers, and in other capacities."

Terri caught the subtle emphasis on those last two words, and took another look at the two dozen or so parents who had stayed behind. Most of them appeared to be quiet, middle-aged witches and wizards. Terri felt sure they could walk down almost any street in New Jersey and not even excite a second look, if they wore Muggle clothing. Of course, appearances were deceiving. Terri remembered the spells that Molly cast at the Malfoy residence to put down Lucius and rescue her husband. She also remembered Mundungus Fletcher's workshop, well-hidden and guarding more than just the warped nacelles she'd rented. What other resources did these Hogwarts parents have at their disposal to help protect their children? And would it be enough?

"What?!" This exclamation came from the teacher's end of the table. Terri watched as an all-too-familiar figure in black stood up, surprise and anger on his face. He locked eyes with Elizabeth Snape; she met his gaze, clearly not about to back down. Quickly, he turned to the headmaster. "There must be some mistake, sir; we agreed --"

"We agreed to disagree, Severus." Elizabeth's velvet tone hinted at the steel beneath. "This is not the time or the place to discuss this."

The potions professor opened his mouth to argue, but before he could get even one word out, the headmaster cut in. "I quite agree," he said, not unkindly. He turned to face Snape, and said something to the potions professor that Terri couldn't hear. Reluctantly, Snape reseated himself, but not before giving his wife a look that clearly said `we'll talk about this later' -- and promised that it would not be a pleasant discussion.

Glancing at the teachers once again, Professor Dumbledore continued. "We cannot afford to be at odds with each other when we are already fighting battles on more than one front. Indeed, it is my sad duty to inform you all that Cornelius Fudge has made good on at least one of his threats. He has revoked Hogwarts' accreditation."

Several gasps of shock followed this announcement. Hagrid captured the mood of the room when he stood up, shaking a fist in outrage. "What?! Fudge can' be serious, Perfessor. This school's been teachin' witches and wizards longer 'n any other!"

Dumbledore nodded. "He is indeed serious, Hagrid."

Terri couldn't believe it either. Revoking Hogwarts' accreditation would mean that its students would not be recognized as witches and wizards when they graduated -- not as fully-trained witches and wizards, in any case. They would not be allowed to register with the International Confederation of Wizards, nor vote for representatives; but, more importantly, they would not be permitted to perform magic except under strict supervision. Breaking that rule carried harsh penalties, up to and including imprisionment in Azkaban. Terri wondered for a moment if she would be teaching a generation of law-breakers. It seemed...unfair. No, it was more than unfair, but before she could come up with the right word, the headmaster began speaking again.

"Fortunately," Dumbledore stated, "Professor Flitwick and Professor Bones have worked out an alternative."

"I fear the cure promises to bring as much ill as the disease," Gavin Bones said. The room had become so silent that the scrape of his chair as he stood up was clearly audible. "I've contacted a number of wizards I know on the other side of the pond, in the American Department of Magic School Accreditation --"

"What good will that do?" demanded Professor Vector. She looked distraught; sitting next to her, Professor Sybil Trelawney looked equally stricken. Terri suspected that both teachers had taught at Hogwarts for their entire careers. "They certify American schools, not --"

"Quite a lot, actually," Gavin continued, raising his voice to the `pay-attention' tone that Terri remembered so well. "You see, they are quite willing to grant Hogwarts accreditation...as an American school."

If the room had been quiet before, it was now so still that it reminded Terri of Deidre's descriptions of the eye of a hurricane -- an amazing calm just after a deadly storm, to be followed again by the other side of the storm. Which, she supposed, might be an accurate description for what followed.

"It would only be temporary!" Professor Flitwick, standing on his chair, tried desperately to get the attention of the suddenly noisy room. His words hardly settled things down. Amid the roar of voices that washed over the room, Terri caught phrases such as "unheard of" and "disgraceful" and even "disgusting;" also, "No child of mine will be an American wizard!" and "what will they do to the curriculum?" and "what will they do to the menu?" and "suppose they insist on getting rid of house elves? They'll either have to hire more staff -- expensive -- or have students do all the work!" and "they'll force us to lower our standards!" and "they'll make us play Quodpot instead of Quidditch" and "they'll change the whole character of the school!" and even "they'll put a -- a -- McDougall's next to the Quidditch pitch!"

"Silence!" Once again, Professor Dumbledore's voice cut through the noisy onslaught. As the room quickly stilled, Terri reflected that there were some advantages, after all, to the old teacher-student or headmaster-student reflexes. She figured that most of the witches and wizards in the room had just emotionally gone back in time -- for a second, at least -- to when they had sat in this hall every day at their respective House tables. "Please give your attention to Professor Flitwick and Professor Bones," Dumbledore continued, gesturing to the respective teachers. "I have discussed this matter with them at great length, and they have completed extensive research on the subject. I am certain they will say much to reassure you, and to do away with any misconceptions you may have about this temporary arrangement."

Once again, Terri caught the emphasis on the last two words. From what little she'd heard about Cornelius Fudge, his sense of native pride, and his overwhelming belief in his own correctness, she thought he would certainly not sit still for this. To have the oldest wizarding school in the world, a place as British as Buckingham Palace, suddenly become American was truly unthinkable. It'd be like Harvard lowering its tuition to community college levels, she thought wryly. No, even more shocking than that, she reflected as she saw the expressions on the faces of the parents (and a number of the teachers) in the room.

"Thank you," said Gavin, relief evident in his voice. He glanced quickly over to Professor Flitwick; the little Charms teacher nodded, and the two wizards raised their wands. Two beams of light emerged, which solidified into midair writing that was equally clear and visible from every seat at the conference table. The blue writing from Flitwick's wand stated "Standard UK Wizarding School Curriculum" at the top, while the red writing from Gavin's wand bore the heading "Standard USA Wizardry School Curriculum." Terri noticed parentheses after some of the requirements on each list; both Hogwarts and the Salem's Witches' Institute had individualized their requirements to some degree.

"If you will compare these two lists," Gavin continued, "you'll see quite clearly that they're very similar. Indeed, they almost have to be. Historically, remember --" Terri saw the ghostly Professor Binns, who had until now been snoring quietly in one of the seats, stir slightly at the word "Historically," look around quickly, then go back to sleep. "--the American wizardry school system began as an offshoot of the British wizarding school system. And the International Confederation of Wizards demands certain common elements in wizard education as part of its Wizard Recognition Reciprocity Agreement."

At those words, Mundungus Fletcher suddenly brightened, as if he'd just grasped something hidden behind those words. He gave Professor Dumbledore a questioning glance; the headmaster returned the look with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. Terri couldn't read what was behind the exchange, but whatever it was, it must have satisfied the shopkeeper. He all but beamed, and covered a tremendous smile with one chubby hand.

Professor Flitwick picked up the thread at this point. "Looking at the courses that students are expected to take -- and the optional courses -- the main differences are here." The little professor raised his wand again, and a few items stood out in yellow on both lists. "The American students do not have the option to take Muggle Studies --"

"Then how is that taught?" Mr. Weasley suddenly jumped in. He looked momentarily embarrassed, and cast an apologetic glance at Flitwick.

Flitwick looked to Gavin, who inclined his head. "To some extent, Muggle Studies is taught in every American class," he explained. "We're constantly making comparisons with how Muggles would accomplish the same things we do with magic."

"Ridiculous," Professor Snape snorted under his breath.

"That makes a lot of sense, actually," Terri suddenly cut in, her tone sharper than she'd intended. She felt Professor Snape fix his stern gaze upon her, as if she were some insect that had brought itself unpleasantly to his attention. Lord and Lady, is this what his students have to put up with? Terri wondered. And how much of this am I going to have to put up with? Steeling herself, she continued. "Most American witches and wizards don't live isolated from the Muggle world. I held a Muggle job for years, and I'm not unusual by any means." As the frown on the face of the Potions professor deepened, Terri slapped the top of the conference table for emphasis. "Don't you see? American witches and wizards have to know the Muggle world as well as the wizarding one, because they'll likely be spending an equal amount of time in both!"

"But British wizards do not," Professor Snape replied drily.

Professor Dumbledore sighed. "There I must disagree with you, Severus," he said gently. "But we can discuss that later." The headmaster turned his gaze back to Flitwick and Gavn. "Please continue."

Gavin nodded. "American students are required to take a course in Comparative Magical Philosophies; Hogwarts will probably be allowed to offer that as an optional course at first." He highlighted the course on his list in yellow. "And of course," he added, "we separate out our history courses: World Magic History and American Magic History." He again highlighted the relevant courses, and sighed. "I'm afraid the certification department will not compromise on that issue; it will mean a change to the History of Magic curriculum at Hogwarts."

There was a sudden snort at the other end of the conference table as Professor Binns came awake with a start. "WHAT?!" he cried. "A change to -- to the History of Magic course?!" He stood up, his chair clearly visible behind his translucent form. "Over my dead body!"

Terri heard a variety of coughing, choking, and gasping noises around the table; she covered her own mouth in a determined attempt to hold back the laugh threatening to escape. A quick glance at Deidre confirmed that the former high school teacher was having similar problems. "You know," the lateblooming witch whispered to her friend, "this isn't the first time I've heard someone say this at an all-teachers' meeting -- but they were alive at the time."

That would not have been so bad -- if Hagrid had not, at that moment, lost his own battle with composure. A snort quickly turned into a guffaw, followed by a desperately gasped "But, Perfessor Binns, sir, yer're already dead!" followed by more laughter until tears ran down his cheeks. Hagrid's mother -- who had been quietly sitting next to him all this time observing the meeting with various levels of concern evident on her face -- let loose with a laugh of her own that all but shook the walls.

Terri could hold back her laughter no longer. Nor could anyone else, for that matter. Professor Snape had one hand over his face, and was shaking his head as if to show total disgust at the proceedings -- but his shoulders were twitching in a most suspicious manner. The parents, many of whom must surely have been taught by the boring Professor Binns, laughed long and hard; Terri heard the elderly woman with the vulture on her hat cackle "Merlin's beard, that's the first funny thing he's ever said alive OR dead!" Most of the teachers showed a bit more restraint; some tried to hide their faces behind their sleeves or cover their mouths. Professor Flitwick, red-faced, seemed to be trying very hard to be upset at Professor Binns' obstructiveness -- but whatever angry words he wanted to get out kept being swallowed by gasps around his own laughter. Nearly-Headless Nick's head flapped off his neck, and required the assistance of both the Grey Lady and the Fat Friar to put back in place again, weakened as they all were from laughing. It did not help that, throughout, Professor Binns stood there, blinking mildly, a bemused and disappointed expression on his face -- enough to send many of the attendees into another helpless fit of laughter.

"Professor Binns," Dumbledore said at last, when the laughter began to die down, "I must thank you for that badly needed bit of aerobic exercise, which perhaps should be part of every long meeting." Then the humor left his face, and he was once again the Headmaster of Hogwarts, conducting a serious all-hands meeting to prepare for the start of what promised to be, at best, an immensely difficult and challenging school year. "To address your concern, however," he continued, "I have already discussed with many of the teachers -- the heads of Houses especially -- some needed changes to the curriculum. These are not the same changes that Cornelius Fudge believes are necessary." Professor Dumbledore stood, now the center of everyone's attention. "It is my hope that these changes will allow our students to learn the material more quickly, by reinforcing the relationships between subjects."

As if back in class, Hagrid raised his hand to speak. At Dumbledore's nod, he said. "Is that what yeh were gettin' at when yeh asked me 'n Rem -- Perfessor Lupin -- if'n we coul' show summat th' same critters that Perfessor Figg'd be showin' in her class?" Terri quickly recalled that Hagrid and Lupin would be teaching Care of Magical Creatures, while Professor Figg -- the black woman? -- was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

The headmaster nodded. "You would be looking at the same thing, but from a different point of view," he explained. "As to the other changes, called for by the need to receive certification from a non-British source --" Dumbledore raised his hands in an almost-shrug. "Once the need no longer exists, the changes can be discontinued."

At the other end of the table, with the parents, Mundungus Fletcher grinned. "Just as I thought," he said, then turned his face to the headmaster. "You figure that once that bloke Fudge realizes he hasn't succeeded in either closing Hogwarts OR keeping you from graduating full-fledged wizards -- that he'll have to recognize as full-fledged wizards because of the reciprocity agreement -- his own pride will make him recertify Hogwarts." He chuckled. "He surely won't stand for British students graduating as American witches and wizards!"

"But what if Fudge doesn't honor the reciprocity agreement?" asked one parent.

"Then he risks an international incident -- and he's not that crazy. At least, not yet," Fletcher continued, warming to the subject. He rubbed his hands together with glee, grinning once again at the headmaster. "This is smashing, Headmaster; if you don't mind my saying so, even my own cousins couldn't cook up something this clever!"

"I certainly hope you're right, Mr. Fletcher," Professor Dumbledore agreed drily. His own cousins? Huh? Who? Terri wondered, then noticed that Mrs. Weasley's lips had drawn into a thin line more commonly seen on Professor McGonagall's face, and Mr. Weasley's eyes had taken on an unhealthy glint. She could think of only one person who could inspire that reaction in her cousins: Lucius Malfoy. Fletcher's related to Malfoy? Is it really a good idea for him to be here? Terri wondered. Granted, he'd proven to be honest in his dealings with her, but just how far could he be trusted?

Terri put thoughts of whether Fletcher could be trusted aside as the headmaster continued. "You will all find a schedule for breakout sessions listed on the agenda. While the heads of Houses and Professor Bones have worked with me to adapt our curriculum for this school year, I want this to be something all of us can live with." Turning to face Professor Binns, he added more softly, "You will not be the only professor at Hogwarts adjusting to changes in an accustomed routine."

Rather than mollifying the spectral professor, the headmaster's comment seemed to reignite his anger. "And if I refuse?" he asked, his ghostly pallor taking on a rosy tinge. "I'm not as dense as I look." The room threatened once again to erupt into the kind of laughter that had accompanied the ghost's first objections. Professor Binns, looking both clueless and disgusted – but not dense – raised his voice to continue. "I mean," he emphasized, "that I know I'm not that easy to replace. It has been said that history professors are the proverbial sickle to the dozen, but I am quite certain you won't be able to find one willing to work for as little as I do. In fact, given the problems this school has had hiring professors – and continues to have, as I understand it –"

"Only for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Binns." The Grey Lady stepped forward, walking through the conference table to face the History of Magic professor. "And as for someone willing to work for as little as you do…no one is irreplaceable. Surely you don't think you're the only ghost both willing and qualified to teach History of Magic at Hogwarts." Her tone of voice and body language left no doubt in anyone's mind that the Grey Lady herself would be more than willing – and likely more than qualified – to replace Professor Binns, if necessary.

"I believe Ravenclaw's House ghost has given you something to consider, Professor Binns," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "I would not wish any of my professors to do anything rash, particularly at this sensitive time."

The headmaster's statement seemed to have the desired effect. The History of Magic professor turned his flustered gaze from the Grey Lady to the Headmaster. "I do try never to do anything without due deliberation," he said, and reseated himself with what dignity he could manage. Having made her point, the Grey Lady gracefully drifted away from the center of the conference table.

"Thank you," said Professor Dumbledore, with a nod that seemed to take in both Professor Binns and the Grey Lady. "Now, before you all go to your breakout sessions, Hagrid has a report to deliver."

The half-giant stood, fiddling awkwardly with his clothing, but whether the awkwardness was due to speaking in public or unfamiliarity with the kilt, Terri could not be certain. She secretly hoped it was the former; he cut such a fine figure in the Highland dress that she hated to think he'd be reluctant to wear it regularly. "Stop that," she told herself firmly, and forced her attention to what Hagrid was saying and away from how good he looked saying it.

"Well, sir," Hagrid began, "me'n Olympie – er, Madame Maxime – went ter where yeh'd figgered th' giants had gone after You-know-who had died – well, sorter died." Terri thought she heard someone say under their breath "Shoulda stayed dead, too," but she couldn't tell who said it. Hagrid continued, "An' yeh were right. We foun' a small group of 'em –" here Hagrid exchanged a glance with his mother, who nodded. "—mor'n twenty, but les'n forty." He paused, taking a quick glance around the conference table, as if to make sure everyone was paying attention. "But summun else'd found 'em first. I didn' know 'em by sight," Hagrid said over several gasps of consternation, " but they was'nt on our side." Hagrid thoughtfully scratched his beard. "We thot it best to kinder watch what they was doin' before we went up ter the giants ourselves. These new folks were wizards al'right. They started with bribes, but in a day 'er two it looked like they was makin' threats." Sitting next to him, Hagrid's mother nodded. "At this point, we figgered we should do sumthin – an' that's when I got a good look at who was the head of this li'l giant clan." He gave his mother a look of adoration, which his mother returned in full measure.

Friedwulfa nodded in Dumbledore's direction. "We're good with our hands," she said in a whisper that still sounded like a shout, "but we don't know anything about magic." Her voice reminded Terri of a waterfall, or the sound a stream made rushing over rocks. Nodding at Hagrid, she continued, "My son scared them off, so I made him War Chief." Her expression challenged anyone to say anything.

Unfortunately for her, Professor McGonagall took up that challenge. "Hagrid was sent as an ambassador," she said coldly. "I applaud your sense of loyalty to your family, Hagrid, but you didn't have the authority –"

"They was gonna kill 'em all!" Hagrid shouted. "I had ter do somthin! What kind'er son would I be if I let me mum get hurt?" Professor McGonagall gave Hagrid a thin-lipped glare, but said nothing. Hagrid rolled his eyes in frustration. "They can't defend against magic; that's why the Ministry was able to chase 'em inter the hills in the first place! Yeh sent me hopin' we could get'm to fight fer us; shouldn' we fight fer 'em?"

Terri saw the Headmaster whisper something to Professor McGonagall, but could not make out the words. The Transfiguration professor reseated herself, clearly displeased but willing to hold her tongue for the moment. Hagrid shifted his weight unconfortably; from his sheepish expression, Terri could tell he knew he'd overstepped his bounds. They're worried about his loyalty, she thought with surprise. If he's War Chief of a clan of giants, what will he do if what's best for them conflicts with what's best for Hogwarts?

Hagrid's speech met with mixed reactions. Professor McGonagall unbent slightly, as if seeing the logic in the half-giant's words, but not wanting to admit it. If looks could kill, Professor Snape would have been in Azkaban for murdering Hagrid, Friedwulfa, and nearly half the room. Most of the rest of the professors looked unhappy, to a greater or lesser extent. But Arthur Weasley looked very thoughtful, and his wife had a softer version of Professor McGonagall's reluctant-to-agree expression on her face. On the other hand, several of the parents looked frightened, and the elderly witch with the vulture on her hat looked downright hostile. As for Professor Dumbledore --

"Hagrid, you've raised a good point," the headmaster said. He glanced around the table. "The giants have had no reason to trust us or fight for us. Voldemort --" the room collectively winced at Dumbledore's use of his name "-- promised the giants a great deal if they would side with him. After his defeat fourteen years ago, they were chased as far away as possible by the Ministry of Magic." He turned to Friedwulfa. "It is my sincere desire to make amends for how your people have been treated, that we may help each other."

Friedwulfa sighed, and rolled her eyes. Sliding her chair out from the table, she stood up...and up. The Great Hall's magic ceiling -- currently reflecting a cloudy late afternoon -- hung 20 feet from its floor. Friedwulfa's head did not touch the ceiling, but she could have reached it easily by raising one of her hands above her head. Several parents gasped loudly in consternation; some slid their chairs way out from the table, while others sat transfixed, staring at the giant. Still others looked as if they wanted to dive under the table...or into one of the fireplaces...or anywhere that looked safe. Several people had drawn their wands. Terri heard a whimper; Dobby had grabbed hold of the back of Professor Dumbledore's robes and was trying to make himself as small as possible. Hagrid looked both outraged and ashamed at the reactions to his mother. Only Dumbledore's expression remained nearly unchanged. For her part, Hagrid's mother gazed sadly on the assembled witches and wizards, stroking one of her graying braids.

Finally, she spoke. "I scare you just by standing up. You scare me," she glared at the wizards who had drawn their wands, "just by pointing wooden splinters at me." Terri didn't think she looked very scared...until she noticed that Friedwulfa had stopped stroking her braid, and instead was holding it in a white-knuckle grip. To hold herself back from attacking, perhaps? Several of the wizards who had raised their wands slowly began to lower them, a look of understanding dawning on their faces. The giant turned to face the headmaster. "How can we help each other? It means living in fear. If you can do something about that..." she sighed again, a sound like wind through pine trees. "I lived in fear for too long. My clan and I have found a way to live in peace. Would you ask us to live in fear again?"

"I would not," Dumbledore replied, standing up himself. While he stood less than half as tall as Friedwulfa, the effect was nearly as impressive -- only slightly ruined by Dobby's losing his grip on the wizard's robes and landing in his chair. With a yelp, Dobby leaped back to the floor and cowered under the table before the headmaster continued. "But others would. You have already met those others, in fact. They are the ones we are fighting. We would have a better chance of winning with your help."

"Your own history teacher can tell you what happened to us the last time we giants helped a wizard," Friedwulfa countered. "Unless you teach lies to your children."

"How dare you!" Professor McGonagall stood up so suddenly her chair clattered to the floor. She pointed a scolding finger at the giant, and looked as if she wished it was her wand.

Before she could continue, however, the headmaster clasped her shoulder -- with a grip strong enough to startle her. "Remember who you're speaking to, Minerva," he said, in a voice both too calm and too quiet. To Friedwulfa, he added, "Hagrid has reminded me that not all giants are the same. As I understand it, your own belief that not all giants are the same led you to create your clan. Do you believe, then, that all wizards are the same?" He raised an eyebrow, and nodded toward the half-giant sitting next to her. "If you do, then you condemn your own son, for he is a wizard as surely as I am."

At Dumbledore's statement, Professor Snape looked as if he'd swallowed an entire lemon tree, but kept his mouth shut. Terri bit her lip. She knew that wasn't strictly true; Hagrid had not completed his training. On the other hand, it was only a matter of time; and even if Hagrid wasn't the best example, Madame Maxime was a full-fledged witch, the headmistress of a wizarding school -- and a half-giant.

"You're clever with words, wizard," Friedwulfa responded. "Can your words smooth away fear? There are reasons that giants don't walk among you today." She waved her hand, a gesture that easily took in everyone sitting -- most fearfully -- around the conference table. "This is one of them. But it's not just fear; it's other words." She lowered her brows. "Words that are laws. My late husband taught me about those." She paused, as if to let everyone remember that her late husband was a man, and a wizard, not a giant. "He said that laws could protect us, even from your wands." She gave the headmaster a meaningful look. "If you would have us protect you with our fists, you must protect us, not only with your magic, but with your laws."

"I agree." Professor Dumbledore nodded. "Whether you live among us or not, if you would help us in the coming battle, you deserve that protection. And I will do everything I can to get it for you." A grim look came to his face; Terri saw hints of worry in his body language that she had never seen before. "As matters stand now, at least, there are still some in power who will listen to me."

"Don't make any promises you can't keep, wizard," Friedwulfa said, a growl creeping into her voice. "My clan and I have all been there before." She carefully reseated herself, and added, "We'll speak more of this later."

The meeting went to breakout sessions after that; some of the sessions included the parents, and at least one even included Friedwulfa. The groups of teachers and parents used the smaller tables for the sessions, which had been assigned so that -- eventually, at least -- every teacher would have a say about how to fit the curriculum together like a jigsaw puzzle. No, Terri decided, more like one of those old cathedrals she'd learned about in a Survey of Art History class in college, where each part reinforces the other parts. She caught her mind wandering to flying buttresses and gargoyles and even stranger things as the day wore on. A buffet was laid in the Great Hall; by this time, several of the breakout sessions had broken out to neighboring classrooms because they had gotten too noisy for the people in the other sessions to hear. Lord and Lady, she thought, as she and Diedre exchanged long-suffering looks, some things never change, whether you're in the wizarding world or the Muggle world. This is going to be a looooooooong day.

********

Harry Potter's stomach felt queasy, and his head felt as if it were about to explode. He walked the corridors of Hogwarts with Remus Lupin at his side. He no more felt the cold, hard stone floors than he saw the moving paintings on the walls or heard the clattering suits of armor. He still felt battle-scarred ground under his feet, saw giant worms, vicious flying house elves, dragons, and children...all of them younger than me, he thought, trying hard not to remember the blood...or the screams...

"Harry?" A gentle hand rested on Harry's shoulder; he had stopped walking without even realizing it. Lupin now stood facing him. He looked up into Lupin's face, expecting to see worry...and resenting it. He was tired of people worrying about him; he wasn't sick, he wasn't crazy, he wasn't "unstable" -- but he was surprised when Lupin's expression showed, not worry or concern, but understanding.

"I'm okay," Harry insisted. He thought to shrug off Lupin's hand on his shoulder, but didn't.

"Of course you are," Lupin said, with no change in his expression or tone of voice. He opened his mouth as if to say more, closed it, then sighed. He gave Harry's shoulder a quick squeeze before removing his hand and returing to the young wizard's side. "You were shivering; it must have been a draft. Hogwarts Castle has always been drafty," he said, giving Harry a quick sidelong look before continuing down the hall.

Harry's face grew warm, but he said nothing. Lupin had brought him back to the present, and he now recognized where he was. He hadn't remembered going down any stairs, but he knew he was one floor below the Great Hall. Torches in wall sconces kept the corridor brightly lit; Harry frowned slightly at the large paintings on the walls, which all depicted food. "I'm not hungry," he mumbled.

"Not yet, you mean," Lupin replied. "Trust me, you will be." He stood in front of a picture depicting a silver bowl filled with fruit, and paused. He stared at the painting and smiled, a slightly distant look in his eyes; then he blinked, as if recalling himself to the present. "Shall we?" Not waiting for an answer, he reached one finger out toward the green pear in the painting and tickled it. It chuckled, then giggled, then laughed so hard it shook. It shook so hard that it shook itself into a green handle, which Lupin used to pull the painting open like a door. The werewolf gestured through the open door. With a shrug and a resigned sigh, Harry entered the kitchen.

As he expected, it was full of busy house elves. Rather than the four House tables that Harry had seen the last time he'd sneaked into the kitchen, the tremendous room now held a large central table and several smaller ones, all echoing in size and placement the furniture currently in the Great Hall. House elves stood and scurried all around the tables; some of them carried platters of food from behind a separate door and brought it to the large central table, while others mixed, heated, chopped, poured, and sliced at various work areas around the walls of the room. Despite the buzzing hive of activity, Harry found his gaze strangely drawn to the one spot in the room where nothing much seemed to be happening -- right in front of the large fireplace at the other end of the room.

There sat Winky, looking little neater than the last time he saw her. He winced when he saw two empty bottles of butterbeer at her feet. Dobby had said that Madame Pomfrey managed to stop Winky's drinking; apparently, the cure hadn't been completely successful. Her clothes, at least, looked no worse than last time; someone had patched the burn on her skirt. Harry couldn't tell if the soup stain has been cleaned from her blouse, though; she was wearing a soup-stained towel draped over her chest like a bib. Her hair could have used a good washing, but at least it had been combed. Instead of staring into the fire, she was struggling with a small bowl of soup -- or, more precisely, struggling against a spoon. It looked as if some invisible force was making her dip the spoon into the bowl and eat the soup, a brothy beef soup with vegetables. She looked to be on the verge of finally giving up the fight.

Just as Harry wondered what was going on, he saw, standing next to Winky, the oldest house elf he'd ever seen. Though beardless and with only thin grey hair on his head, his wrinkled countenance reminded Harry of Dumbledore. Indeed, there was something about his presence...his towel-toga, for instance. He wore one exactly like all the other house elves in the kitchen, but the way he wore it was very like the way Dumbledore wore his robes -- or, had he known it, like an ancient Roman citizen would have worn his toga. He -- this house elf was clearly male -- glared down at Winky with such a stern expression that Harry could almost believe he was making her eat the soup by the sheer force of his gaze. He can't do that! Harry thought in astonishment. It's like he's cast the Imperio, and that curse is forbidden...to wizards. His thought trailed off; except for the rule about not using wands and being dismissed by receiving clothing from their masters, Harry didn't know what laws applied to house elves.

"So Winky will be a good house elf now?" Harry heard the old house elf ask.

Winky's only response was a glare.

The old house elf sighed, and his gaze softened. Winky's spoon hand relaxed, and she set the spoon in her soup; then she made a face, and began lifting the bowl as if to throw it in the old elf's face. She suddenly stopped, as if frozen in place. The old elf's expression hadn't changed; Harry hadn't even seen him blink. He did notice, however, that the other elves in the kitchen seemed to be pointedly ignoring the interplay between the two elves.

Finally, the old house elf spoke again. "Dumbledore is Welly's master," he said, in a strong but quavery voice. "Master Dumbledore says `Welly, we've taken on Winky, and Winky has been through a lot for a house elf.' Master says, `Take care of Winky, she may not take care of herself.' Welly is a good house elf; he does what his master tells him to do." He gave Winky a sad look. "Why does Winky make it so hard for Welly to be a good house elf?"

"Because Winky is a bad house elf," Winky replied with a touch of rebelliousness; then, "Winky is in disgrace..." she trailed off into a sob.

To Harry's surprise, Welly took the bowl of soup from Winky, placed it down on the hearth, then bent over and took Winky into a hug. She sobbed into his tea towel, shuddering, blubbery sobs through which she tried to speak; Harry could not make out any clear words. Nor could he easily hear all of Welly's words of comfort to her, though he caught a phrase here and there. "Winky is a good house elf, Master said so; Winky is too good a house elf for Welly to let starve." This brought on a loud sob that drowned out Welly's next words; then, "Welly didn't want to force Winky, but Dumbledore is master, Welly is Head, Welly had to do it..." At those words, Winky snuffled once, suddenly stopped crying, and froze. She pulled back from Welly and stared at him in shock, one hand going to her mouth.

"Welly is head house elf?" she squeaked.

Welly actually smiled. "Yes." The two elves stared at each other, and Harry sensed that there was much more going on in their gaze than he knew. Winky looked as if she'd just made a very bad mistake but was only now beginning to realize how bad. Welly wore an expression that Harry could have sworn he'd seen on Professor McGonagall's face more than once; it was the kind of expression she wore while waiting for a student to grasp a point. Winky opened her mouth to ask a question; but it was at that moment that Welly noticed the two wizards in the room. "Shhh!" he hissed to Winky. "If Winky is finishing her soup, Welly is promising to talk with her later." So saying, he turned from Winky to Harry and Remus.

"Welly!" Remus exclaimed; he clearly knew this house elf, and was just as clearly trying to smooth over the moment. "We both need some of your special...soup, please," he said awkwardly.

Welly bobbed his head; with one hand, he gestured the wizards to one of the smaller tables; with the other, he gestured to several groups of house elves in the kitchen. In short order, two large empty bowls and two spoons were set on the table in front of Harry and Remus, while a pair of house elves carried a huge pot filled with some kind of wonderful-smelling concoction that Harry couldn't see. He realized that Lupin was right; he was now not merely hungry, but starving. He hoped, for the sake of the association, that this was not the same soup that Winky had been eating.

Welly accepted a ladle from another house elf and began stirring the contents of the pot. "Welly tried to make a pastry to help, so Master Lupin wouldn't have to eat moon soup all the time for the headaches, sir," he said regretfully as he stirred.

Remus made a face. "It was good of you to try, Welly, I'm sorry I didn't like the moon pie," he said.

As Welly served a chicken vegetable with noodles soup into Lupin's bowl, he looked up at Harry, then looked back to the bowl -- then abruptly brought his head back up to stare at Harry, his eyes nearly bugging right out of his face. He looked from Harry's green eyes to the scar in his forehead, where he stared for several seconds. Then he gasped, and turned back to Lupin, a truly venomous gaze on his face. He held the ladle as if it were a Bludger bat -- and Lupin's head was a Bludger about to hit the Seeker on Welly's team. "Master Lupin said WE need special soup!" he shouted. "Did Master Lupin bite Harry Potter?!" Without waiting for a reply, Welly actually swung the ladle at Lupin, connecting with the werewolf's back rather than his head. "Bad Lupin! Bad, BAD Lupin! Lupin must NOT bite Harry Potter! BAD Lupin!" he shouted, hitting Remus about every other word.

Standing near Harry, the two house elves holding the pot of soup looked horrified, but did nothing. Harry was dimly aware that the rest of the kitchen had grown still, and other house elves were looking in this direction with equally horrified expressions -- his main attention was elsewhere. He'd leapt up from his chair and was trying to pull Welly off of Remus. "No! Stop! He didn't bite me, I swear! I'm not a werewolf, you crazy elf! Stop hitting him!" he shouted. But Welly, despite his age, was stronger and faster than Dobby; Harry could barely get a grip on one of his arms, and that only for a second or two.

"No Welly! Ow! Stop! Moon's blood, Welly, look at me! OW! I didn't bite Harry! I would never bite Harry, I swear it!" Lupin shouted, at the same time that Harry and Welly were shouting.

Welly stopped hitting Remus in mid-swing and stared at the werewolf. His gaze seemed to bore into Lupin's face, but the former DADA teacher did not flinch. After a few seconds, Welly blinked -- and his eyes grew moist. His expression changed from vengefulness to horrified guilt. He gasped, dropped the ladle to the floor with a clatter, and fell nearly prostrate in front of Lupin. "Master, a hundred pardons! Please forgive Welly, please! Let Welly atone for what he has done, please!" he sobbed.

Harry felt sick to his stomach watching this; even Dobby never groveled so. Then again, Harry had to admit, Dobby never dared to harm his masters...only me. And even then, only when he thought he was protecting me. The young wizard was very surprised to see Lupin stare down at the house elf with a calculating look on his face; of all the people he thought might take advantage of a vulnerable house elf, Harry never would have figured Lupin to do so. But then the werewolf's expression changed, to one of sorrow and sympathy -- and so quickly, Harry could not be sure he had seen the calculating look after all.

Finally, Lupin sighed. "Welly," he began patiently, "Harry Potter is the son and godson of three of my best friends. I would never do anything to harm him; I'd sooner go back to leaving the grounds of Hogwarts at the full moon than take that risk. You know this; why did you think I'd turned him into a werewolf?"

"Because Master Lupin said WE needed moon soup," Welly whimpered, not daring to look up.

"Yes, well..." Remus looked uncomfortable. He gave Harry a worried look, and raised an eyebrow. It took Harry a moment to realize that Remus was wordlessly asking permission...for what? It didn't matter, Harry abruptly decided; if it would get this matter straightened out. He nodded at Lupin, wearing a worried expression of his own. Lupin took a deep breath, and continued. "Moon soup is good for stress; Harry's been...under a lot of stress just today, so I thought it might help." Lupin gave the young wizard an apologetic look, while Harry felt his face go warm. I'm all right! he thought. Why won't they stop worrying about me?

"Oh." Welly finally dared raise his head enough to look at Lupin; the house elf's big round eyes stared directly at the werewolf's kneecaps. "Welly made moon soup for Master Lupin's moon time. Welly does not know if moon soup is best for helping Harry Potter, sir." He hesitated, and, raising his eyes a bit further, risked a glance at the young wizard. "If Harry Potter was willing to tell Welly what gave him stress today, Welly could make some food to help him."

"I don't --" Harry shut his mouth on what he was going to say. Even Dobby at his most pathetic never looked quite this pleading, this desperate to help. And yet, even with all that, Welly still retained a certain dignity that Dobby would never match. Harry sighed. He remembered his second year, when Professor Dumbledore had indirectly offered to help him once by asking if there was anything the young wizard wanted to tell him. Harry had refused, because he believed he could handle the situation himself. He felt, strangely, less able to refuse Welly's offer to help than Dumbledore's. "Er -- bad memories, Welly. Very bad memories. And -- not all of them mine."

Welly's eyes widened. For a second, he gave Harry the same probing gaze he had given Lupin; then, he seemed to turn inward, as if trying to remember something. Finally, he turned back to Harry, with a strangely familiar haunted expression. "Stonehenge?" he whispered hoarsely.

Harry nodded -- then, for a second, he regretted it. Would Welly somehow know that it was James Lee Gleeson who showed him the wartime memory of Stonehenge? Would he chase after the American wizard and beat him up? Harry pictured the old house elf chasing the dwarfish cowboy around the Great Hall with a giant ladle, and felt oddly cheered by the image; but he found he couldn't let Gleeson take all the blame. Especially with Remus Lupin sitting across the table as a witness. "I kind of asked for it," he admitted sheepishly.

"Very bad memories," Welly acknowledged, bobbing his head, "and Harry Potter should not have..." the old house elf trailed off, shrugged, and sighed. "Welly forgets; Harry Potter is still young, and sometimes Welly forgets how `young' feels." He tilted his head to the side, one finger on the side of his beak-like nose, lost in thought. His gaze measured Harry; the young wizard couldn't tell what he was thinking, but it felt similar to times when the headmaster had given Harry a thoughtful look. Finally, Welly straightened his head, let out a small sigh, and nodded. "For bad memories, Harry Potter needs tea as well as soup."

A few quick gestures brought over house elves with a teapot and a pair of teacups; Harry found that the tea tasted strongly of peppermint. "For digestion," Welly explained as he poured Lupin a cup of the tea as well. "To help the stomach settle." Another house elf brought a fresh ladle; Welly stirred the soup pot again, and, much to Harry's surprise, served the young wizard a soup that looked and smelled very different from the one in Lupin's bowl.

"What the --?!" Harry stared down at the bowl. Instead of chicken broth, pieces of chicken, vegetables, and noodles, his bowl contained a beef broth with onions. He had to admit, it did smell more appetizing to him right now than what Lupin had been served, but -- from the same pot?!

Lupin laughed. "House elf magic, Welly?"

Welly's only reply to Lupin was an inscrutable smile. To Harry, he said, "Trust Welly, please, this is what Harry Potter needs. Welly --" He ducked his head, looking a touch embarrassed. "Welly owes Harry Potter a personal debt, sir; Welly would never do anything that might harm him."

Harry tried very hard not to roll his eyes. Just what I need, he thought, another house elf in my debt. Dobby nearly killed me trying to help me because he felt in my debt; it'd be my luck Welly'd try to kill EVERYONE ELSE because he feels that he's in my debt. "Please, Welly, you don't owe me anything," Harry said, between spoonfuls of soup.

"Oh, but he does, sir, Welly does!" The old house elf looked around the room; by this time, most of the other house elves had returned to their tasks, except for the two who were still holding up the huge pot of soup. Welly gestured, and another house elf brought over a large stepstool on which to place the pot. The two house elves who had been holding the pot bowed quickly to Remus and Harry, and found something else to do in the kitchen. Welly leaned closer to Harry. "Welly comes from a long line of house elves that served branches of the Slytherin tree," he began.

"House Slytherin?" asked Harry in confusion. What did that have to do with anything?

Lupin covered a smile. "Only indirectly," he said, dipping his spoon into his soup. "He means the line of Salazar Slytherin -- right, Welly?"

"Master Lupin is right," Welly said, nodding. "A long time ago, the branch that Welly served died off, and Welly came here, to work at Hogwarts. But house elves is tied to their families, sir; and anyone from the Slytherin tree, if they had known Welly was here, could have come and claimed me."

"Anyone? And you couldn't have said no? What about Professor Dumbledore?" Harry didn't think the headmaster would have let any of the Hogwarts house elves be forced to serve a master they did not want.

But Welly shook his head. "It is house elf law," he said sadly. Then he brightened. "But Harry Potter killed the last of the line of Slytherin! That set Welly free, sir, as surely as the sock that `Lucius Malfoy' gave Dobby set him free." Welly smiled; he clearly knew that Harry had tricked the senior Malfoy into giving Dobby a sock. He hated to shatter Welly's ideas, but...

"Voldemort didn't stay dead, though," he said glumly...and felt his mind begin tugging him back to the graveyard. Not this time, he thought, and stubbornly ate his soup, focusing his mind on his food instead. It really was good soup; he already felt better.

Welly winced at Harry's use of Voldemort's name, then waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. "Welly knows that," he said, "but Welly is not worried. Welly believes that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is now too busy to think of a mere house elf -- and that he will be dead again before he is less busy." Welly bowed deeply to the young wizard. "If there is anything Harry Potter needs that Welly can provide, Harry Potter has but to ask." Then he looked earnestly into Harry's eyes. "Even when Harry Potter is ready to set up his own household -- Welly would be honored to serve as Harry Potter's house elf. Or...if Welly is...unable to serve when the time comes," he continued, a hand wandering to his thin, greying hair, "Welly knows other house elves who have volunteered to take on Welly's debt, and would be proud to serve in his place."

Harry's jaw dropped. For several seconds he sat dumbfounded, his spoon all but forgotten halfway to his mouth. Abruptly, he put the spoon in his mouth and swallowed the soup without tasting it -- and nearly choked on a piece of onion. Horrified, Welly hit him on the back until the onion piece cleared, begging for forgiveness all the while. Through it all, Harry's mind was racing. Hermione won't like this at all, was his first thought; but he wasn't sure how he felt about this himself. During his second year, he'd been quite certain he'd never want Dobby serving him...but he changed his mind somewhat during his fourth year, after Dobby helped him during the Triwizard Tournament. Dobby was not a typical house elf. Harry risked a glance to the hearth. Winky had indeed finished her soup, and sat staring forlornly into the fire. As near as Harry could tell, she was closer to a typical house elf than Dobby...and that saddened Harry, for reasons he couldn't clearly articulate.

Finally, he met Welly's gaze again. Where did Welly fit on the spectrum? It wasn't that Harry actually wanted a house elf, he hastily reminded himself; he just felt like he needed some sort of clue as to how to react to Welly's offer. The young wizard remembered the one thing that seemed consistent among all house elves -- loyalty to their masters. Even Dobby had experienced great difficulty struggling against his loyalty to the Malfoys. "Um, Welly," Harry began slowly, "does Professor Dumbledore know about this?"

Welly's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes, of course he does!" The house elf nodded so hard his ears flapped. "Welly asked Master Dumbledore to make it a condition of Welly's employment with Hogwarts, sir, within a week of Harry Potter's first victory over the Dark Mage."

Now it was Harry's turn to be surprised. "You mean house elves can place conditions on their employment?"

Welly grinned; Harry noticed that a couple of his teeth were missing. "Of course we can! That is also house elf law. Every house elf has the right to ask to change the terms of employment at least once a year; Master Dumbledore offers that right twice a year, in summer and winter. Did Harry Potter think we were slaves?"

Harry looked from Welly to Remus -- who was listening with great interest -- and took a sip of tea to help digest this new information. Dobby had certainly suffered something akin to slavery at the hands of the Malfoys, but clearly not all house elf masters were the same, any more than all house elves were the same. "There's someone you need to meet," he said, barely suppressing a smile at the thought of this house elf with real backbone arguing laws and working conditions with Hermione, self-appointed house elf savior.

"Does Harry Potter mean Mistress Granger?" Welly asked. He made an odd face, as if he'd just bitten into a lemon but was trying to hide it for the sake of politeness. "Mistress Granger means well," Welly conceded, "but there is much that Welly believes she does not understand."

Remus jumped in then, slapping one hand on the table. "Which is precisely why I don't understand why you won't take me up on my offer for this term!" he exclaimed, raising a finger as if lecturing. The soup had apparently done him some good; Harry noticed he had more color in his cheeks than before.

"Welly found you a very good substitute," the house elf insisted, refilling both wizards' bowls with the appropriate soups. "Welly believes he will do a much better job than Welly himself." Remus started to protest, but Welly actually talked over him and stood firm. "Welly is head house elf; he will be too busy once the year starts to help Master Remus Lupin with his plans. Welly is very sorry, but he can do no more."

Lupin sighed; Harry sensed that this discussion was simply the latest in a standing disagreement between the two. While the young wizard was mystified as to what they were talking about -- some favor that Lupin wanted? -- he was relieved that he was no longer the focus of Welly's attention. He thought he might even be able to escape the kitchen without the house elf noticing that he hadn't really given any kind of answer to Welly's offer.

"Please think about it some more," Lupin said to Welly. "If you change your mind..." The werewolf trailed off.

"Welly has changed his mind before, Master Lupin," the house elf said thoughtfully, "but Welly thinks he will not change his mind this time." For just a moment, Welly's expression changed back to the haunted look that Harry had seen earlier. The young wizard knew he'd seen that expression before, somewhere else; but where?

After the two wizards finished eating and drinking, Welly cleared their dishes and escorted them to the door. Harry looked back as Welly turned to go back into the kitchen. The part of the house elf's tea towel that draped over his shoulder slipped; he covered it hastily, but Harry's Quidditch-trained eyes picked out two large scars on Welly's back, near each shoulder blade.

Harry swallowed. It was then that he remembered where he had seen Welly's haunted look before, or at least elements of it. Remus Lupin's eyes echoed some of the same pain. And, after showing Harry the Battle of Stonehenge, so did Jim Lee Gleeson's.

***********

Remus Lupin dropped Harry off at the entrance to the library; he looked longingly into the room, but sighed and gestured to the young wizard that he should go on. "I have to get back to the meeting in the Great Hall," he explained, "but I'll bring you back there when it's time for you to go back to your relatives."

"But..." Harry started. He had a lot of questions, and Lupin's dropping him off at the library like this made him feel as if he was being shunted aside. Professor Dumbledore had wanted him at that meeting, he'd said so at the beginning!

Lupin stopped whatever Harry was going to say with a hand on his shoulder. "Trust me, there will be other meetings -- and you really don't want to be at this one. I saw the agenda before it started. By this time," he rolled his eyes, "they'll be arguing about the curriculum. That happens every year -- at least, that's what I was told." Harry was honestly surprised; he thought every teacher had an area of expertise, and each kept to that area, and worked out their lessons without reference to the other teachers. "No, it does," Remus continued; "you wouldn't see it because you're a student; you're not supposed to see these things." He smiled ruefully. "And this year it's likely to be worse than usual. I hope Professor Flitwick --" he cut himself short. "Never mind, it probably won't come to that." He gestured to the library entrance. "Go on, Ron and Hermione are waiting for you in there; you'll have a less stormy time than I will."

Harry smiled sourly. "And when was the last time you heard them fight?"

Remus covered a laugh. "If their fighting is the worse thing you have to deal with today, Harry, you're already doing better than I am." The smile on his face did not reach all the way to his eyes. Before Harry could ask what he meant, the werewolf squeezed his shoulder, turned, and headed off down the hall.

Harry entered the library. Ron and Hermione had taken up an entire table with an assortment of books and bound magazines. Hermione had at least five open in front of her, and was scribbling furiously on a scroll already covered in notes for at least eight feet. Ron had his nose buried in the most recent issue of Quidditch Quarterly; the cover showed Viktor Krum in mid-dive for a Wronski Feint next to the words "Change Team or Nosedive? What the Future Holds for Bulgaria's Seeker." Periodically, he looked up from his magazine to glance over at Hermione's activity and shake his head in disgust; if Hermione noticed this, she gave no sign.

Harry grinned. "It's nice to know some things don't change," he commented wryly.

"Harry!" Ron tossed aside his magazine, his face breaking into a grin. Hermione looked up from her scroll and gave Harry a surprised smile that lit up her whole face. The young wizard was himself surprised by the change. When did she start looking so pretty when she smiled? Harry wondered. Or was it simply something he hadn't noticed before?

All thoughts on that subject were shoved aside as Ron hurried over to Harry and squeezed his shoulder. "That damn Yankee didn't give you a hard time, did he?" Ron asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

Great, now even Ron is worrying about me. "Nah, I'm fine," Harry insisted a little too strongly as he shrugged Ron's hand off his shoulder. Then he remembered one of the few interesting bits of information that reliving nightmare memories had given him. "Ron, you'll never guess: that damn Yankee is an old war buddy of Moody's!"

"That's impossible!" Hermione stood up, carefully laying down her quill so as not to blotch up her parchment. "The Death Eaters never reached the United States, so unless he came across the pond to fight --"

"Oh, he did," Harry said, turning to Hermione. A sly smile lit his face; he was enjoying knowing something that she didn't, for a change. "But it wasn't Voldemort that he was fighting," he continued, ignoring Ron's reflexive wince at the name. "It was Grindelwald."

"What?!" Hermione and Ron gasped. Harry knew then that Madame Pince couldn't possibly be in the library, or she would have told them to quiet down at once.

"Cripes, Harry, that can't be," Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Then they'd both have to be --" Ron paused to do the math. "Er, a lot older than they look," he said at last. "Or at least, a lot older than Gleeson looks. I've seen Moody on a bad day, and then he looks older than Professor Dumbledore."

Harry nodded, then thought back to the memory he'd gone through. He felt it start to fill his mind, but before it could take over completely, he focused on one image -- the young Jimmy Lee Gleeson, commander of his squad. He compared it to the Gleeson he had met only a few hours ago. "He has enough white in his hair and beard; I bet you didn't notice because you didn't see him up close. And they called you out right away." Ron nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful for a moment. "And the lines in his face...well, they're deeper than they look." Harry hoped he wouldn't have to explain further. If they asked him how he'd found out that Moody and Gleeson were old war buddies...

"So what happened, Harry? What did he ask you?" Hermione asked.

Harry felt his face go pale. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to rehash bad memories. On the other hand...If she can figure out what happened, how it happened -- and if anyone can do it, she can -- maybe she can figure out how to keep it from happening again. He felt a shiver go up his spine as he remembered Remus Lupin's concerns that some sort of trigger had been placed in his head, focused on the words that Pettigrew had used to give his master a new body. Harry took a chair at the table, sat down heavily, and, in as few words as possible, explained what happened after he entered the deserted classroom with Lupin, Gleeson, and Moody.

"Wow," Ron said when he was finished. He was silent for a few seconds, then, "And I thought our having another Yule Ball this year was scary!"

Hermione glared at him, while Harry looked at the red-headed wizard in horror. "Tell me you're joking," he begged.

"I wish I could," Ron said apologetically, "but Madame Pince told us when she was going over all the stuff about what we're supposed to be doing this year now that we're prefects." He hesitated as he got to the end of the sentence, as if he still couldn't quite believe that he'd been made a prefect. "Very boring, really," he added, rolling his eyes in a way sure to annoy Hermione.

Sure enough, Hermione took the bait. "It's a great honor to be made a prefect, Ron," she shot back. "If you can't understand that --"

"I don't want any honor that pinheaded Percy ever got," Ron shot back, bitterness cutting his words. "That traitor," he added under his breath.

"Traitor?!" Now it was Harry's turn to be shocked. "What's going on?"

"Oh Harry, you couldn't have heard," Hermione said, turning back to him, anger draining from her face. "Percy moved out. He received an owl from Penelope Clearwater, and she told him that her family wouldn't let her see him as long as --"

"As long as he lived with and agreed with, quote `that deluded, Muggle-loving family'!" Ron had been pacing as he spoke; he now slammed a fist onto the table, and Harry heard a faint crack. Ron stopped and gaped at the table, open-mouthed. Sure enough, there was a hairline break.

Hermione sighed, and took out her wand. "Reparo," she said, fixing the crack as if it had never existed. "Honestly, Ron, you're getting to be as bad as Hagrid about not knowing your own strength." Then she paused and looked at him, as if what he'd said had just sunk in. "You read his mail!" she exclaimed, horrified.

"I did not!" Ron retorted. "Fred and George did! They just, um, read it out loud!"

"Could you two please not fight right now?" Harry asked. The soup and tea had helped his stomach and soothed his nerves, but between telling his two best friends what had happened to him, and hearing those best friends arguing, he was beginning to develop a headache. "I don't know when I'll have to go back to my relatives, or if I'll see you again before school starts --"

"You will," Hermione insisted, "I heard Mr. Weasley talking with Professor Dumbledore about having almost all the safeguards in place at the Burrow --"

"Eavesdropping is okay, but reading someone else's mail isn't?" Ron asked snarkily.

"Ron, drop it," Harry said. He sighed. "Anyway, I don't want to waste this time listening to the two of you fighting, okay? I get enough of that during the school year."

Ron and Hermione stared at Harry. The two of them wore such identical looks of shock, sudden comprehension, shame, and guilt that Harry almost laughed. After exchanging a glance with Hermione, Ron asked, "We don't fight that much -- do we?"

"Never mind," Harry said, and sighed, rubbing his temple. "Just -- catch me up on all the wizarding news, okay? Then let's find something to talk about that won't start a fight."

There was not as much to catch up on as Harry had feared. There were a few more mysterious deaths in Egypt, but none that seemed to point to Bill Weasley...and the Daily Prophet vociferously refused to speculate that Death Eaters might be at work. Indeed, the wizarding newspaper continued referring to any evidence of Voldemort's return as "sheer speculation" and "the wildest of fabrications." As one of the strongest voices pointing to that return, Professor Dumbledore was getting tarred in the wizarding press.

"And they aren't being much nicer to you, Harry," Ron said awkwardly.

"Never mind that," Hermione cut in hastily. "Harry, our new Potions professor is a big improvement over Professor Snape." She told him excitedly how, after Terri Weasley and Deidre Freedman had arrived at the Burrow for the summer, they'd started mini-classes on potions. Terri and Deidre both felt they needed the teaching practice, so Ginny, Fred, George, and a reluctant Ron had become early students. It wasn't as bad as Ron had feared -- the two American witches helped them with their summer homework, after all -- and, indeed, Terri was learning how to teach. "She's only blown up the kitchen once," Hermione pointed out, "and that only took out the table; we had it fixed and cleaned up before Ron's dad got home."

"And look at this!" Hermione continued. She held up her right arm, showing off an odd bracelet. All of the larger beads but one were covered with a clear plastic wrap. Aside from the odd football shape of the beads and their interesting swirl of colors, there seemed to be nothing else unusual about the jewelry. "It's part of Professor Weasley's doctoral project." Hermione grinned. "Hex me!" she told him.

Harry automatically reached for his pocket -- but came up empty. "I left my wand at home," he said, remembering belatedly that, of course, he'd had to leave his wand at home; his Uncle Vernon had developed such an eagle eye for Harry's wand that he couldn't even sneak it out under Dudley's tent-sized hand-me-down sweatshirts. And since, as far as Vernon knew, Harry was staying with the very mundane Mrs. Figg while the rest of the family celebrated Dudley's birthday, there was no reason for Harry to have his wand with him. He felt momentarily naked.

Ron grinned. "I'll hex you, Hermione," he said. He drew his wand, pointed it at the young witch and uttered the Jellylegs curse. Hermione stood up on a pair of very solid legs, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Harry noticed then that the one uncovered bead on her bracelet had turned black.

"See?" Hermione asked rhetorically, turning to Harry and showing him the bracelet again. "There's a deflection spell in every one of these beads! And this one just deflected that curse!" She explained it in greater detail -- indeed, she'd been doing some research for Terri Weasley to help work out some of the problems when Harry showed up at the library -- until Ron started yawning. He'd apparently heard it all before. Hermione glared at him, and opened her mouth for an angry comment, then caught herself short. She gave Harry an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said, "I just get so excited about this. Do you have any idea how much this kind of protective jewelry costs -- when it works?" Harry shook his head. "I saw an amulet in Helsburg & Worthington's guarenteed to protect against at least one thousand curses, and do you know what they wanted for it? Four thousand galleons!" Harry gasped, and even Ron's jaw dropped when he heard that. "This will only protect against ten curses," Hermione continued, waving her wrist, "but Ter -- Professor Weasley says she can charge just one galleon and still make a profit."

The three friends continued talking until Remus Lupin returned with Arabella Figg to take Harry back to Privet Drive. "That's your babysitter?!" Ron exclaimed as the attractive black witch gestured for Harry to accompany her. Harry decided that it would be simpler not to explain that he'd only recently discovered what she really looked like.

As he lay in bed that evening, waiting for the elder Mrs. Figg's concoction to take effect, he reflected on the day's events. He had had worse days; and, even as bad as this day had been at times, it was still better than a good day with the Dursleys. He looked up at his homemade calendar, counting off the days until the end of summer when he would return to Hogwarts for the year, and drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.