Professor Snape was staring into Ron Weasley's cauldron with the expression of a man reconsidering his career.
"Perhaps you can explain, Weasley, why your potion looks as though someone has been boiling a wet sock in it?"
Ron peered inside.
"I don't know, Professor."
"How surprising. Neither do I."
A few Slytherins sniggered.
I sat at the next table with Blaise, trying not to draw attention to myself. That was usually the best approach with Snape, unless you wanted to answer questions about something you hadn't reached in the textbook yet.
Today, we were making a Swelling Solution. The instructions didn't look particularly intimidating: prepare the ingredients, add them in the right order, and watch the temperature.
A glance around the classroom revealed several ways to get each of those steps wrong.
"Two more minutes," Blaise said, looking into our cauldron.
"Three."
He checked the hourglass.
"Two and a half."
"Still closer to three."
"It's exactly halfway."
I smiled and lowered the flame.
Our potion looked respectable. Blaise had prepared the ingredients properly, while I'd kept track of the order and temperature. We were making good progress, which left us free to pay some attention to the disasters unfolding at the other tables.
Hermione was bent over her cauldron, utterly absorbed. Harry, working beside Ron, looked considerably less pleased.
With good reason. A small cloud of grey smoke had just emerged from Ron's wand, which was still held together with tape around the break.
"Weasley."
Ron froze.
"Yes, Professor?"
"What are you doing?"
"I was just trying to adjust the flame."
"So you decided that the best way to brew your potion was to set fire to your workbench?"
"Nothing's on fire!"
At that moment, a spark shot from his wand and landed on his parchment. The sheet began to smoulder. Harry immediately slapped his textbook over it.
For several seconds, the room was silent.
Snape slowly closed his eyes, as though counting to a very large number.
"Five points from Gryffindor."
"But—"
"Another five if you choose to finish that sentence. Put your wand away. Potter can attend to the flame."
Ron pressed his lips together.
Draco, sitting across the aisle, leaned towards us.
"How has Weasley not blown someone up yet?"
"Give him time. It's only September," Blaise replied.
I snorted, then quickly turned it into a cough.
Snape looked our way. I immediately returned my attention to the cauldron.
I had no intention of finding out how far his patience with his own House extended today.
After Potions, we had Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall devoted the lesson to changing the shape of small objects. Producing the right form was no longer enough. We also had to preserve the correct proportions and the properties of the material.
Wooden cubes lay on our desks. We were to turn them into small, hollow boxes with fitted lids.
It sounded straightforward until you tried it.
Blaise's first attempt resembled a box, provided you didn't look too closely. He tried to put the lid on, but one edge kept dropping inside.
"It won't close."
I glanced at it.
"The lid's too small."
"I can see that."
He turned it in his hand and tried it the other way round. No improvement.
"I don't see why I can't just make it bigger."
"You can," McGonagall said as she passed. "Provided you do so without altering the object's other properties."
Blaise straightened.
"Yes, Professor."
"Then try."
She moved on, and he placed the lid on the desk and aimed his wand at it.
I returned to my own work.
I managed it on the second attempt. My first lid had been crooked, and one wall noticeably thicker than the others. Only when I pictured the inside of the box more carefully, instead of concentrating on its outer shape, did I produce something I was happy with.
McGonagall stopped beside me, examined it, and lifted the lid.
"Good, Mr Peverell. Much better control of the proportions than on your first attempt."
"Thank you, Professor."
"Now try again. Thinner walls this time."
Of course. Success simply meant a harder task.
Draco had finished his box and was examining mine from the next desk.
"You should make it bigger. It'd be easier to see inside."
I turned the wooden object between my fingers.
Not a bad idea.
"I'll try."
Meanwhile, Blaise had managed to fit his lid. It settled into place, but when he tried to remove it, the whole box came up with it.
He gripped the bottom with his other hand and pulled harder.
McGonagall turned from the blackboard.
"Mr Zabini, physical strength is not part of this exercise."
Blaise slowly put the box down.
I bent over my own before she could see me smile.
During lunch, McGonagall stopped at the Slytherin table.
"Mr Peverell."
I put down my fork.
"Yes, Professor?"
"Professor Dumbledore would like to see you. Please come to his office at half past three."
"Of course. Has something happened?"
"Nothing you need to worry about at present."
I wasn't sure whether that was supposed to reassure me.
She gave me the password and moved on. Draco watched her go, then turned to me.
"Dumbledore again?"
"Apparently."
"Is it about yesterday?"
"I don't know."
Blaise reached for the jug.
"At least you'll get to eat this time."
I looked down at my plate and picked up my fork again.
That, at least, was comforting.
Draco had practice at four. Flint had apparently announced that they would be working on turns, and promised that nobody would leave the pitch until they stopped turning "like a blinded hippogriff". Blaise thought it might be worth watching.
I was only half listening.
The diary had been dealt with. Dumbledore had written the previous evening to say it had been destroyed, Ginny remained in Madam Pomfrey's care, and her parents had been informed.
Perhaps he had another question.
Or perhaps he wanted to discuss how I'd recognised Voldemort's magic after all.
That would be less pleasant. I didn't suspect him of bad intentions, but trusting him didn't mean I intended to tell him everything about my eyes. I still didn't fully understand them myself.
At half past three, I stood before the stone gargoyle. I gave the password, climbed the spiral staircase, and knocked.
"Come in."
"Professor, you wanted—"
I stopped.
Dumbledore wasn't alone. Two adults sat in front of his desk, and I recognised them immediately.
Arthur and Molly Weasley.
They both turned towards me.
For a moment, I wondered whether I'd got the time wrong.
"Oliver," Dumbledore said. "Good to see you. Please, come in."
I closed the door behind me.
"Hello."
Arthur stood, but Molly rose almost at the same time and reached me first.
"Oh, so you're Oliver."
Before I could answer, she pulled me into a tight hug.
I hadn't expected that at all. For a moment, I stood rigidly, unsure what to do with my hands.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "Truly. Thank you."
I glanced over her shoulder at Dumbledore. He was watching with a gentle smile.
Traitor.
Molly finally released me, though her hands stayed on my shoulders.
"I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't noticed that awful thing."
"I only told Professor Dumbledore," I said, a little embarrassed.
"Exactly. And you were quite right to do so," Arthur said.
He approached and held out his hand. I shook it.
"The professor told us you came straight to him with your concerns. We're very grateful."
Molly wiped the corner of her eye.
"I'm sorry. It's just… when we heard what Ginny had been carrying around…"
She broke off. Arthur rested a hand on her shoulder.
I didn't know what to say.
To me, the decision had been obvious. I'd recognised a dangerous object and gone to someone who could deal with it.
They'd probably spent the time since yesterday imagining what might have happened to their daughter.
"How is Ginny?"
"Physically, she's fine," Molly replied. "Madam Pomfrey has examined her thoroughly. But she's very upset."
I nodded.
"The diary had already been talking to her."
"We know," Arthur said. "Ginny's told us a little about what happened."
Molly looked down.
"She thought she'd found a friend."
I remembered the girl asking whether Dumbledore would hurt Tom.
"It wasn't her fault."
"I know, dear. I just wish she believed that too."
Dumbledore invited us to sit and offered tea.
We talked about Ginny for a few minutes. She still didn't want to say much about the diary, but seeing her parents had helped her settle down. Madam Pomfrey intended to keep her under observation before deciding when she could return to lessons.
Molly would have preferred to take her home.
"Even for a few days," she said.
"Let's ask her again before we leave," Arthur replied. "Earlier, she was already worrying about how much work she'd have to catch up on."
"She's eleven. She shouldn't have to worry about falling behind right now."
Arthur squeezed her hand without answering.
For a moment, I watched them over my cup. I knew them from Harry's story, but here they were simply two tired parents who wanted to make sure their child was safe.
Molly took a sip of tea and looked at me.
"Ron mentioned you last year."
"Really?"
"You know Harry, I believe," Arthur added.
"Yes. A little."
"Ron thinks you're quite sensible."
I blinked.
"Ron?"
Arthur smiled.
"He didn't put it in quite those words."
"Ah. That explains a lot."
Molly laughed softly. The conversation grew easier, and for a while I could stop wondering how you were supposed to accept thanks for saving someone's daughter.
They didn't stay long. Arthur had to return to work, and Molly wanted to see Ginny again.
When we stood, she took my hands once more.
"Oliver, if you ever need anything, you can write to us."
"Thank you, Mrs Weasley."
"Molly."
I smiled a little.
"Thank you, Molly."
Arthur nodded to me.
"And please keep this to yourself. Ginny has enough to worry about."
"Of course."
They said goodbye to the headmaster and left.
Once the door had closed, I looked at Dumbledore.
"You could have warned me."
He raised his eyebrows.
"That the Weasleys wanted to meet you?"
"Yes."
"Would you have come quite so willingly?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
"I came because Professor McGonagall told me to."
The corners of his mouth lifted.
"Indeed. I should have phrased the question differently."
I sighed and sat down again.
"I didn't really do anything special."
"For you, it was a brief visit to my office. For them, it meant considerably more."
That was difficult to argue with.
Dumbledore set down his cup.
"Since you're here, how is the start of term treating you?"
"Is this another part of the meeting nobody told me about?"
"We could call it a conversation over tea."
I glanced at my cup.
"Quite well, then. The lessons are a bit harder, but I'm managing."
"What have you found most interesting?"
"Charms. Transfiguration's interesting too, though Professor McGonagall seems to think that getting something right should immediately lead to a harder task."
Dumbledore chuckled.
"A fair observation."
"Potions isn't boring either, at least."
"At least?"
I considered whether I really wanted to bring this up.
Why not?
"We also have Defence Against the Dark Arts."
"Ah."
I studied him more closely.
Dumbledore calmly reached for his tea.
"You're not enjoying Professor Lockhart's lessons?"
"Would you like the polite answer or the honest one?"
"I'm afraid I'm now curious about both."
"The polite answer is that Professor Lockhart has a very interesting approach to teaching."
"And the honest one?"
"I'd learn more if I spent his lessons in the library."
For a moment, the headmaster turned his cup between his hands.
"A harsh assessment."
"Professor, last time we spent longer discussing how people reacted to his arrival than what he actually did about the werewolf."
Dumbledore glanced at me over his glasses. He didn't look surprised.
"I see."
"Do you?"
"I assure you, Oliver, I do hear what happens in lessons."
That sounded considerably more interesting.
"Then why did you hire him?"
He put down his cup.
"Finding a Defence teacher can be more difficult than you might imagine."
"That difficult?"
"That difficult."
I waited, but he didn't elaborate.
"That can't be the whole answer."
He smiled faintly.
"Not every aspect of appointing teachers is suitable for discussion with students."
"So I'm not getting anything else out of you."
"Not today."
I sighed.
Dumbledore knew exactly what I was talking about. I'd established that much. He evidently intended to keep the rest to himself.
I couldn't be too indignant with someone I'd told only yesterday that I didn't feel like explaining my own magic.
Though I would have preferred his secrets not to involve another essay about Lockhart.
"You mentioned the library," he said after a moment. "Have you found anything interesting?"
"A few books on protective magic. I'm learning Protego."
"How is that going?"
"I can produce a shield that stops weaker spells now. I don't always get it up in time."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Casting the spell is only the beginning."
"I've noticed."
"Are you practising with someone?"
"A training dummy. Set to cast very weak spells," I added before he could ask.
He gave me a careful look.
"Good. Don't increase their strength simply because you've managed to stop several in a row."
I remembered the hit to my shoulder.
"I'm not planning to yet."
"If you run into difficulties, you can ask Professor Flitwick for guidance. He has a great deal of experience."
I nodded.
"You're not going to tell me to wait until I'm older?"
"I see no reason to discourage you from learning to defend yourself. Provided your practice really does remain safe."
I was quite happy with that answer.
Dumbledore glanced at the clock beside him.
"I won't keep you any longer. Thank you for coming."
I stood.
"Thank you for the tea."
"You're always welcome."
I left in a better mood than I'd arrived. The Weasleys had been kind, Dumbledore hadn't questioned me about my eyes, and I'd confirmed that I wasn't the only one who saw a problem with Lockhart's lessons.
Even if that wasn't much help for now.
I was heading down to the next floor, wondering whether Blaise had actually gone to watch Draco's practice, when I spotted a small girl coming up the stairs. She had long, pale blonde hair.
She wore Ravenclaw robes and carried several books under one arm.
Luna Lovegood.
I remembered her from the Sorting Ceremony.
We passed each other on the stairs.
I took another two steps.
"You have very strange eyes."
I stopped and looked back.
Luna stood a few steps above me, studying me with interest.
"Sorry?"
"Your eyes," she repeated calmly. "They're stranger than people say."
I blinked.
"Thank you?"
"You're welcome."
She smiled slightly and continued on her way.
I watched her for a few seconds.
Right.
Luna Lovegood.
I shook my head and went on down the stairs.
I reached the Quidditch pitch about fifteen minutes later.
Blaise sat in the stands with his feet propped on the bench in front. When he saw me, he moved his bag to make room.
"He kept you a while."
"There was tea."
"That explains everything."
I sat beside him.
"How's practice?"
He pointed towards the pitch.
"So far, Flint's louder than the whole team."
Seven Slytherins circled above the grass. The Chasers exchanged passes, the Beaters worked with the Bludgers, and Draco flew wide circles higher up, searching for the Snitch.
He looked confident on his Nimbus 2001. He leaned into his acceleration, changed direction neatly, and kept his balance through the sharper manoeuvres.
Flint evidently thought that wasn't enough.
"Malfoy! Higher!"
Draco pulled up.
"And watch where you're going!"
One of the Chasers swept across his path. Draco banked aside to let him through, then looked back at his captain.
Blaise sighed.
"They're trying to do everything at once. A Bludger nearly hit Flint a minute ago."
"By accident?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't want to judge the Beaters unfairly."
I smiled and turned my attention to Draco.
He suddenly veered left. For a moment, I couldn't see what he'd spotted. Only when he dropped almost to the grass did I catch a golden flash ahead of his broom.
The Snitch.
Draco accelerated and reached out. The little ball darted upwards, and he jerked his broom after it.
Too late. The Snitch slipped past his fingertips.
"You're reaching too early!" Flint shouted.
"I nearly had it!"
"Then actually catch it next time!"
Draco tightened his grip on the handle and climbed again.
We watched him for another quarter of an hour or so. He flew well, but sometimes he rushed into a chase before lining himself up properly. At that speed, correcting his course cost him precious moments.
Once, he was so focused on the Snitch that he nearly collided with one of his own Chasers.
Flint's response was loud enough to reach us in the stands.
"If you're going to kill a teammate, Malfoy, at least wait until the end of the season!"
Blaise snorted.
Draco didn't answer. He circled again, spotted the Snitch, and took a little more care with his approach. Only on the final stretch did he lean low over his broom.
He reached out.
When he raised his hand, golden wings fluttered between his fingers.
"There we go," Blaise muttered.
Draco looked around for Flint.
The captain nodded and gestured for him to release the Snitch.
I couldn't hear Draco's reply from that distance, but judging by the movement of his lips, it wasn't polite.
Eventually, a whistle sounded. The players began descending, and we headed towards the exit.
Draco joined us a few minutes later, carrying his broom over one shoulder. His face was flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead.
Blaise handed him a bottle of water.
Draco accepted it without a word and took several swallows.
"Flint's an idiot," he announced at last.
"We heard most of the practice," I said.
"Good. Saves me repeating it."
We set off towards the castle.
For a while, Draco said nothing, turning the bottle in his hand.
"I spotted the Snitch twice. Caught it once. According to him, I should have caught it three times."
"You could have spotted it more often," Blaise observed.
Draco gave him an outraged look.
"Don't take his side."
"I'm just trying to follow the maths."
"I spent half the practice dodging Warrington!"
"You were better towards the end," I said. "On that last approach, you didn't have to change direction just before the catch."
He glanced at me.
"You saw that?"
"We were sitting in the stands."
"I thought you were mostly laughing."
"That too," Blaise admitted.
Draco snorted, but some of the tension left his face.
It had grown colder on the grounds. A breeze blew in from the lake, so we quickened our pace. Draco shifted his broom to the other shoulder.
"The comments are the worst part."
"Flint's?" I asked.
"Not just his."
For a moment, he stared ahead.
"Some people act as though I only got on the team because Father bought the Nimbuses."
Blaise glanced at the broom.
"It certainly didn't hurt."
"I can fly."
"We saw," I said.
"Then why does everyone keep going on about the brooms?"
"Because your father bought the whole team some of the best brooms on the market. It's hard not to notice."
Draco opened his mouth, but I spoke before he could object.
"He can't catch the Snitch for you, though."
He closed it again.
We walked a few paces in silence.
"Exactly," he said at last. "They talk as though I'd never been on a broom before."
I understood why it bothered him. That didn't change the fact that Lucius's gift had given people something very convenient to talk about.
"Play a good match, and you'll have an answer for them."
Draco tightened his fingers around the Nimbus's handle.
"I'll catch the Snitch before Potter."
"I'll be watching."
He looked at me as though checking whether I was making fun of him.
This time, I wasn't.
"You should sit in the Slytherin stands."
"I usually do."
"Good."
Blaise grinned.
"We could make a banner."
Draco drew breath, but Blaise raised a hand.
"No broom jokes. I promise."
I couldn't help laughing.
Draco shook his head. A moment later, he smiled too, though he turned towards the castle as he did it.
We reached the Great Hall just in time for dinner.
Draco was in a better mood. On the way, he'd explained what he intended to change at the next practice. Blaise listened, then firmly announced that he didn't want to hear another word about turns until they'd finished eating.
We sat at the Slytherin table.
"What did Dumbledore actually want?" Draco asked, helping himself to potatoes.
"I met one of the students' parents."
He raised his eyebrows.
"What for?"
"They wanted to thank me for helping."
Blaise glanced at me.
"Something to do with yesterday?"
I nodded.
"I promised not to talk about it."
For a moment, Draco looked as though he had another question. In the end, he shrugged and reached for a serving dish.
I was grateful to them.
I didn't want to talk about Ginny's diary. Especially not to Draco, whose father had far more to do with it than he could have suspected.
Blaise took a folded piece of parchment from his bag.
"Do you remember how many examples McGonagall wanted for the last assignment?"
"Three," I answered.
He looked at his notes.
"Brilliant. I've got two."
Draco leaned over the page.
"She won't accept that second one."
"Why not?"
"Because it's the first one, only bigger."
I examined the examples.
Draco was right.
For the rest of dinner, we talked about Transfiguration and our upcoming lessons. Blaise tried to convince us that the difference in size mattered, but eventually crossed out his second example.
There was nothing urgent to deal with. Nobody needed a warning or a visit to the headmaster.
Back in the common room, I settled beside the fire and opened my book. Blaise got to work on his essay, and Draco was quiet for a while.
I managed to read a few pages.
"Oliver?"
I looked up.
"What?"
"How long do you think it'll take me to improve those turns?"
I looked at Blaise.
Blaise looked at me.
We both sighed.
Draco frowned.
"What?"
I went back to my book.
Definitely an ordinary day at Hogwarts.