Chapter One – A Walk in the Park

       Another summer with the Dursleys was drawing to a close. For Harry Potter, who lived with them, it was both better and worse than the other summers of his life. Better because the Dursleys now knew that it was pointless to try and keep him from corresponding with his friends from Hogwarts, the school for Witchcraft and Wizardry which was Harry’s true home nine months out of the year, and worse because … well, because Dursleys were still Dursleys. 
       Dudley, in particular, was more Dursley than ever. The real trial of the summer came because the nurse at his school, a decidedly Muggle one, suggested to Aunt Petunia that Dudley might benefit from an exercise regime. Dudley, whose main goals in life had always been a.) tormenting Harry, and b.) eating anything in sight, had recently grown so round that he resembled a head perched on top of a big pink beach ball. 
       He hadn’t had the exercise of tormenting Harry in ages, first because he’d been afraid that Harry would turn him into something unpleasant, and then, once the Dursleys found out that Harry was in fact forbidden to use his magic outside of Hogwarts, worried that some wizard friend or teacher who was not so restricted might show up. Dudley had never forgotten, and probably never would no matter how he tried, the time that Hagrid had given him a pig’s tail, or the time that the Weasley twins had tricked him with a tongue-expanding toffee. 
       But the nurse said exercise, and Aunt Petunia was determined to see it happen. Which meant that every morning, rain or shine, Dudley was forced out of bed and into his jogging suit – making him look like a head perched on top of a flannel-covered beach ball – and sent out to do a circuit of the neighborhood.
       After the first few times, in which Dudley cheated and hid behind a hedge on the corner of Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon took matters into his own hands and decreed that he and Harry would join Dudley on these morning jogs to make sure it got done. 
       Harry didn’t mind. He was glad for the chance to get some exercise himself, although he would have preferred being allowed to take his broomstick out for a spin. It wasn’t easy to face a new season of Quidditch, the popular wizard sport, when he hadn’t been able to practice all summer. 
       Besides, it was rather funny, this jogging. Uncle Vernon wasn’t exactly skinny himself, being a big beefy man with jowls and a perpetually red face. He puffed and sweated whenever he ran more than three paces, and by the end of their circuit, he was usually the color of a plum and gasping so hard that he could barely find the voice to yell at Harry.
       As for Dudley, he would have looked more at home bouncing or rolling down the street. Everything jounced and jiggled. The ground shook beneath him, and the first few times, everyone on Privet Drive came out of their beds in fright, thinking it was some early-morning earthquake. He wheezed and complained the whole time, soaked with sweat until his hair was pasted on his round head.
       To their credit, though, they stuck to it throughout that long summer. It might even have worked, if Aunt Petunia hadn’t rewarded Dudley for each successful completion of his daily exercise by feeding him an enormous breakfast of bacon and cheese sandwiches that had been dipped in egg batter and fried in butter, served up with a generous pouring of syrup and enough powdered sugar to bury a mouse. So it was that, by the time Harry’s birthday came around, Dudley had burst out of yet another pants size. 
       Harry’s birthday was an occasion that usually went unremarked in the Dursley household. Until he’d turned eleven, he’d accepted this simply as a matter of course and went on with life. Now, he could count on cards and packages from his friends, which arrived by owl … very late at night, though, because even the mention of the word ‘owl’ these days was enough to have Uncle Vernon grasping at his chest and sputtering. 
       This birthday proved much the same. Hermione Granger, the most dedicated student at Hogwarts, sent Harry a gift case with brand-new quills, inkpots, and scrolls of parchment. Ron Weasley, his other best friend, sent a large and untidily-wrapped package by way of the Weasley family owl, Errol, who fluttered to the windowsill and actually made it inside before pitching, beak-first, onto Harry’s desk where he lay without moving until late the next afternoon. Hedwig, Harry’s own owl, hooted scornfully, but Harry reminded her that if Errol hadn’t done it, Ron’s own small owl Pig would have, and Pig drove Hedwig half mad with his constant hopping about and hyperactive chirping. 
       The package from Ron and family consisted of six Chocolate Frogs (Series II, with mystery cream fillings happily not made by the people responsible for the Every Flavor Beans – when they said every flavor, they meant it; the macaroni cheese was actually quite good, but the mildew-flavor was enough to turn one’s teeth green – and an all-new line of wizard trading cards), a joke wand from Fred and George that produced an amazing array of disgusting noises, a hand-knitted broom cozy from Mrs. Weasley, and from Ginny, Ron’s little sister whose face went nearly as red as her hair whenever Harry was around, a homemade card done in wizard-crayons so that the images in the picture moved. Ginny had drawn, with considerable skill, a Quidditch match with Harry as Seeker swooping down on the elusive Golden Snitch. 
       He also had a card and a box of homemade dragonspice cookies from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. Hagrid, a huge and hairy figure with a heart as big as the rest of him, was a great friend but his cooking left something to be desired; just opening the box of dragonspice cookies caused flames to leap out and singe Harry’s hair. 
       The most eagerly-awaited present was the one from Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black. Sirius had promised him a scrapbook from his own student years at Hogwarts, when he and Harry’s father had been best friends. Harry sat with the large leather-bound book for hours, paging through clippings on Quidditch matches, notes that James Potter and Sirius had passed during Professor Binns’ History of Magic class – arguably the most tedious one at all of Hogwarts, though Harry preferred it to Professor Snape’s Potions lessons – and even a program from a school dance in their sixth year, when Harry’s parents had been voted Most Magical Couple. 
       So, even with the jogging and Dudley’s endless whining, even with Uncle Vernon’s dark looks every time the neighbors remarked on the odd number of owls that seemed to frequent Number Four, the summer passed pleasantly enough. A note arrived from the Weasleys inviting Harry to join them for the last two weeks at the Burrow, their ramshackle but happy home. This was custom by now, and as it spared Uncle Vernon the task of seeing that Harry got to Diagon Alley for school supplies as well as to King’s Cross Station each year, he only grumbled a little when Harry informed the Dursleys that he’d be leaving.
       He packed his trunk eagerly, coaxed Hedwig into her cage, and left the house that was like his prison, his own personal Azkaban, for the pre-arranged meeting place where he’d wait for the Weasleys. This pre-arranging had become necessary after several mishaps and Uncle Vernon quite firmly putting his foot down: Harry could go with ‘those people,’ but he wasn’t going to have them bringing flying cars to his house or popping out of the fireplace or other such nonsense.
       The meeting-place was a park two streets over, and Harry felt a little conspicuous dragging his trunk and baggage on an old red wagon of Dudley’s that he’d salvaged from the closet of the second bedroom. This was ostensibly Harry’s bedroom now, but the closet still served as dumping ground and graveyard for Dudley’s broken or abandoned toys. Once, Harry had ventured to ask how come they didn’t just throw all the junk away, but Dudley had pitched such a fit about losing his favorite things that Aunt Petunia, her lips pressed down to a tiny white seam, told Harry he was a horribly mean and rude boy even to say such a thing.
       The wagon only had three wheels and one of them wobbled, but it held together long enough for Harry to get to the park. There, surrounded by Muggle mothers who’d brought their children to the wading pool and swings, he was struck with a sudden melancholy. The Dursleys had certainly never taken him to the park, although they’d taken Dudley and not only pushed him on the swings but carried him to the top of the slides so he wouldn’t have to climb. 
       Harry’s own parents hadn’t had him long enough for that. He was comforted somewhat by the photo album Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year, as well as memories of the Mirror of Erised and other strange spectral encounters, but it didn’t completely make the ache go away. 
       The nearby clock tower chimed the hour, and Harry pushed those mopey thoughts away and began looking about for the Weasleys. He was never sure what to expect. Mr. Weasley was fascinated by Muggles and had been known to corner strangers on the street, asking them breathless questions about how televisions worked, and what ‘fast food’ meant if it didn’t instantly appear the way conjured food did. Sometimes, he got so caught up in these conversations that he forgot all about other appointments. But surely Ron wouldn’t let him forget about Harry.
       Surely.
       And yet, as the minutes ticked by with no sign of the Weasleys, Harry started to get a little worried. He hoped they’d remembered to come to the park. His mind summoned up all sorts of horrible incidents that could happen if the Weasleys mistakenly went to Number Four Privet Drive again. 
       Half an hour went by. Harry, pulling the wobbly wagon after him, went once around the park in case he’d gotten the wrong bench. He didn’t see the Weasleys, and their hair would have made them impossible to miss even if they’d been dressed as Muggles. 
       No Weasleys. No Ron. Hedwig rustled impatiently in her cage. She, like Harry, was tired of the long confinement of the summer and ready for the carefree fun of life at the Burrow. He was tempted to let her out with a message, to see if there was some delay, but didn’t dare. He was already getting some funny looks from Muggles in the park. 
       Starting to be really genuinely nervous now, Harry went around the park again. He stood on the bench and peered all around at the streets, hoping for a red flash of Weasley hair. Nothing. 
       But …
       The park was usually a fairly busy place, especially on a nice summer’s day like this. Muggles came and went in regular crowds. Except now, Muggles weren’t coming, and Muggles weren’t going. No one was entering or leaving the park, and there was a strange sort of shimmer over where the streets bordered on its tree-lined lawns.
       Having run into enough magic to know it when he saw it, Harry understood right away that a spell was going on. And having also run into enough occasions when someone tried to prevent him returning to Hogwarts, he further understood right away that it was aimed at him. Someone didn’t want him to find the Weasleys, go to the Burrow, and from there to Diagon Alley or Hogwarts. Someone wanted him to have to return, head held low in shame, to Privet Drive and explain to the Dursleys that he wasn’t welcome as a visitor.
       Harry was not about to let that happen. He watched as a Muggle mother, having finally rounded up her children over their protests, started toward the gate of the park. She didn’t act as if she saw the shimmer – to Harry’s eyes, it was now as visible as a curtain made of glittery gold threads in sheer cloth, so that the street could be seen through it but there was definitely something there – and as she drew close to it, the Muggle woman stopped, frowned, turned this way and that in confusion, and then gave in to her children’s pleas to be allowed to play just a little longer.
       A diversion spell, a misdirection spell. For no good reason that they could ascertain, the Muggles inside the park couldn’t leave it, and Muggles on the outside passed right by as if they didn’t notice the park was there.
       Just then, out on the street, Harry saw the familiar flash of red he’d been waiting for. It was Ron Weasley, weaving down the street on a bike that looked even wobblier than the wagon holding Harry’s luggage. His brothers, Fred and George, were with him. So was his father, but Mr. Weasley’s bicycle was the old-fashioned kind with one gigantic front wheel. They pedaled around in seeming agitation. Harry jumped up and down, calling and waving, but even when Ron looked right in his direction, Ron’s eyes passed over Harry without seeing him. 
       The Weasleys were arguing and gesturing wildly. Mr. Weasley unfolded a map from his pocket and consulted it while Fred and George put their heads close together, whispered, and then –
       Harry was astounded. The twins’ bicycles had looked odd to him, and now he understood why. They weren’t bicycles at all but fake cardboard bicycle disguises built around broomsticks. While George rode his at street-level, doing stunts and tricks to distract the Muggles, Fred kicked his off the ground and soared above the rooftops.
       Ron, meanwhile, had wrestled Pig out of a wire cage and was trying to get the small owl’s attention. Pig was far more interested in trying to nip the uncombed strands of Ron’s hair. 
       Harry hadn’t been idle all this time. With the wagon jolting and swaying behind him, he was running for the gate, shouting. But every time he got close, he’d all of a sudden find himself heading back into the park, as if he’d changed his mind or been reversed in step by an unseen force. 
       Frantic now, Harry did the only thing he could think of. He shut his eyes and plunged blindly, hearing by the startled exclamation that he’d nearly run right into a Muggle. The wagon shuddered alarmingly and lurched to one side as another wheel came off. Luckily, the two that remained were both rear ones, so it didn’t tip and spill his things.
       He felt a pressure at his mind, a whisper that he couldn’t quite hear but could still understand, telling him that the park was a perfectly nice place, no need to leave, why not turn around and stay a while? Gritting his teeth, Harry ignored it and felt a tingle as he burst through the shimmering veil. He exploded into the normal street, tripped, and sprawled on the sidewalk with a grunt. 
       Fred Weasley landed beside him, and the Muggles who’d already been looking at Harry did a double-take, then shook their heads as if to tell themselves that bicycles couldn’t really fly.
       “What an entrance, Harry, what an entrance,” Fred said, helping him up and dusting him off.
       The other Weasleys came rushing over, still arguing. Mr. Weasley was waving his map.
       “See there, George, I did not have it upside down, here’s the park, right where I said.”
       “Wasn’t there a minute ago,” George replied.
       “Where’ve you been, Harry?” Ron picked up Hedwig’s cage, which had fallen onto its side. Pig poked his beak through the bars to squeak a hello at Hedwig, but the big white owl fluffed her feathers and turned her head all the way to the back so she wouldn’t have to look at any of them, disgusted with the whole ordeal. 
       “Someone put a spell around the park,” Harry said, coughing as Fred beat the dust from him a little too enthusiastically. Fred and George were Beaters on the Quidditch team, their job being to whack the malicious Bludgers trying to unseat the other players, and both twins were stronger than they looked.
       “A spell?” Mr. Weasley looked around, squinting in a way that made his forehead wrinkle terribly. 
       “Not again,” groaned Ron. “Don’t tell me someone wants to keep you from Hogwarts again.”
       “Well, it’s not going to work,” Harry said vehemently. “I don’t know who it is this time, and I don’t care how good they think their reasons are. I’m so glad to see you, Ron.”
       “Highly irregular,” muttered Mr. Weasley. “I can just pick up the residuals. An Aversion spell, a big one too to cover the whole park. Have to investigate.”
       “Not now, Dad,” said George. “We promised Mum we’d be back for dinner, and we’re going to have to hurry.”
       “You go, boys,” said Mr. Weasley absently. “Tell your mother I’ll be late. I’ve got to get the Ministry out here to have a look at this.”
       “Come on, Harry,” Fred said. While his father wasn’t looking, he squeezed out a dab of Insta-Gloo that instantly stuck Harry’s luggage, wagon and all, to the back of his bike. “I’ll take this, George’ll take Hedwig, and you can ride double with Ron.”
       Harry got on rather doubtfully. It wasn’t the bike; he’d ridden one before when Dudley had flat-out rejected a birthday present, and besides, someone almost as comfortable on a flying broomstick as he was on his own two feet shouldn’t have anything to fear from a bike. What he did doubt was Ron’s riding ability. Despite his secret wish to captain the Quidditch team, Ron rode at a headlong lunge that was somewhere between reckless and suicidal, and tried too often to copy the fancy moves made by Fred and George.
       Once they were out of sight of the park, where Mr. Weasley was waiting by his old-fashioned bike for the Ministry’s experts to Apparate in, Fred and George shared a grin and glanced over, eyes shining, at Ron and Harry.
       “We’ll get in trouble,” Ron said before either of them spoke.
       “Mum hates it when we’re not at the table right on time,” Fred said.
       “If we get caught, you can tell her it was all our idea,” added George.
       “I always do and it usually is,” Ron said glumly, “but that doesn’t stop her from yelling at me, too. My ears are still ringing from the last time she sent me a Howler.”
       “That one wasn’t our fault,” Fred said. “Wish we’d thought of it, though!”
       “Come on,” George cried, and kicked his bike off the ground. “Last one there gets gnome duty!”
       “Might as well,” Harry said, clinging tight as Ron followed his brothers up and out of the secluded street, dodging and weaving among chimneys to avoid being seen as they sped on toward the Burrow.

**
 

Chapter Two – News from the Ministry

       The Weasley’s home was as Harry remembered – crowded, cluttered, and full of life and laughter. Ron never believed that he, Harry Potter, the Harry Potter, the great and powerful Harry Potter, was deeply envious of the happy home life that the Weasleys enjoyed.
       The last two weeks of summer passed in a busy blur. Ginny, the youngest Weasley, had improved to the point that she no longer blushed every time she saw Harry, and was even able to talk directly to him without hiding behind her hands. Percy was barely seen, and Mrs. Weasley fretted constantly that he was working too hard, but Percy seemed to be thriving on it. 
       Harry would have been sorry to see his time at the Burrow come to an end if it hadn’t meant that Hogwarts would be next. He could hardly wait to be back in Gryffindor tower with his friends, eating in the Great Hall where the food was far more plentiful than anything he’d ever had with the Dursleys, and soaring over the Quidditch field. He was eager to see Hagrid, and Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. He didn’t even mind the prospect of another several months of Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape.
       “Wonder who they’ve got to teach DADA this year,” Ron said as they arrived by Floo powder in a fireplace in Diagon Alley. Harry had finally gotten the hang of the stuff, though it would never be his favorite way of getting from one place to another. 
       DADA was Defense Against the Dark Arts, and in Harry’s time at Hogwarts, they’d seen an amazing rate of turnover in professors. Hardly any of them lasted out the whole year, and according to Mr. Weasley, it was getting harder and harder to find anybody willing to take the position because they were all starting to believe it was cursed.
       Diagon Alley was one of the hidden streets in London, a place where wizards and witches could go about their business away from Muggle eyes. Away from most Muggle eyes, that was. Some Muggles did occasionally venture in, like Hermione’s parents. On that twisting cobblestone lane, where the buildings leaned this way and that, most everyone wore robes and pointed hats. The shop windows were full of cauldrons, wands, candles, spellbooks, and the various trappings of witchcraft and wizardry. 
       Despite his lingering concern over who was trying to interfere with him this time, Harry had a fine time in Diagon Alley. He visited Gringotts, the goblin-run bank, to withdraw enough money for his school supplies – this part was always the most painful, because he knew how little money the Weasleys had and wished he could convince them to let him share his wealth, but they were too proud to take gold and silver from him. Harry tried to make up for this in other ways, such as laying in a large store of snacks for himself and Ron, or ‘accidentally’ buying the wrong textbook and then giving it to Ginny while claiming it was easier than going back to Flourish & Blotts and trying to return it. 
       Every year, Hogwarts students received a list of their required supplies and textbooks. Harry glanced over this list, remembering past years when the contents gave them some hints about the instructors. The time Gilderoy Lockhart had gotten the DADA position, for instance, and made all the students buy each and every one of his books. Or the time Hagrid had assigned them a monster book that was quite literally a monster, taking vicious chomps at anyone who tried to open it. 
       This year, the list had no clues as to that. There was the standard spellbook for Harry’s year, a book titled The Advanced Wand and Cauldron Primer, Magicipulation of Inanimate Objects and its companion volume, Magicipulation of Animate Objects, one called Wards for All Occasions that puzzled Harry at first, because he was the Dursley’s ward, but it seemed to be all about defense spells. The last on the list was the only one that made him really stop and ponder.
       “Hermione,” he said. “Have you seen this?”
       Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor girl in the same class as Harry and Ron, and their closest friend since a troll incident on their first Halloween at Hogwarts, came over to him with her arms loaded with books. She wasn’t taking double classes this time, but she had garnered permission from Professor McGonagall to do an independent study project on the Witches’ Rights movement of the late 1600’s and staggered under the weight of four extra books.
       “What?”
       “This one. Wizardry in the New World. What’s that about?”
       “Oh, haven’t you heard?” Ron, his cauldron full of slightly tattered copies from the second-hand section, came up to them. “I’m sorry, Harry, I thought I told you. Dad was going on about it earlier this summer.”
       “Going on about what?” asked Hermione impatiently.
       “The exchange student. We’re having an exchange student at Hogwarts this year.”
       “From Durmstrang or Beauxbatons?” Harry asked, naming the other two schools he knew of.
       “Neither,” said Ron, his eyes wide beneath his red fringe of hair. “From America!”
       “America!” echoed Hermione, aghast. “You must be joking! They’re the Muggliest Muggles of all! Why, they don’t even have a magic school over there!”
       “So that’s what this is about?” Harry skimmed the contents table of Wizardry  in the New World, noting headings such as ‘Shamanistic Rites of Native Peoples’ and ‘Salem: Fact and Fiction.’
       “It’s true,” Ron said earnestly to Hermione, who looked horribly offended. “I heard it from Dad. What’s more, it sounds like the exchange student’s going to be in our year.”
       “Well,” said Hermione, adding a copy of Uppity Witches of Medieval Times to her stack, “ I hope we’re not expected to take it easy on this American.”
       “I wouldn’t expect her to take it easy on anyone,” Ron muttered to Harry, but of course Hermione heard him and tossed back her mussed brown hair to glare at him. She’d taken to copying Professor McGonagall’s glare, and gotten much too good at it, in Harry and Ron’s opinion. 
       “I only mean,” she said haughtily, “that the professors had better not expect us to dumb ourselves down so that the new student won’t look bad.”
       “I’m sure Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have agreed to it unless he thought it would work,” Harry said. 
       On the street again with their parcels, all tied in brown paper and twine, they spotted their friend Neville Longbottom, another Gryffindor who was being towed along by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Neville managed a wave before he was pulled off in the direction of a basic spell supply shop; he always started a new year with a full complement of supplies and had lost or broken almost all of them by the end of exams. 
       They also saw, and deftly avoided, the pale, sneering face of Draco Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. The three of them were following Draco’s father, Lucius, who swept along with his head held arrogantly high, just as if everyone didn’t know he was a complete Dark wizard gone over into full support of Voldemort – or, as almost everyone but Harry said, “You-Know-Who.”
       One the shopping was done, they had time for refreshing mugs of butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron. Harry looked around hopefully for Hagrid, but there was no sign of the bearded giant this time. Then they were due to head to King’s Cross Station, where the Hogwarts Express would be waiting.
       Getting to the train was always an adventure in itself. Ever since one fateful encounter when the wall that was supposed to part harmlessly and let them through to the secret Platform 9 ¾ had stubbornly refused to part, resulting in Harry and Ron crashing full-tilt into solid brick, Harry had been apprehensive. He went at the wall now wincing, one eye squeezed shut in anticipation of the jarring impact, but his trolley whooshed through just like normal. He’d been half expecting that whoever had been up to magical mischief at the park to strike again here, but he boarded the train without incident.
       The Hogwarts Express was filled with excited students, going from compartment to compartment renewing acquaintances and sharing news. Ron wasn’t the only one who’d heard about the exchange student, though nobody knew anything more than he or she was an American, and that his or her parents were Kertches.
       “What’s a Kertch?” Harry asked cautiously, hoping it wasn’t a nasty term like ‘Mudblood,’ which Draco Malfoy loved throwing around.
       Hermione always had the answer, and this time was no exception. “A wizard or witch who grows up without knowing it and never goes to school or learns how to use magic. Somewhere between a wizard and a Muggle. It’s understandable, I guess, for America. Can you imagine going through your whole life and never realizing you’re a wizard?”
       Harry thought about that and shuddered. Growing up with the Dursleys, living in that cupboard under the stairs for the rest of his life, or at least until he was too tall to fit – Harry, being short and slim, knew that might be a long time coming – and eventually having Uncle Vernon give him a job making drills so that he could keep an eye on Harry forever. Forever.
       He shuddered again.
       “Well, I think it’ll be interesting,” Ron said around a mouthful of cake.
       They’d stocked up on treats from the refreshment cart as usual, iced pumpkin juice and candy and Snapcorn, similar to popcorn except that it snapped without heat and could hit a person in the eye if they weren’t careful. Fred and George wasted no time organizing a contest to see who could catch the most Snapcorn kernels in their mouths. That came to an end when Neville got one up his nose and sneezed for two minutes solid. 
       One other piece of news was circulating on the train, concerning the identity of the new DADA teacher. Harry attended this with particular care, since with his luck, it’d probably turn out to be the very mystery wizard who’d tried to stop him meeting up with the Weasleys. As if he needed another enemy. 
       “Reginald Winterwind?” Hermione raised her eyebrows.
       “Can it be?” asked Ron, wide eyed and teasing. “Someone our Hermione hasn’t heard of?”
       “I’ve heard of him,” she snapped as sharply as any kernel of Snapcorn. “He’s listed in The Who’s Who of Contemporary Wizardry. He was at Hogwarts the year of the big Quidditch Cup scandal. A Hufflepuff, I think.”
       Ron sat up straight, his teasing forgotten. “The year they disqualified Slytherin for cheating? Oh, for a return to those days!”
       “Do you want to hear this or not?” Hermione snapped again.
       “Yes, please,” Harry said, his interest piqued. “Was he a Quidditch player?”
       “No, a referee. They used to have student referees, you know, one from each House.”
       “Right!” said Ron brightly. “I remember now. They stopped that because too many of them were playing favorites, ignoring fouls, that sort of thing.”
       “The story was,” said Hermione, “that Slytherin didn’t have many good players that year but they wanted to win anyway. So they bribed and threatened the rest of the referees into looking the other way when they cheated.”
       “Not Gryffindor’s!” blurted Harry, appalled.
       “Even Gryffindor’s,” Hermione confirmed somberly. “Winterwind was the only one to resist. He exposed the whole thing. It’s said that the entire Quidditch team and every upperclassman in Slytherin got together to hit him with a curse.”
       Absently, Harry rubbed the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, visible reminder of a time he was on the wrong end of a curse. “He survived it?” 
       “He warded it,” Hermione corrected. “The combined power of dozens of wizards all in one curse, and Winterwind deflected it. Nobody knows how.”
       “That should make him a good instructor, then,” Harry said with cautious optimism. 
       “Except,” said Ron, “I heard deflecting Dark spells was all he could ever do right. Otherwise, he was like Neville. No offense,” he added to the pudgy boy who had overcome his sneezing fit and was now trying to coax his toad, Trevor, down from the light fixture in the ceiling.
       “None taken,” said Neville with a rueful smile. “Maybe it’ll help me finally get good marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
       “I bet Snape must hate this,” Harry said, grinning. “The one who got Slytherin disqualified, taking the job he wants.”
       “It gets better,” Hermione whispered, leaning conspiratorially close. “Snape wasn’t a teacher then, but a student in Slytherin. And so was Winterwind’s own sister! I even heard that she was Snape’s … girlfriend!”
       “No!” gasped Harry.
       “Get out!” cried Ron.
       Even Neville turned and goggled at this bit of news.
       “Snape … with a girlfriend?” 
       Harry’s brain hurt trying to envision that. He could see the Potions teacher quite clearly in his mind, of course he could; Snape’s face haunted his bad dreams even more than Voldemort, it seemed like. Snape, with his forbidding height that he loved to use to tower intimidatingly over the students. Snape, with his lank black hair and his glittering black eyes like chunks of coal. Snape, with his sweeping black cloak and his silky voice and his way of always being right behind you when you were talking about him.
       Chilled by that last, Harry whipped around in case Snape was standing in the door to their compartment, glowering down at them with his cold eyes. The only one there was a Ravenclaw third-year that Harry recognized as one of their Chasers, passing by without giving any indication of having heard. 
       Snape, with a girlfriend?
       “What a scary thought,” Ron said, diving into the pile of treats for something sweet to take his mind back to more pleasant things. 
Harry’s mind wasn’t so easily distracted. He tried to picture what such a woman would be like, and all he could see was Snape with longer hair and a witch’s hat. 
       Hermione, meanwhile, had gone back to speculating how hopeless any American would have to be when it came to magic. She seemed to conveniently forget that she herself was Muggle-born, and hadn’t even known about the existence of wizards and witches until her acceptance letter arrived unexpectedly from Hogwarts. 
       “I’ve been there,” Neville suddenly volunteered. “America, I mean.”
       “You never!” Hermione said, intrigued.
       “Honestly! I have. My cousin married one. An American. So my grandmother took a bunch of the family.” Neville grimaced awkwardly at the recollection. “Florentine – that’s my cousin – told us she was marrying a computer wizard.”
       Harry and Hermione snorted, while Ron listened curiously. 
       “How were we to know?” Neville went on. “We showed up, all of us, my uncles and aunts and everyone. Dressed in our best, you know.”
       They nodded. There weren’t many occasions that called for the use of dress-robes, which tended to be fancy and quite ornate, with full flowing sleeves and trim of gold or silver or multi-thread that changed color according to the whim of the wearer. 
       “Needless to say, everyone got a shock,” Neville concluded. Oddly, he seemed to brighten at this recounting of a large-scale family blunder, for once it not having been his fault. “They went through with it anyway, though. Last transoceanic owl post Gran got, she says they’re doing fine.”
       The train pulled into the Hogwarts station on a billowing breath of steam. Excited chatter burst out as the students rushed into the aisles. Harry caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s slicked blond hair but soon lost him in the crowd, for which he was glad.
       The herd of first-years, looking bewildered, milled about until Hagrid’s great booming voice tolled across the crowded platform, calling them to the docks where the spell-propelled boats sat empty in readiness. It was tradition that the first-years undergo this unnerving journey by water, impressing them with the importance of the occasion and also giving the older students time to get to the castle by other means so that they could be present in the Great Hall when the first-years were ushered in.
       Even over the heads of dozens of students, Hagrid’s gaze found Harry’s. A lot of white teeth surfaced through the untamed black bristle of his beard. He knew better than to hail Harry by name, because the last thing either of them needed was the entire new class whirling around trying to see the famous Harry Potter. He’d gotten enough of that on the train with people making excuses to stop by and gawk at him. It was the same every year, but at least by now the rest of the students had gotten used to him and it was only the youngest ones who went through the awed reaction.
       As Hagrid led them away, Harry joined Ron, Hermione, Neville, and others from Gryffindor. They’d all changed into their uniforms and robes, each with the House patch neatly sewn on the right side of the chest. 
       Ahead, looming on the horizon, was the dark bulk of Hogwarts castle. Eerie lights flickered in the windows, and the towers were shrouded in the mist that rose from the mossy shadows of the Forbidden Forest.
       Harry sighed in relief. He was home.

**
 

Chapter Three – A Late Sorting

       The Great Hall at Hogwarts was a single long room, its ceiling enchanted to reflect the state of the night sky. By the time the first years were ushered in to be Sorted, that ceiling had gone pitch black, speckled with stars and the grinning arc of a crescent moon. 
       Candles hung suspended in midair above the four long tables, where the students of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin sat in boisterous black-robed ranks. The start of a new term was always a festive occasion, an excitement shared even by the spectral silver forms of the House ghosts who flitted insubstantially around, above, and sometimes through the tables.
       At the head of the room, set crosswise to the rest, was the teachers’ table. Harry caught the twinkling eye of old Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster, and they shared a private smile over triumphs and trials past. Madame Hooch, the flying instructor and Quidditch coach, was rubbing her hands together briskly, looking forward to a new season of practices and games. Harry looked quickly past the dour presence of Professor Severus Snape, partly because Snape seemed to sit wrapped in a deep chill that warmed only when he looked at the Slytherins, and partly because he still couldn’t get his head around the idea of Snape liking a girl. Or a girl liking Snape, for that matter.
       The new teacher was present also. Reginald Winterwind still looked like a Hufflepuff student. Although he had to be Snape’s age or close to it, his soft, unlined face could have passed for a sixth-year. He was short, too, not diminutive as Professor Flitwick but nowhere near as tall as Snape, and had a meek and unassuming manner about him. He looked the sort of man who couldn’t speak above a murmur, given the way Professor Sprout, who taught Herbology, had to lean close and cup a hand to her ear when she spoke to him.
       Ron was squirming in his seat, half-rising and peering about and fidgeting until Fred Weasley accused George of putting magical itching-powder in Ron’s robes.
       “I was looking for the American,” Ron explained when Hermione hissed at him to sit down and hold still. “But I can’t see --”
       “For goodness’ sake, Ron,” she said, “how could you tell one apart in this mob?”
       “Well, there’d be a cowboy hat, wouldn’t there?”
       “Surely you don’t think all Americans are from Texas!” Hermione said.
       Harry laughed. His gold plate gleamed invitingly in front of him. Months of deprivation at the Dursleys had left him with a hunger that not even two weeks with the Weasleys and gorging on sweets on the train could fill. He was looking forward to the moment when Dumbledore would signal the beginning of the feast and the platters would fill by magic with all manner of delicious edibles.
       But first, the Sorting. Professor McGonagall had lined up the first-years and a hush fell as she brought out the battered old Sorting Hat. She placed it on a stool, and wonder dawned on the faces of the young students as the hat stirred, a mouth opened in it, and it burst into song. 
       Then, one by one, she called each child up onto the stool and set the hat upon his or her head. The hat considered, sometimes short, sometimes long, before announcing in a loud clear voice the name of one of the four Houses. Harry wondered what would happen if the hat couldn’t decide, or what they’d ever do if a year came in which one of the Houses received no new students. That would complicate things. But the Sorting Hat seemed to have it all well under control.
       A batch of thrilled-looking Gryffindors joined their table, accepting back-claps and handshakes and warm greetings. A babble of expectation arose as everyone reached for forks or spoons or goblets, ready for the feast. 
       Professor Dumbledore rang his spoon against the side of his empty crystal glass. He stood, a stooped but powerful figure, the most wizardly-looking wizard Harry could ever have imagined with his wine-colored robes and his magnificent long white hair and beard.
       “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts,” he proclaimed, beaming out at them. “I’m pleased to have you all with us, again or for the first time. I know you’re all hungry, but if you’ll bear with me a moment longer, I have some announcements to make.”
       As Dumbledore went through the usual business about how the forest was off-limits, and introduced Reginald Winterwind, Harry felt a prickling chill as of eyes upon him. Almost against his will, he made himself look toward Snape, sure that Snape would be glaring hatefully at him as if he thought Harry were somehow responsible for Winterwind being given the DADA job instead. But Snape’s attention was fixed on Dumbledore. To Harry’s consternation, it was Professor Trelawney who was staring fixedly at him. 
       The Divination teacher was a slight birdlike woman with a vast cloud of moonlight-colored hair, and dark mournful eyes behind huge glasses. She instructed the students in tea-reading, crystal-gazing, astrology, and the like, and never missed an opportunity to predict Harry’s gory death.
       He shivered and hoped she wasn’t about to start that up again.
       “And one final matter,” said Dumbledore, smiling benignly, “the final one, I promise, because I can hear your stomachs rumbling even from here. We’re quite pleased to have another new student with us this year.”
       Here, Ron perked up and began scanning the room for cowboy hats again, while Hermione gave him a look.
       “An exchange student from America,” Dumbledore went on. “I expect you to extend every courtesy that you would to one of our own and join me in giving a warm Hogwarts welcome to Miss Rebecca Morgan.”
       Scattered applause broke out, scattered because everyone in the room was straining to see over the heads of everyone else. The doors at the back had opened again, and Hagrid was bringing in a girl about Harry’s age. She wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat, to Ron’s disappointment and Hermione’s smug told-you-so, but had on plain black robes and a hat just like the rest of them. The only difference was that where a House patch would have been, she had a small pin in the shape of a red, white, and blue flag.
       She had hair similar to Hermione, light brown and a bit unkempt, though no one in all of Hogwarts (except, of course, for Hagrid) could rival Hermione’s hair for wild bushiness. Rebecca Morgan looked fairly nervous, and Harry didn’t blame her. He remembered what it had been like when he first walked into this Hall with everybody staring, and then they’d also had an entire class of other first-years. To come in alone like that really took courage.
       And then, everyone saw what was perched on her arm, and the polite applause turned to a universal gasp of astonishment. Now Harry could see why Hagrid was grinning like a fool.
       A tiny dragon rode on Rebecca’s left forearm. It was silver as a brand new Sickle, with a long arched neck, a long coiled tail, and wings that folded against its back. Its red eyes sparkled like rubies as it raised its head high to return all the amazed, curious stares.
       “It can’t be,” hissed Hermione. “Dragons are illegal!”
       “But it’s a dragon, all right,” said Ron. “Do you think Dumbledore knew?”
       “Of course,” said Harry.
       Similar statements were being uttered all around the room. When Rebecca Morgan reached the front and climbed the steps to where Professor McGonagall was waiting, the little dragon reared up and flapped its wings, which were silvery but thin membranes of skin through which they could see the candlelight shining. 
       “Although not a first year,” Professor McGonagall said, ignoring the little dragon as it settled back onto the girl’s arm with a chirruping hiss, “we still must determine which House Miss Morgan will join.”
       She held up the Sorting Hat, and Rebecca sat down apprehensively, stroking the dragon between its wings to soothe it. At a throat-clearing “Ahem,” from McGonagall, she shook her arm and cast the dragon skyward. Everyone watched, Hagrid most intently of all, as it sprang into the air and flew over them, circling, coming to rest on one of the enchanted roofbeams to give the illusion it sat on nothing but night air.
       The Sorting Hat happily repeated its song and Professor McGonagall lowered it onto Rebecca’s head. On a first-year, the brim would slide down over the eyes, but it fit this older student passably well. 
       Harry noticed that Professor Trelawney was now watching the new girl with the exact same expression of dread she’d had when looking at him. He forgot all about it, though, as the hat strongly cried out, “Gryffindor!”
       He joined the rest in cheering as the flustered American girl went where she was pointed, and slid onto a seat at the end of the table. She was immediately surrounded, not only by Gryffindors but by people leaning over from other House tables too. 
       Dumbledore rang for silence again and got it with a little more difficulty this time. “I suspect,” he said, still wearing that benign smile, “that most of you are coming at Miss Morgan from all sides with questions about her pet. Let me assure you, I have not forgotten England’s ban on dragons. I consulted with the Ministry of Magic on this and it is our conclusion that Miss Morgan’s pet, being a drake, is not in violation of the law.”
       Hundreds of people asked “what’s a drake?” in the same breath. Dumbledore chuckled.
       “A drake,” he said, “is a dragon in miniature. That fellow up there --” here he raised a hand ceilingward and the silver creature warbled as if in reply, “—is as big as he’s going to get. He also cannot breathe fire. Drakes are tamable, trainable, and their claws and teeth are no more dangerous than those of a cat or an owl.”
       He waved for silence again, as now everyone was wanting to know where they could get one. 
       “That, I’m afraid, I cannot answer. They’re not native to England and are found primarily on the western coasts of the Americas. Now, with that settled, let the feast begin!”
       A clap from his wizened hands, and the tables were laden with everything from piping-hot soup to freezing-cold ice cream. Utensils clattered as everyone dug in with a will. At the end of the table, Harry could hear his classmates chattering excitedly with the new girl, heard her say that she usually went by just Becca, that she was from a place called Seattle, and that her drake’s name was Quicksilver.
       Then, someone eager to impress her tugged on her arm and pointed at Harry, and Harry heard his own name mentioned. What came next was incredible.
       “Who?” Becca asked, cocking her head. “Harry Potter? Who’s that?”
       Dumbstruck silence fell at that end of the table. Every wizard-born person grew up hearing how Harry had miraculously survived Voldemort’s attack, and once he’d come to Hogwarts his exploits had only increased the myth. Even the ones with Muggle parents were soon told all there was to tell about Harry Potter. The only wizard he’d ever known who hadn’t been told the whole story was himself. 
       “I am,” he said in reply to her last question. 
       People scooted out of the way. Somewhat bewildered, Becca nodded to him. “Hi.”
       “Don’t they teach you anything in America?” Hermione asked. “Why, my parents are dentists and I didn’t know the first thing about wizardry until I got my letter, but by the time I was on the train to Hogwarts, even I’d heard all about Harry.”
       “My mom’s a writer and my dad runs a game store,” Becca said. “They were always kind of weird, but since there’s not much real magic where I come from, nobody knew just how weird. I’ve been trying to catch up.”
       “Show her the scar,” urged Colin Creevey, one of Harry’s most ardent fans whom he just could not seem to shake. 
       Colin and his camera, and his push to start a Hogwarts school newsletter or, even better, a yearbook … between him and Ginny, really, Harry was almost refreshed to meet someone who didn’t know all about him. But, because half the table was now seconding Colin’s suggestion, Harry sighed and pushed up his bangs in a gesture that had become very familiar. Underneath the straight black hair, the zigzag of his scar stood out against his skin.
       Becca regarded it and looked suitably impressed. “That must’ve hurt. Mine’s just a birthmark, yours is neater, but it’s still kind of cool.” With that, she flipped her hair back from the left side of her face. Around the corner of her eye, very faint, was a rosy patch. “Mom calls it a stork bite.”
       Nobody seemed to know what to say to that. Here was someone, one of their own schoolmates, who not only didn’t recognize Harry Potter or his scar, but apparently didn’t care! Harry, though, liked it. He’d had enough of people falling all over themselves because of something that had happened when he was too young to remember, and it was nice to finally meet someone who was willing to get to know him for who he was.
       Harry grinned broadly. “I guess it must have hurt,” he said, referring to what she’d said about the scar. “I was just a baby.”
       “Well, do you have a proper wand at least?” Hermione asked Becca.
       “Oh, sure.” She brought out a case, which held a wand that wasn’t an Ollivander original but was still a serviceable 8-inch length of reddish-brown something with a carved grip on one end and a chunk of rough purple crystal set into the tip. “Chestnut, with a wyvern tendon inside. This is amethyst.”
       Mollified considerably by this show of knowledge, Hermione fell into a conversation with Becca about wands, the availability of magic items and school supplies in America, how hard she’d found it to do her shopping, and so on. 
       Ron, across from Harry, wiped his arm across his forehead and whispered, “Whew!”
       Harry winked in response. If Hermione had taken it into her head to not like the new girl, the next several months would be a living hell. If they got along, however, that would make things much easier. Especially since they’d probably be in the same dorm. Harry’s only worry was what would happen if Becca proved to be as good at magic as Hermione, who’d grown quite comfortable with her status as the smartest and hardest-working student in Hogwarts. 
       The feast went on, platters replenishing themselves as soon as they were emptied, pitchers of iced pumpkin juice floating down the table to refill goblets. Quicksilver descended from the beam to the Gryffindor table, making them once more the envy of the other three Houses – everyone was captivated by the drake. Soon, Quicksilver was trotting happily from one person to the next, accepting tidbits of food and tentative pettings.
       Over at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy was heard to make several loud, snide remarks about how Gryffindor just attracted all the freaks these days, a definite decline in the quality of the school. First Muggle-loving wizards like the Weasleys, then Mudbloods and near-Squibs (meaning Hermione and Neville), and of course Potter, the king of the freaks. Now Kertches, too. It didn’t look good for the future of wizard-kind, he stated. With every word, he kept his challenging eyes fixed on Harry, daring him to do something about it. 
       “What’s his problem?” Becca asked Harry, probably seeing how Harry’s jaw was clenched. 
       Had he thought he would be so glad to get away from the Dursleys that he wouldn’t even mind seeing Malfoy? That was always a lot easier said than done. Just a few words out of Malfoy’s smirking mouth made Harry long to put his fist through it. 
       “What makes you think he just has one?” countered Ron.
       “That’s Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said imperiously, as if the name tasted bad. “Don’t listen to him.”
       “It is funny, though,” said Fred Weasley just as loudly as Malfoy, “how Gryffindor with its freaks can regularly whip the bloody pants off Slytherin with its snobby purebloods.”
       That almost brought Malfoy up and over, but Crabbe and Goyle had stuffed themselves into a stupor and Draco wasn’t about to take on a whole table of Gryffindors by himself. He subsided, muttering and shooting nasty glares at them. 
       When no one could possibly eat another bite without risk of exploding, the candles dimmed and strengthened, dimmed and strengthened. This signal brought the prefects to their feet, gathering the first-years around them while the upperclassmen left. Becca hung back, unsure what she was supposed to do, but Hermione beckoned.
       “Gryffindor tower is this way,” she said, and went on to explain about the shifting stairs, the secret doors, and the portraits. When they came to the Fat Lady, Hermione stepped forth to show how it was done and announced the password – “chalcedony!” – in a clear voice. 
       The picture, frame and all, swung aside and they entered the Gryffindor common room with its wide fireplace, deep chairs, and long tables. Many staircases curved up into the walls, leading to the specific dormitories. Their luggage had already been brought. Once again, Harry and Ron were in with Neville, Dean, and Seamus. It made Ron wonder.
       “Say, Harry. What do you suppose they did for the girls’ dorm? There are already five girls in our year.”
       “I expect they just put in another bed,” said Harry. “We can ask Hermione tomorrow.”
       “Fancy a game of chess?”
       “No, thanks.” Harry was full and happy after a long day, and ready for bed. He changed into his pajamas, said good night to the others, and climbed into his four-poster bed, settling with relief into a mattress and pillow a thousand times more comfortable than the hard daybed in his room at the Dursley’s.
       His last thought before falling asleep wasn’t how Hermione and the new girl were getting on, nor was it about what his class schedule might be, but, oddly, of Professor Trelawney and the grim look in her dark, hollow eyes. They followed him down into sleep, haunting him and filling his night with unsettling dreams. 

**

Chapter Four – Turtle Teacher
 

       Classes began the following morning, and the moment Harry awoke, he knew it wasn’t going to be the best of days. First, he couldn’t find his books. They had been in the trunk, packed away still in their wrappers from Flourish & Blotts, but when he opened the trunk, they were gone.
       Unwilling to believe it, he tore everything out. Clothes, Series II trading cards, and leftover candy went flying in all directions. The case of quills and ink that Hermione had given him for his birthday was still there, and the scrapbook from Sirius, but every textbook was gone.
       “Come on, Harry, you’ll miss breakfast,” Neville said, his hair still wet around the edges from his morning dunk that passed for a washing. 
       “My books!” Harry exclaimed, waving at the now-empty trunk.
       “Where?”
       “Nowhere! That’s what’s the matter!”
       By now, this had attracted the attention of the other boys. Ron peered over Harry’s shoulder.
       “They’re gone, all right.”
       Harry looked fiercely at each of them to see if they were in on some prank. But he saw only innocent confusion in their eyes.
       “I can’t show up in class without my books,” he said. “What’s first?”
       “Potions,” Ron said sourly. “With Slytherin.”
       “Oh, no,” Harry groaned. “Snape will kill me. And it would just have to be in front of Slytherin, wouldn’t it?”
       “What could have happened to your books?” Neville wondered. “I’m always losing mine, which is why Gran bought me this satchel.” He held up a truly awful tartan bookbag with brass clasps shaped like faces. No sooner had his hand closed around the handle than the faces animated.
       “Don’t forget your books!” they screeched like raspy hinges.
       “They were here!” said Harry sharply. “I didn’t lose them. Someone must have …”
       He stopped, remembering the park. His unseen adversary must have struck again, somewhere between Diagon Alley and Hogwarts. 
       Ron knew just what he was thinking. “Kind of a funny way to strike out at you, though, isn’t it?”
       “Isn’t it?” Harry grabbed his other school supplies. “I’ll lose points for not having my books, and how am I supposed to do my homework?”
       “Here, I know!” said Seamus brightly. “Ravenclaw doesn’t have Potions until this afternoon, double with Hufflepuff. Borrow a book, and you can switch at lunch.”
       “That might work,” Harry said. “But I’d more like to have mine back, and know who took them.”
From below came the sounds of other Gryffindors stampeding out of the secret door. Feeling very unsettled without his books, Harry tagged along with Ron at the rear of the line. 
       They came to the Great Hall for breakfast, seeing that Becca and Hermione were already there. They both seemed in good spirits, and both noticed Harry’s downcast expression at once. The revelation that he’d lost his books – “Not lost!” Harry protested uselessly – horrified Hermione. 
       “You simply have to take better care of your things, Harry.”
       “I didn’t lose them,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. His appetite was gone, his stomach a shrunken sack. Every time he thought of the long flight of narrow steps to the dungeon, and Snape’s response when he heard, it got even smaller, until it was a miserable little knot. He pushed eggs and toast around his plate, nibbling.
       “So tell the teacher,” Becca said. She was eating a bowl of cereal, not porridge but crunchy colored rings in milk, and one look at the kippers had made her wrinkle her nose. Quicksilver, on the other hand, found fish a perfectly acceptable dish for breakfast. “Tell Professor McGonagall.”
       “Oh, he couldn’t,” said Ron. “She’d rip him to pieces.”
       “Better than getting ripped to pieces by every teacher,” Becca said reasonably. “At least once she was done, she’d probably give you a note.”
       Harry looked at Professor McGonagall, stirring her tea and nodding as she listened to Professor Dumbledore. “Worth a try, I guess.” 
       Conversation waned as owls swept in with the morning post. Letters and parcels rained down into the students’ hands. As usual, Neville received a large box of everything he’d forgotten. Ron’s copy of the Daily Prophet fell smack into Harry’s uneaten eggs, with the headline reading: “Aversion Spell Baffles Muggles.” He snatched it up.
       “Listen to this! It says the Ministry analyzed the spell and it was a short-term, set up just that day. It must have been there to stop me, I just know it!”
       He and his friends pored over the rest of the article, but the Ministry didn’t have any suspects and were officially writing it off as an accident, although it would be kept in the active file.
       “Accident,” scoffed Hermione.
       “It says they’re still investigating,” Ron said defensively.
       When the meal was done, Harry gathered his nerve and approached. “Professor? Could I have a word, just for a minute?”
       “With the first class of the new term about to begin?” she inquired. “Whatever could be so important, Potter?”
       “My books … they’re gone.” 
       This brought her to a halt.
       “I had them in my trunk,” Harry rushed on, “but now they’re gone.”
       “I wouldn’t have expected carelessness of you, Potter.”
       “It wasn’t him,” came a voice, as Becca Morgan stepped up.
       McGonagall’s trademark glare, turned to its lowest wattage, fixed on the American girl. “Is that so, Miss Morgan?”
       Becca was undaunted. Guts like that, Harry thought, it was no wonder she’d been Sorted into Gryffindor. “I think someone’s got it in for Harry. And me, too.”
       “What?” Harry turned to her in astonishment.
       “I got this.” She held up an envelope that had been delivered by owl. A plain piece of paper was inside, written on with bold black ink. It read: Stay away from DADA if you know what’s good for you. Tell Potter too. Or else.
       “Stay away from DADA?” Harry read. “But why?”
       Professor McGonagall was not amused. “We don’t take kindly to pranks at Hogwarts, Miss Morgan.”
       “It’s not a prank!”
       “I’m well aware that in your pre-testing before Professor Dumbledore agreed to this exchange student business, the subject that gave you the most difficulty was Defense Against the Dark Arts. But trying to duck out of a class and avoid something that’s going to challenge you is not the way we do things here. I don’t know what you were taught in your American schools, but at Hogwarts, we face our challenges bravely, and if we fail, we do so with good graces.”
       With that, she passed them in a swirl of emerald-green robes, and Becca stared after her, open-mouthed. “I … she thinks … I didn’t! Okay, maybe the Defense Against the Dark Arts test was hard, but I’m not trying to get out of it!”
       “I believe you,” said Harry. “Someone wants to keep us both out of that class.”
       “But why? I never even knew who you were until last night.” On her arm, Quicksilver hissed, upset, his tail lashing like a whip.
       “Maybe we can find out this afternoon.”
       “What’s this afternoon?”
       “Divination,” Harry said.
       They hurried down to Potions, where Snape took a point from Gryffindor for each of them for being late, and another five for Harry not being prepared. He knew it was just Snape being heartless, but if each of his teachers did that, he could put their House into the negatives by suppertime. 
       After that, the Potions lesson went downhill. Neville had some trouble crushing his springworms, since every time he pressed one down to crush it, his spoon would slip and the springworm would bound high into the air. One sailed up and over and slithered down the back of Hermione’s robe, and her resulting squeal made Ron jerk, spilling his nearly completed potion onto Dean Thomas, who promptly became as insubstantial as any ghost and sank through the floor. 
       His panicked, muffled, ghostly yells for help drifted up to them, and Snape finally had to take a potion himself to go fetch him back. Later, shaking, Dean told them that Filch wasn’t lying about how they used to give detention in a torture chamber. He’d seen it, he said, skeletons on the rack or hanging from manacles, still in the rags of moldering robes. 
       The day could only improve after that. Professor Flitwick didn’t mind the absence of Harry’s book, since the Charms teacher primarily used them for standing on. Professor McGonagall, still tight-lipped over what she believed was Harry’s carelessness and Becca’s prank, mellowed somewhat when the two of them were first to successfully Transfigure their chairs into small, prancing horses. They even outmatched Hermione at that one, when her horse still had a cushion in place of a saddle.
       The last class of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Harry could tell Becca was as nervous as he was. They hesitated at the door.
       “I guess we don’t know what’s good for us,” Becca said. “What do you think it meant by ‘or else’?”
       Harry shook his head and shrugged. With no other choice, they went in and took their seats. Professor Winterwind was already there. His smile kept flickering on and off like a broken neon sign. He had a box on his desk, and once everyone was settled, reached into it and brought out a turtle.
       A ripple of disappointment crossed the room. This was Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course, and in previous years they’d learned about some really frightening, dangerous things. A turtle … that was even worse than the time Gilderoy Lockhart had sprung a bunch of pixies on them. 
       “No, no, no,” Winterwind said when someone voiced this opinion. “The turtle is our lesson. Our role model. Watch what happens when he’s threatened.”
       He put the turtle, which was about the size of a tea saucer, on the desk and clapped his hands smartly right in front of its nose. The turtle reacted instantly, tucking its head and limbs into its glossy green shell. 
       “You see?” asked Winterwind.
       The students glanced around at each other, unsure what to say.
       “The turtle,” Winterwind said in exasperation, “uses his shell to shield himself from any danger. No matter the threat, his response is the same. He draws in and hides. Watch.”
       The little green animal had emerged cautiously, but when Winterwind held a wizard photo of a crocodile in front of it, the poor thing once more retreated.
       More glances were exchanged. They understood his point, but no one knew what to do with it.
       “The turtle will be our example,” he said. “I’m going to teach you the Great Ward. Does anyone know what the Great Ward is?”
       Hermione, who had been looking bored beyond belief, suddenly sat up straight with her eyes dancing. Her hand shot into the air.
       “Miss … um …” he paused and consulted a seating chart. “Granger.”
       “A Great Ward is a blocking spell impervious to any sort of magical energy. It takes the form of a visible sphere surrounding the caster or the subject.”
       “Very good. Now, the key to casting a Great Ward isn’t in the strength, but the speed with which it’s done. A Ward that comes up too late is of no good to anyone --”
       Her hand was still up.
       “Yes, Miss Granger?”
       “Um … pardon me, Professor, but shouldn’t we learn the Lesser Ward first?”
       Winterwind smiled feebly and laughed a shaky, tittering laugh. “Ha-ah-ha, what’s this, you mean you haven’t?”
       “No,” said the class.
       “Oh, oh dear, that is a complication.” He chewed on the ball of his thumb, his eyes darting around as if seeking escape. He laughed again. “Hah-hee-ha, but really, looking around, I see such an intelligent, advanced class, I think we can skip that and get right to the good stuff, don’t you? I think you can handle it, don’t you agree?”
       Hermione frowned, but the rest were loudly assuring Professor Winterwind that they were indeed ready to tackle the harder spell. He seemed incredibly relieved to hear it, and proceeded to instruct them in the basic casting motions of the Great Ward. It consisted of clenching one’s fist in just the right way, which Winterwind said was critical. He moved among them, evaluating and correcting their fist clenching.
       Harry spent the entire class in an agony of expectation, sure that something hideous was going to happen at any minute. Nothing did. By the time the final bell of the day rang, he had demonstrated to Winterwind’s satisfaction that he could clench his fist properly – better than Ron, who kept holding his as if aching to pop Draco Malfoy in the eye, or Neville, who kept putting his thumb on the inside, or Lavender, who Seamus teased made fists like a girl. Lavender, unamused, showed him that she could use her fist to perfectly good measure, whether made like a girl or not. Seamus, his nose bleeding, had to hurry off to see Madame Pomfrey before dinner.
       “How’d you like that?” Ron asked when they were at the table. “A turtle. That’s going to be his whole idea of defense, you know. Duck and cover. We’ll spend the whole term practicing that spell, see if I’m wrong.”
       “I don’t think you are,” said Hermione. “Reginald Winterwind is famous for his Great Ward. That’s well and good, but we shouldn’t be jumping ahead like that. And what about Counterspells? Better to Counter a Dark spell than just deflect it and let it go bouncing off who knows where.”
       “What are you talking about?” asked Harry.
       “Watch,” said Becca. 
       She took a bowl that had one last crescent roll in it, removed the roll, and flipped the bowl upside down before it could magically refill. Munching on the crescent roll, she asked Neville to pass the olives. He gave her the dish and she plucked one out, holding it up.
       “It’s an olive,” said Ron.
       “No, it’s a Dark spell,” said Becca. “And the bowl is you, with your Great Ward up.”
       “That’d be a pain,” he said, tapping on the bowl. “I couldn’t see a thing.”
       “Which is one of the problems with the Great Ward,” said Hermione. “Once you’re inside, you’re cut off. Can’t see, can’t hear, can’t anything, until it drops.”
       Becca rolled the olive between her thumb and forefinger. “Okay, here comes the big bad Dark wizard with a curse. Ready, Ron?”
       “Ready.”
       She threw the olive at the bowl hard as she could. It struck the bowl, bounced off, and hit Harry on the chin. He recoiled as it fell into his lap and from there to the floor. Quicksilver darted after it, proving how he got his name as he was a blurry silver streak. He reappeared a second later, chewing.
       “Well, but I’m safe, right?” asked Ron.
       “Yeah,” Becca said. “But what about Harry?”
       “I’m a goner.” He took a bite of bread.
       “Noooo, Harry,” came the doleful tones of Professor Trelawney from behind him. 
       He nearly fell out of his seat trying to spin around and back away all at the same time. The Divination teacher was right there – a trick that usually belonged to Snape – and she was brimming with tears as she looked at him. Harry tried to swallow the wad of bread that had stuck in his throat. At first it wouldn’t go down and he thought that this was it, the death she’d been waiting for, he was going to choke on a piece of bread here in the Great Hall and she wanted to get a ringside seat as he turned blue. Then he gulped it down.
       “Sorry, Professor?”
       “You poor, dear thing,” she said sorrowfully. “You’ve glimpsed something of the dark times ahead, haven’t you? I wasn’t going to say anything, since I know what a terrible burden foreknowledge can be – oh! how I know it! – but as you’re already aware, I thought it might help for you to know.”
       “Know what?” Ron asked, for which Harry could have cheerfully kicked him.
       “Pain! Misery! Suffering!” moaned Professor Trelawney. 
       “Perfect,” said Harry. “How am I going to die this time?”
       “No, my poor Harry, you don’t understand. It’s not you that will be stricken. It’s you --” she looked from him to Becca, “—and you, poor girl, who will bring the suffering on another!” Here, she was about to break down completely, tears welling in her eyes. “I tried to warn her! I tried to do the right thing, but sometimes the future is set and cannot be changed. Oh, alas!”
       By now, half the room was watching, and Professor McGonagall was hurrying their way in hopes of quelling a further outburst. But Trelawney, with a huge watery sigh, wheeled and dashed off in a jangle of gypsy beads. 
       “What was that all about?” asked Becca. “Is she for real?”
       “Yeah,” said Harry thoughtfully. “But she usually overreacts.”
       “She looked pretty serious this time,” Ron said.
       “It’s all so silly, though,” Hermione said. “Don’t listen to her. If you did, Harry, you would have been dead six times by now.”
       “Right,” Harry said, though the nagging doubt remained

**

Chapter Five – Open House
 

       Despite Professor Trelawney’s dire predictions, life at Hogwarts got into its normal routine. Harry’s lost books turned up when a message arrived from a shopkeep in Diagon Alley; while cleaning, he’d found a brown-wrapped parcel on the highest, dustiest shelf in his store. Luckily, the shopkeep was a friend of Leonilla Blott, and the bookstore proprietress certainly remembered Harry. 
       Neither the shopkeep nor Harry could explain how the books had gotten there. Harry hadn’t even been in that shop, which sold basic school supplies. Thanks to Hermione’s gift, he had all he needed. It remained a mystery, but a relief because he no longer had to scramble to borrow and return textbooks from other students.
       Quidditch practice began while the weather was still fair, and Harry delighted in speeding around the field chasing after the golden Snitch. Between that and homework, his days were very full, and the distractions of the Gryffindor common room only added to it. 
       As it turned out, Ron Weasley finally had some competition. Becca Morgan was nearly his match when it came to wizard chess, once she’d gotten used to the way the pieces were alive and dealt rather brutally with each other. Further, she devised a card game using the trading cards that came in each Chocolate Frog, with cunning rules that were simple enough to learn in one sitting but complex enough to fascinate the entire dorm. 
       By Halloween, a sort of Wizard War fever had seized Gryffindor. Honeydukes, the candy shop down in Hogsmeade, had never done such a business in Chocolate Frogs before as everyone tried to complete their sets to build the best possible winning deck. Only Hermione was able to resist, claiming she had better things to do with her time. 
       She was probably right, because quite a bit of homework was left undone. Eventually, concerned by what she was seeing, Professor McGonagall popped in unexpectedly one evening and caught half of her House engrossed in the game. Becca, pale but brave, stood forth and confessed to it being her fault, clearly braced to get in trouble for it.
       Professor McGonagall looked steadily at her for a long time, then astonished them all by asking if Becca could teach her how to play. Only when midnight arrived and Nearly Headless Nick drifted through on his routine haunt and was startled to see so many students still up and a teacher sitting with them, did McGonagall snap out of it. She declared that from then on, homework had to come first, and if she caught anyone up playing cards after bedtime, she’d personally see to it that Gryffindor lost fifty points. 
       Not long thereafter, though, the Weasley twins came in snickering, to report that they’d just been in a secret passage with a peephole into the teacher’s lounge, and there they’d seen four professors playing a lively game with decks of their own. 
       Halloween was always a remarkable occasion at Hogwarts. Hagrid outdid himself every year by growing progressively bigger pumpkins, and this year he had a dozen that were bigger than his cottage. Too big, in fact, to fit inside the Great Hall and still leave room for the people. So he carved them with an axe instead, and lit them with ever-fire, and for the rest of the autumn twelve monstrous glowing faces leered from the edge of the Forbidden Forest. 
       Lessons proceeded normally. Snape continued to be lenient with the Slytherins and harsh on the Gryffindors, particularly Harry and his friends. Reginald Winterwind was finally satisfied with the way everyone in class was making a fist for the Great Ward spell, and moved on to the proper pronunciation of the command word, “Avertus!”
       The first Quidditch match of the season pitted Gryffindor against Ravenclaw. Harry and the rest of the team donned their colorful Quidditch robes and waited, brooms in hand, for the game to begin. It was a crisp, beautiful fall day, the sky a bright blue that seemed to go on forever. The stands were packed, banners waving in Gryffindor red and Ravenclaw blue. 
       Madame Hooch brought out the game balls, her black and white robes flapping around her. She set them into play and the game began. As Seeker, Harry’s only jobs were to keep his eyes peeled for the tiny golden spark that was the Snitch, and to avoid being knocked out by the Bludgers. 
       There were many things he loved about Hogwarts, but this was at the top of the list. Nothing could be grander than the swift speeding of a broomstick, the challenge of evading the Bludgers, the thrill of the chase, and the victorious joy of catching the Snitch in his hand. 
       This time, he and the Ravenclaw Seeker were both right on the Snitch, and being so close to the pretty Cho Chang was almost enough to distract him from the game but he knew his team was counting on him. As they were both reaching, Cho’s fingers just grazing it, Harry snatched it into his fist. Rather than look cross, she smiled in acknowledgement of a well-played move, and Harry blushed so brightly he thought his face might catch fire. One of these days, he hoped to gather the courage to speak to her for more than two sentences at a stretch. 
       With a Gryffindor win under their belts, the team was all swagger and reacted with smug pleasure when they heard the next game would be against their rival House, Slytherin. It was well known that Slytherin was tired of losing to Gryffindor, tired in particular of losing to one Harry Potter – especially as his nemesis, Draco Malfoy, was their Seeker and Harry’s opposite number. Slytherin played hard, and they played dirty, and half of any game against them was being on the lookout for treachery.
       The most exciting bit of news came later that week, when Professor Dumbledore announced that Hogwarts would be holding an Open House for the first time in a decade. Their relatives would be invited to come and spend two days, seeing what the classes were like, eating in the Great Hall alongside them, and joining them in the stands to watch the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. 
       The house-elves were busy all week cleaning the Guest Tower so vigorously that dust puffed out the windows and the sounds of sweeping could be heard all through the castle. Owls left in droves carrying the invitations, and returning with the replies. 
       Needless to say, the Dursleys did not write back to say they would be coming. Harry could just see Dudley visiting Hogwarts. He wished he did have some relative who could come. Sirius, for obvious reasons, wouldn’t dare. He didn’t really have anyone else. Malfoy, whose mother and father would most certainly be in attendance, missed no chance to gloat. That is, when he wasn’t busy being irritated that the doors of Hogwarts were even opening to Muggles like the Grangers and Kertches like the Morgans.
       Of all the students, Becca and Hermione were probably the most excited and for just that reason. Most of the rest had at least one witch or wizard in the family who’d studied at Hogwarts themselves, but for the girls, it was a perfect chance to show their parents what the magical world was all about. Hermione didn’t even get mad when Malfoy said that the only reason her parents were coming was because they planned to check everyone for cavities. 
       The teachers would be having visitors too, which surprised Harry and then made him feel embarrassed at his surprise. Of course, teachers had families. They had to have somewhere to go over the summer. With the exception of Professor Binns, the ghost who taught history, they had lives outside of Hogwarts. 
       “Sure,” Ron said when Harry mentioned this. “For all we know, Dumbledore’s got a wife and fifteen kids. And maybe there’s a Mr. McGonagall. Or Snape’s mom will come, could you just see it!”
       The appointed day arrived. The Guest Tower was sparkling clean, as were all the dorms and common rooms. Halls that hadn’t been dusted in ten years now gleamed with polished wood. Even the portraits were spruced up and excited. Peeves the poltergeist, who would have liked nothing better than to dump a bucket of worms onto someone’s aunt or break the floor under someone’s uncle, was rounded up by the other ghosts working in rare unison, and banished to the third-floor corridor for the day. 
       Classes for the day were cancelled, although the teachers would spend the school hours in their classrooms to talk to visitors. After breakfast, the students all flocked to the wide grassy lawn that sloped down toward the village. They could see the clouds of steam that marked a special run of the Hogwarts Express, rumbling to the station.
       Hagrid, in a new jacket as red as dragon’s blood, a yellow belt that could have gone around any three normal people, and the biggest boots anyone had ever seen, was sent to meet them and escort them up in a carriage made from one of his giant pumpkins. Someone – Harry was betting McGonagall – had conjured up a team of winged horses to pull it.
       The orange carriage rolled to a stop. Hagrid got down from the driver’s seat and opened the door, bowing until the end of his bushy beard brushed the tops of his new boots. “Welcome ter Hogwarts, ladies’n’gennlemen!”
       The first ones out were witches and wizards, resplendent in their dress robes. They poured out in a chattering throng, fanning through the crowd of students – also in dress robes – to find their sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, grandchildren, or siblings. Then came a few hesitant faces, looking warily at the vast castle. 
       Harry recognized Hermione’s parents, having seen them before in Diagon Alley. They acted like they felt very out of place but were determined to make the best of it for Hermione’s sake. She raced to them, seizing each by the hand and talking a mile a minute. 
       The last ones out were Becca’s parents. While the wizards and witches had smiled in fond nostalgia at the sight of Hogwarts, and the Muggles had seemed mostly unsure or even scared, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan couldn’t have been more delighted with the castle, the surroundings, the owls flying in formation overhead. They hugged Becca so much that it made Harry a little jealous. In fact, there was a lot of hugging going on and none of it for him, until Mrs. Weasley came over after greeting her children and embraced him, too. 
       Draco Malfoy’s parents and the other pureblood snobs stood apart, not deigning to mix with the Muggles. Harry hadn’t seen them emerge from the carriage, either, and guessed that they’d Apparated here rather than share the same train. Dislike made Harry’s mouth taste sour. 
       Professor Dumbledore didn’t have a wife and fifteen children, as Ron had suggested. Incredibly, his mother was here, the oldest witch Harry had ever seen. She was thin as a twig, like she might blow away in a good wind if not for her heavy purple robes weighing her down. Snape had no visitors and stood as silent and dark as a crow among sparrows while people moved all around.
       There were many flamboyant and striking guests, but if prizes were being given out, the blue ribbon for flamboyance would have to go to Neville Longbottom’s grandmother. She was very tall and very regal, with her hair swept up in a braided bun studded with jewels. Her robes were a rich red sewn all in silver and gold in patterns of moons, stars, and suns. She held a staff that was as tall as she was, gnarled but polished wood ending in a real mummified dragon’s claw that grasped a smooth crystal ball as big as a Bludger. Her face was hard and stern, like something that primitive tribesmen might carve in the side of a mountain and worship as a goddess. 
       She was surrounded by Longbottoms, and it was no wonder that Neville had sometimes thought he was in the wrong family. They all radiated power and confidence, while Neville, in their midst holding a squirmy and unhappy Trevor in both hands, looked like he had to go to the bathroom. 
       “Harry!” called Neville, somewhat desperately. “Come and meet my Gran!”
       Harry obligingly started to go over, but Mrs. Longbottom pinned him with a look so cold it was like icicles had shot out of her eyes. Harry stumbled over his own feet and came to a clumsy halt.
       “We’ll see your room now, Neville,” she declared without taking her icicle eyes off Harry.
       “Um, all right, Gran.” Neville looked questioningly at Harry, but Harry was as puzzled as him and could only shrug. 
       He watched as the Longbottoms, some of them seeming as mystified as he and Neville, went off toward the castle and Gryffindor tower. He might have stayed there all day if Becca hadn’t come up with her parents in tow. 
       “Mom, Dad, this is Harry. He’s in Gryffindor, too.”
       Plenty of the other students had either brought their relatives over or pointed Harry out, and it had been the same old thing – “look, it’s him, it’s really him, Harry Potter!” But once again, his reputation hadn’t preceded him as far as Becca’s family was concerned. Her father, mustached with a fedora and a discreet eye-and-pyramid pin in his lapel, shook Harry’s hand. Her mother, on the heavy side but with quick, knowing eyes behind her glasses, smiled at him.
       “There goes Potter,” he heard Malfoy say. “Slumming with the Kertches.”
       “That’s just Draco,” Becca said loudly to her parents. “Every school’s got a bully, and he’s ours.”
       “Uh-oh, now you’ve done it,” Harry said as Lucius Malfoy took long, purposeful strides toward them. 
       “Pardon me,” he said coolly, “but did you call my son a bully?”
       “Yeah,” Becca said fearlessly. Her smile was sweet but devilish at the same time.
       “Do you think that’s wise?”
       “Wise or not, it’s true,” Harry heard himself say, as if his mouth was running of its own accord. 
       Lucius Malfoy sniffed at him. “I expected better of you, Potter. You, at least, have a half-decent ancestry. It’s a shame you choose to make so little of it.”
       “A pleasure to meet you, too,” said Becca’s mom. “I guess it’s true what they say, isn’t it? The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
       Those near enough to hear – and everyone who was near enough to hear was certainly listening – snickered. The elder Malfoy flushed crimson and stalked away, snarling darkly under his breath. If half the magical community hadn’t been watching, Harry didn’t doubt that things might have gotten pretty ugly just then. He was sure he and Becca would pay for it later when Draco Malfoy caught up with them, but for now it was worth it.
       “You know Hogwarts better than me, Harry,” Becca said. “Can you show us around?”
       “This is,” her dad said in the most rapturous tone Harry had ever heard, “the most incredible place. I wish I’d gone to a school like this.”
       He really meant it, too. Everywhere Harry took them, the Morgans went crazy over the castle and the furnishings and just couldn’t get enough. When they reached the library, Harry thought they’d need Hagrid to come and carry Becca’s father out by force.
       It all made Harry feel a little better. They joined up with the Weasleys and the Grangers in time for lunch. The Great Hall had been expanded somehow, the tables so long that they seemed to go on forever in order to make room for everyone. After, they toured the classrooms and talked to the teachers. The Morgans managed to even thaw Snape slightly when they admired the dungeon for its gloomy, oppressive atmosphere.
       “Yes, isn’t it?” he nearly purred, and preened a little as if it had all been entirely his doing. 
       The afternoon was spent with a trip to Hogsmeade, the wizard village. Hermione’s parents were as uncomfortable here as they were in Diagon Alley, but the Morgans had a splendid time. They nearly lost Becca’s father again in a bookstore, and her mother bought a bagful of souvenirs. Then it was time to go back to Hogwarts for dinner, and the families retired to the Guest Tower to rest up for the next day’s big Quidditch game. 
       Harry and Becca were on their way back to Gryffindor tower when Ron, out of breath, ran up to them. He was so winded he could barely talk, picking at their sleeves and gesturing frantically.
       “What?” Becca asked. “Is someone in trouble?”
       “Huh,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Winner …”
       “What?” Harry asked.
       “Winterwind. Sister. You gotta come see.” Without waiting for a reply, Ron rushed them back the way he’d come. Once he got his breath back, he spoke rapidly. “Dad’s off quizzing the Grangers and Mom went with Ginny to her room to let down the hems on her uniform skirts. I left my bag of toffees in the DADA room and wanted to get it before Fred and George could do anything disgusting to it. But when I got there, she was there. Talking to Winterwind.”
       “His sister? Not the one Hermione said was Snape’s …” Harry couldn’t even bring himself to say the word.
       Ron bobbed his head. Rather than speak, he put a finger to his lips for silence. The three of them slowed to a fast tip-toe sneak, sidling up to the corner where the corridor leading to Winterwind’s classroom branched off.
       “… really would appreciate it,” Reginald Winterwind was saying. “I’m afraid I’m just not going to be able to do it alone.”
       “Reggie, dear,” said a woman, “you know I’m always glad to help when it comes to the Dark Arts.”
       They came out of the classroom and as Winterwind locked the door behind them, Harry had a good chance to look at his sister. Back when he’d first heard about Snape possibly having a girlfriend, and tried to imagine what she’d look like, all he could think of was a female version of Snape. 
       She had black hair like Snape, but where his was lank and oily, hers was lustrous and fell in waves to her waist. She had pale skin like Snape, but where his was sallow, hers was white as a snow-sculpture. Her lips were deep red, as were her eyes. In a robe that was really more of a clinging gown than a robe, and a gown that gave the impression of having been made from silvery black snakeskin at that, she could have stepped right from the pages of Gilderoy Lockhart’s vampire book. 
       “Thanks, Phiddie,” Winterwind said.
       “Don’t call me Phiddie.” The humor left her voice, her tone all frost and steel now.
       “I’m sorry. Giddy, you know. With relief. This position means a lot to me. I’d hate to lose it.”
       “We won’t let that happen.” She moved toward the corner, not walking but gliding as if her feet didn’t touch the ground. “It’s a great honor to teach at Hogwarts. I wouldn’t want you to disgrace our family by botching it.”
       “They’re up to something, see?” hissed Ron. “I knew it.”
       “They’re probably in league with --” Harry began, and Becca jabbed him in the ribs and cleared her throat.
       He turned, and his heart plunged down an elevator shaft that had opened up in his middle. Snape was right behind them, while his name was still trembling on the tip of Harry’s tongue.
       “Spying, Potter?” Snape asked with his own brand of bitter glee. “You shouldn’t be down here at this hour.”
       Before any of them could think of something to say, the Winterwinds rounded the corner. Snape froze. 
       “Why, Severus Snape,” Winterwind’s sister said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
       “Ophidia,” Snape said. 
       She blinked at him, a long slow blink that made her lashes seem like curling spider legs. “I only just arrived, a bit late, I’m afraid. But if you’ve the time, I’d love to get together and chat.”
       “Perhaps you’d join me at the Quidditch game tomorrow?” he asked.
       “That would be perfect.” Again, the thing with the eyelashes. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You’re looking well.”
       “You are …” Snape drew a deep breath. “Lovely as ever.”
       “Oh, Severus, you flirt,” cooed Ophidia Winterwind. She flicked her fingers against his cheek as she glided past him. “Until tomorrow.”
       She hadn’t even noticed the three thunderstruck students, and as he rotated in place to watch her go, apparently Snape had forgotten all about them too. Because what he did next was something that Harry would have sworn on his parents’ names that he never would have seen.
       Snape smiled.

**

Chapter Six – Foul Play
 

       Hermione didn’t believe it when they told her that Snape had actually smiled. She believed it even less when they admitted, grudgingly, that smiling made the Potions teacher almost handsome. What fascinated her, though, was their description of Ophidia Winterwind. She hurried to the library first thing to look her up.
       The rest of them, in the meantime, stuffed down a quick breakfast in a Great Hall bubbling with talk about the upcoming game. Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team ate quickest of all and were the first ones to leave their table. At the door, they ran into the Slytherin team. They were all grinning in a way that made Harry’s skin creep. Malfoy looked especially pleased with himself.
       “Feeling good, Potter?” he asked snidely. “Enjoy it while you can, because they’ll be carting you off of the field on a stretcher today.”
       “We’ll see about that, Malfoy.”
       “You might as well forfeit now,” the Slytherin captain told them. “Save you looking bad in front of all the relatives.”
       “That won’t bother Potter,” Malfoy said. “He hasn’t any.”
       “Well, then,” said the captain, “we’ll have to settle for making him look bad in front of all his Muggle friends.”
       “Laugh it up,” Fred Weasley told the Slytherins. “We’ll accept your apology later.”
       “Accept this,” growled a Slytherin Beater, making a rude gesture.
       Fred bridled and stepped toward him, but George held him back. “Save it for the field, brother.”
       “Care to put some money where your forked-tongue mouth is, Slytherin snake-boy?” Fred asked hotly.
       “Tsk, tsk, Gryffindor,” the Slytherin captain said. He was another Flint, Byron, and they all looked as if a troll was lurking somewhere in the family tree. “You know wagering money’s not allowed. How about this? When we win, you lot have to launder all our Quidditch robes. By hand, mind you. No magic, no help from the house elves.”
       “And when we win,” Fred said, “you’ll have to put underpants on your heads and sing the Gryffindor House song tonight at dinner.”
       “Done!” They shook on it, over the dismayed grimaces of the rest of the teams.
       “Now it’s even more important we win,” Alicia Spinnet, the Gryffindor captain who’d taken over from Oliver Wood, said as they continued on to the locker room. “I’m not spending my evening elbow-deep in Slytherin laundry.”
       Harry didn’t so much care about that. All he wanted was what he usually wanted – to beat Slytherin and increase Gryffindor’s chances for the House Cup. He got into his red robes and joined the others, broomstick in hand, as they proceeded onto the field.
       Temporary bleachers had been set up in addition to the regular stands, allowing seating for all the guests. It made the field seem like a huge stadium, and the noise of the spectators was increased to a rumbling roar reminiscent of crashing surf. Harry swallowed. That made for an awful lot of people to be watching them.
       Alicia must have read his mind. “It’s not so bad,” she said cheerfully. “The professional players see crowds ten times this size, and they do all right. Just stick to the game and you’ll be fine, Harry.”
       Harry scanned the stands, seeing Ron, Hermione, and Becca struggling to unroll a large sign that read: The Snitch can’t hide from Harry! in bold lettering. They were surrounded by their families and Hagrid, bulking large among the smaller people. Most of them in that section waved Gryffindor pennants. Each visitor had been offered a program booklet outlining the Quidditch rules and naming the players and their positions, for the sake of the Muggles who’d never seen the game before. Now they were rustling those programs irritably, impatient for the start of the game.
       Madame Hooch finally appeared, moving slowly instead of with her ordinarily brisk stride. She whistled the teams to attention and the whistle sounded weak and half-hearted rather than the sharp shriek they were familiar with. The teams kicked off, Seekers soaring high above the rest of their teammates to have the best vantage point for the appearance of the Snitch. Madame Hooch tossed the Quaffle and blew another lukewarm blast, and the game was on.
       Right away, Slytherin came out swinging. The players usually tried to pace themselves, because there was no way of knowing how long a game might go. It all depended on the Snitch and the Seekers. Sometimes the Snitch would be caught before a single goal was scored, sometimes it could flit around and hide itself for an hour or more. But the Slytherins launched a brutal series of offensive plays, Beaters beating the Bludgers hard toward the other team, Chasers flying too close to their opponents, bumping broomsticks, flapping the sleeves of their robes in the other team’s face. In less than five minutes, Slytherin had scored forty points to Gryffindor’s ten. 
       Draco Malfoy, the other Seeker, hovered high like Harry, but he wasn’t content to wait in one place watching for the Snitch. He zipped this way and that, sometimes passing right in front of or right under Gryffindors, making them veer to avoid a collision. To stop him, Harry suddenly dove as if he’d seen the Snitch, and Malfoy at once set after him in hot pursuit. 
       As he swung low and banked steeply near the bottom of the stands, Harry saw Madame Hooch swaying on her feet. She was trying to follow the action above, but as he flashed by, Harry noticed that her face was turning a sickly green.
       He called out, but just then Malfoy caught up with him and slammed his elbow into Harry’s side. Distracted by Madame Hooch, Harry slipped and lost control of his broom. It sped straight toward the stands. Yelping, he pulled up hard and skimmed over the heads of the crowd as they ducked and shouted and waved their fists at him. 
       Harry came around in a tight circle just as Slytherin scored another ten points and Madame Hooch collapsed in a flurry of black and white cloth. Everyone saw that, the audience shooting to its feet. 
       “And the referee is down!” Lee Jordan cried from the announcer’s booth. “Hold the game! Hold the game, I say!” Lee thrust his fingers in his mouth and blew, and the screeching whistle brought all the players to a halt, made the spectators stuff their fingers in their ears, and from Hagrid’s cottage, Fang the boarhound howled in counterpoint.
       Madame Pomfrey was first to reach Madame Hooch, simply Apparating from her seat to the grass, where she knelt beside the stricken referee. Dumbledore joined her an instant later, while the Gryffindors and the Slytherins touched down nearby. A concerned babble came from the crowd, everyone leaning and trying to get a better look. 
       Nobody knew what to do as Madame Pomfrey checked Madame Hooch and spoke to Dumbledore in tones too low to hear. Dumbledore nodded and straightened up, looking around at the stands. 
       “Ladies and gentlemen, guests, students, teachers,” he proclaimed in a carrying voice. “It seems our coach and referee, Madame Hooch, has been taken ill. There will be a short delay while we move her to the infirmary.”
       “A delay?” asked Flint, his eyes hard with slyness. “Shouldn’t we call the game?”
       Harry sucked in a breath. So that was it! They’d done it! He was even sure he knew how, the answer hitting him like a slap to the face. He sprang back on his broom and sped toward the locker room entrance, hunching low to avoid taking off the top of his head on the underside of the doorjamb. It was tricky work flying a broom down the narrow hall, but he did, and took the corner so fast that his robes whipped out to the side. 
       The door to Madame Hooch’s office was dead ahead. Harry stuck out a foot, hoping it wasn’t locked because if it was, he was about to splatter himself all over the place and probably break his broom. But it wasn’t. His foot kicked it open so hard that the door bounced off the wall and came back, but by then Harry had zoomed into the middle of the room and jerked to a stop. 
       Hooch’s office was a mess, with spare brooms hanging on hooks on one wall, a rack of Quaffles, another of Bludgers clamped down to keep them from going wild, a broken goal propped against the window, and the chalkboard and wizard’s chalk that she used to diagram plays. A shelf held books like Quidditch Through the Ages, 1001 Little-Known Quidditch Facts, Broom Handling Basics, and The Wizard Sports Book of World Records. The desk was tucked in the corner as an afterthought, buried under papers. 
       Playing Quidditch was hard enough, she’d told them. But refereeing it, trying to keep track of all the action, was even harder. Before each game, she always had a nice mug of Alert-Ade, a drink designed to heighten her sight and concentration so she didn’t miss a thing.
       A mug sat on the desk, with a little bit of a fizzy liquid still in it. Harry sniffed and recognized Alert-Ade. But the smell wasn’t right. Bitter, somehow. 
       Harry grabbed it and ran back to the door. He was on his broom before he’d fully cleared the frame, streaking toward the field while trying not to spill the contents of the mug. 
       Madames Hooch and Pomfrey were both gone, but Dumbledore was still there, talking to the audience, assuring them that everything was going to be fine.
       “I’ll have more information as time warrants,” he said. “For now, Madame Hooch’s health is the important thing. I’m sure she’d want the game to go on as planned.”
       “We can’t play without a referee!” Byron Flint protested. “You have to call the game. Let the final score stand.”
       The Gryffindor team yelled in outrage at this. 
       “The game can’t end until the Snitch is caught!” Alicia said firmly. “Those are the rules. If the game’s cancelled, the score is nullified.”
       “They’re only saying that because they were ahead,” Angelina said. The Gryffindor Chaser was holding her broom like she wanted to smack somebody with it. “If we’d been leading, they’d be singing a different tune.”
       Harry approached Dumbledore with the mug. “Professor?”
       “Just a moment, Harry.” Dumbledore motioned the arguing players to hush. “The game will continue,” he announced. “We’ll have a five-minute break and resume shortly. All players please report to your locker rooms. All spectators, now might be a fine time to avail yourselves of the refreshment table.”
       There hadn’t been a refreshment table, but now there was. House-elves, all wearing little paper hats with the school crest printed on the front, capered around it hawking juice and snacks. “Snapcorn! Get your Snapcorn!”
       “But, Professor,” Harry tried again as the rest of the team trudged toward the locker room. “I found this in Madame Hooch’s office. I think it’s been tampered with.”
       Dumbledore took the mug, sniffed it, and his eyebrows drew together fiercely. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll see that Madame Pomfrey is aware of this at once.”
       “Has it been poisoned, sir?”
       “Leave this one to me, my boy.”
       His tone brooked no dispute. Harry slowly steered his broom back to the Gryffindor team entrance, craning his neck to look at the Slytherins. They were clustered together, grumbling and shooting dark glances at Dumbledore. Lee Jordan suddenly started chattering brightly about the history of Quidditch and the past performance of the various school teams, no doubt prompted by Professor McGonagall. Once back in the locker room, Harry told his teammates what he’d found, and they all scowled furiously. 
       “It’s the Slytherins,” said Fred Weasley. “They must have done it. Did you hear how eager they were to call the game and let the score stand? Did you see how hard they played to get those points? And they always get the best marks in Potions, too.”
       They waited anxiously until the five minutes were up. When Dumbledore had Lee Jordan ask for everyone’s attention, they filed back onto the field and were greeted by the astonishing sight of Professor Reginald Winterwind standing beside the headmaster, in ill-fitting referee robes that had probably come from Madame Hooch’s closet. He was fingering the whistle that hung on a silver cord around his neck, and was all flushed and flustered.
       “Thank you for your patience,” Dumbledore said. “I’m pleased to announce that Professor Winterwind will take over as referee for the remainder of the game. Thank you, Professor. If the players will take their places, please?”
       “Winterwind?” Angelina said dubiously. “The one who only knows that single spell?”
       “He’s got experience,” Harry said, and told them quickly what Hermione had found out. 
       “Looks like the Slytherins aren’t too happy,” said Fred in great satisfaction.
       Winterwind blew the whistle, and the game was on again. The former reckless abandon with which the Slytherins had played was absent now, though they remained as aggressive as ever. Malfoy didn’t waste time trying to distract the other players but watched for the Snitch with fearful intensity. Harry was not about to let him get it, not about to let Slytherin win after the unfair stunt they’d pulled. It was the most despicable form of cheating he could think of.
       At least, until one of the Slytherin Chasers threw a packet of something that puffed twinkly red dust into Alicia’s face. It was quick, barely noticeable, and when Alicia reeled back pawing at her eyes, it only looked like she’d gotten the sun in them. The Quaffle scored another goal, but Reginald Winterwind’s whistle screamed.
       “Foul. Slytherin, illegal use of magic, ten point penalty!”
       The Slytherin fans in the stands booed, and the team looked so dangerous that for a moment Winterwind paled beneath their combined hateful expressions. He held firm, though, and Lee Jordan waxed ecstatic as he announced the point reduction. 
       Gryffindor scored again and again, and soon it was tied at 80 to 80. Harry still hadn’t spotted the Snitch. He saw Angelina whiz past with the Quaffle, going for a goal, with a Slytherin on her tail. The Slytherin player dove under her, came up, and reached out to grip the leading end of his broom in a funny way. His lips moved. 
       The Quaffle popped out of Angelina’s grasp, startling her. A Slytherin Beater, waiting for just that moment, whacked the Quaffle with his stick and sent it careening the other way. It came right at Harry, who’d sunk a bit to try and see what had happened. Rather than duck or dodge, he pivoted his broom in mid-air and hit the Quaffle back to Angelina. She caught it as neatly as if they’d planned it.
       Harry grinned triumphantly as she scored, bringing Gryffindor into the lead. A moment later, Draco Malfoy collided with him out of his blind spot and quick as a snake, scattered a handful of scorpion-ants onto Harry’s robes. 
       The fast, mean-tempered little bugs swarmed up Harry’s arm and down his leg, their pincers digging at him even through the cloth. They skittered toward his unprotected skin with their jointed tails flexing eagerly and drops of venom glistening on their barbed stingers.
       Trying not to scream, Harry shook his arm and flailed at his robe in hopes of dislodging them. It partially worked; a few fell but they dropped right toward George Weasley as he went after a Bludger that was bearing down on Katie, another Chaser. They missed landing on George by inches, but that didn’t solve Harry’s own problem. One had reached his hand and stabbed the stinger deep.
       Biting his lip against the pain, Harry shot away from the rest of his team and tried to shake the scorpion-ants off. The one that was on the back of his hand, he squashed by smacking his own hand against the broomstick, almost breaking his bones. 
       Something tickled at the side of his neck. He slapped at it wildly and earned a sting in the palm of the other hand, but flattened the scorpion-ant into brown paste. More were on him, all over him, and he realized his broom was veering crazily all over the field. To make matters worse, he spied a golden glimmer and Malfoy closing in.
       Another shiny object, much larger and silver and not shaped at all like a Snitch, landed on Harry’s leg. He nearly fell off his broom in alarm, thinking it was another Slytherin trick, but it was Quicksilver. The drake trilled cheerfully at Harry and went to work chomping scorpion-ants in his jaws. 
       “Thanks!” he said, and went after Malfoy.
       The Snitch was performing its usual antics, dancing around teasingly out of reach, darting all about. Malfoy didn’t even see Harry until Harry, laying flat on his broom, passed over him close enough that the wind of his passage messed up Malfoy’s hair.
       Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy grip his broomstick in that same strange way he’d noticed the Slytherin chaser doing, just before Angelina lost the Quaffle. He heard Malfoy’s low utterance of “Leviosa!” just as Harry’s hand was about to seize the Snitch.
       The Snitch popped up like a champagne cork. As Malfoy soared after it, Harry saw a wand stuck to the side of his broom, probably held there with Insta-Gloo. They’d done it during that five-minute break, he realized. Madame Hooch always checked the brooms before a match to make sure no one had been tampering with them, but no one had thought to check again before the game resumed.
       Outraged, Harry pursued. His hands, both of them, ached abominably and were starting to swell. If this kept on, he wouldn’t be able to maintain his grip, let alone get hold of the Snitch. He had to end this now.
       Malfoy saw him coming and swung at him. They’d gone so high that the other players were red and green specks, and they couldn’t make out individual faces in the crowd. The Snitch frolicked tauntingly above them. 
       In a desperate lunge, Harry launched himself off his broom as if he meant to jump over the moon. At the height of his leap, he grabbed the Snitch in his puffed, painful hand. Its wings fluttered and it jerked as it tried to free itself, but he held it tight and landed on his broom again, neat as could be.
       Dimly, Lee Jordan’s amplified voice bellowed, but he sounded horrified rather than pleased. “The Snitch has been caught! Game over, but Slytherin wins!”
       “What?” Harry looked at the scoreboard. The Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points, but while he and Malfoy had been chasing it, Slytherin had regained their lead and extended it, until the final score even with the Snitch was Slytherin 310, Gryffindor 300. 
       “Hah!” jeered Malfoy exultantly. He dove past Harry to meet his teammates, who were cheering and clapping each other on the back as most of the crowd booed. 
       Harry caught many a look of hurt and disappointment from the Gryffindor fans, and from Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws too because everyone would rather see Slytherin trounced. He descended glumly and settled onto the grass, his hands throbbing and swollen like water balloons. 
       Winterwind’s w