Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.

This chapter is wholly dedicated to Snakefang93, who sent me countless update requests over the months. Without their unrelenting support, I don't this chapter would have ever seen the light of day.

Chapter 5

part e

"Wands ready? Got Potter's rights memorised? We've all heard the stories – that kid can squirm his way out of any pin-sized loophole he can find. So if any of you dare to lay a single finger on him before you've read him his bloody rights and let him get away, I will personally strip you of your honour badge."

"We got it the first twenty times, Pius. Despite what you might think, the Auror Office isn't completely incompetent…"

"Just checking if you're still in the game, Dawlish. Gentlemen, what we are about to do is something very few honourable wizards have succeeded in doing before."

"Ambushing a twelve year old on a hospital bed does sound like something wizards with honour would avoid..."

"Shut it, Shacklebolt. We're waiting for the boy to gain his consciousness before acting, aren't we? Besides, he's more than well-equipped, even in this state. Or have you not heard the stories?"

"Regardless, this is a twelve year old boy we're dealing with-"

"A boy who experiences near death situations on a day to day basis, Shacklebolt. Your first mistake is to underestimate the Boy-Who-Lived. At eleven, he managed to survive his second Killing Curse, manoeuvred a near-impossible emancipation, single-handedly brought down Dumbledore and changed the rules on the Wizengamot. This boy, this very boy, has brought down the likes of Dumbledore, Shacklebolt. At twelve, he's already making a game out of destroying careers and picking his own teachers at Hogwarts. Even Quidditch isn't out of his scope – he's got two moves coined in his honour after only knowing the sport for just more than a year. And you dare to tell me this is an ordinary boy?"

"Don't get too starstruck there, Thicknesse. I doubt Potter would be willing to give you his autograph under custody any time soon."

"I – you – that's hardly the way to address your superior, Proudfoot!"

"You may be the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and you might be our superior Thicknesse, but rest assured I have yet to see the day when Rufus Scrimgeour, the actual head of the Auror Office, does a single thing you tell him to."

"Nice one, Kingsley!"

"Yeah, well said there, mate. Well said."

"Will the lot of you just shut up! Potter's waking up. Wands at the ready!"

-wizardry-

Harry awoke with the distinct sensation of uneasiness swirling in his empty stomach. It was the result of a nurtured and honed sensitivity that had succeeded in preparing him for countless surprise attacks Dudley's gang had attempted to spring upon him back when he still. The hospital was silent, far too silent, and the possibilities that arose from that stillness flooded him with apprehension.

He rose from his bed, dressing quickly. Glasses, robes, shoes, his cap. He drew back the curtains and, just as he readied himself to face another day's full schedule of adventure, drama and politics, he stopped.

Before him stood a circle of Aurors, each with a wand pointed unmistakably at him.

"Good morning, Mister Potter."

It had been a year since Harry had last seen him, and under slightly friendlier circumstances, but he recognised the smugness on Pius Thicknesse's face instantly.

-wizardry-

"Morning Mister Thicknesse. What a fine set of bodyguards you have there to protect you," Harry said nonchalantly. "Or are they just the witnesses you've conveniently picked up to testify against me in the unlikely chance that I, you know, kill you?"

Having inspected the Auror Office himself for Hogwarts' latest Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Harry naturally recognised all the faces. A simple glance instantly revealed two of the most impressive Aurors the department had to offer: Kingsley Shacklebolt, a distinguished wizard whose high level of professionalism had made him Harry's first pick right up until the retired (and hence conveniently unemployed) Mad-Eye Moody came to the scene, and John Dawlish, who naturally teamed up with Kingsley on the field to form a formidable duo. There was Proudfoot, Savage and Williamson, three who had instantly turned the other way upon spotting Harry searching for a willing Auror, most likely in the hopes of avoiding the quagmire of politics Harry seemed to drag with him. Then there was Gawain Robards, who Harry remembered had disregarded him for the very purpose of staying in the politics of the Auror Office, climbing the Ministry ladder with his eyes fixed on the Head of the Auror Office position. He had brought along his two underlings, Rogers and Grove, whose inexperience made Harry presume they were there solely for filling the spaces on either side of Robards at the hopes of making him seem somewhat important.

Ah what the general public would never know behind the shining doors of the Auror Office.

Thicknesse, meanwhile, had reddened at Harry's words but stopped himself from returning the gesture. "Oh, you mistake me, Mister Potter," he said after taking a moment to simmer down, determined not to be riled, "these men here aren't for my protection. They were, you'll be pleased to hear, specially selected to suit your requirements."

Harry blinked. "My requirements?" he echoed, unmoved. "If this is still about selecting a Defence teacher-"

Thicknesse waved him off. "Let me elaborate. These men were specifically chosen to help placate you should you refuse to being questioned."

"Being questioned?" he repeated. "Merlin, Thicknesse. You've talked for less than five minutes and I've already come to the conclusion that you're quite incompetent for this job. That or you need to watch more Muggle television. You see, the agents operating on the side of good, which I'm assuming refers to you, are supposed to deliver their victory speech to the villains, which you're assuming is me, for the purpose of exposing the exactness of their crimes to the general audience. Or, you know, the villains themselves. Currently, I'm still waiting for my script to arrive."

Behind Thicknesse, the Aurors – most who had by this time dropped their wands - sniggered. It was obvious that Thicknesse held little legitimate control – besides the fact that he ranked higher in the hierarchy – and even the Aurors who had hoped to avoid him seemed eager to allow their amusement to participate, as long as their superior's ego fell in line of fire.

Thicknesse, to his credit, ignored them. "Don't play jokes on me, Potter," he snarled. "Nothing's going to get you out of this one."

"Or maybe what I'm trying to say ain't a joke," Harry snapped, feeling his irritation bubble. "Let me spell it out for you since you seem a little slow: What – have – I – done?"

And finally, the pin dropped. Thicknesse, who Harry doubted had made his way into the Ministry on brain cells alone, finally understood: Harry Potter genuinely had no clue what he was being arrested for.

If anything, this only seemed to please Thicknesse, and please him so much that the malicious glee bubbling away below his flimsy mask of professionalism could no longer be ignored.

"Harry Potter," Thicknesse enunciated triumphantly, savouring every syllable. "We have reason to believe that the actions you took during and after the last Hogwarts Quidditch game relate directly to the attacks that occurred on the same evening."

No way. He's accusing me of being the Heir to Slytherin! Harry froze, mouth falling open.

It was a rather triumphant moment. The only thing that undermined Pius Thicknesse's victory in any way was the hospital wing's doors banging open to welcome the arrival of Albus Dumbledore and his sidekicks McGonagall and Snape.

It was perhaps the only time Harry felt the rush of relief that came with Dumbledore's voluntary involvement in his life.

"Pius. I believe," Dumbledore said coldly, "that we need to take this elsewhere. Stealing a child from his hospital bed is not the way the Aurors operate."

Pius' entourage had the decency to respond by looking guilty and sheepish. Harry rolled his eyes. It seemed like Dumbledore was taking a page out of his book for once and actually told the authorities off. Hurrah. Keep this up Dumbledore and we might just be on the road to forgiveness.

"My office, gentlemen?"

-wizardry-

And so, once again, Harry found himself in the position of defendant in the courtroom that was the Headmaster's Office. Every set of eyes peered at him, some curiously and others contemptuously, most with the practiced subtlety of long-standing portraits that seemed from all angles the very picture of indifference, but all extremely interested in uncovering the truth.

"Why not begin with what it is Mister Potter here seems to be accused of, Mister Thicknesse," Dumbledore started tiredly.

"Oh, I believe we all know what he's done, Headmaster. Potter included," Thicknesse remarked impatiently. "This morning, we were informed by the brother of the victim, Mister Creevey, that something catastrophic had occurred in Hogwarts. His household was, only the night before, crudely informed of the attack made on his older brother Colin. Soon after, some questioning was made and Dennis Creevey decided to notify us on some of the happenings at Hogwarts his brother had only been too happy to write to him about. It let us to a rather enlightening discovery." Thicknesse's lips stretched into a smile. "We have strong evidence to suggest that you, Harry Potter, are the Heir of Slytherin, the sole perpetrator behind the recent attacks."

"And what evidence do you have?" Snape came to his defence, though sounding more curious than defensive.

"I am sure my last visitation of your school hasn't left your memory, Dumbledore," Thicknesse began gleefully. "Didn't Mister Potter himself say from his very own lips that he could, very likely, be the Heir of Slytherin if the Sorting Hat was so insistent on him going to Slytherin that even carrying the Sword of Gryffindor did nothing to deter him?"

For an instant, Harry's blood ran cold. Hadn't he known all along that some jibed comment he had uttered to an audience would someday come back to bite him? Now, finally, the terrible thing had happened – his own cleverness was being used against him.

"The boy also mentioned he was the Heir of Gryffindor," Snape remarked, when it became clear that Harry wasn't about to say anything.

"And indeed, he convinced us enough to be allowed to keep of the Sword of Gryffindor." Thicknesse's smile remained smug. "By the same reasoning, we should also therefore believe him to be the Heir of Slytherin, should we not?"

"This is ridiculous!" McGonagall exclaimed. "You're taking in the arrogant words of a mischievous eleven year old as proof of his guilt?"

Thicknesse didn't even blink. "Perhaps I wouldn't, had not more proof come my way. I see all of you have yet to read today's edition of the Daily Prophet."

Harry's eyebrows rose. Had it been someone else's life, he would've perhaps been impressed by how swiftly bad fortune from all corners seemed to strike simultaneously. Barnabus has made his move.

"Breakfast as yet to start, Thicknesse," Snape snapped, irritated and oblivious to his student's growing horror. "I'm afraid whatever bad news Prophet is now keen to deliver has yet to arrive."

"Well then, I am all too happy to give you a summary of what I'd read," Thicknesse replied cheerfully. "Today's edition includes a front-page article written by the editor-in-chief, Mister Barnabus Cuffe himself about, can you believe it, your golden boy being a parselmouth."

There was silence in the room, nothing to be heard except Dumbledore's phoenix pecking away, and the heavy breathing of a triumphant Thicknesse.

"Has the Daily Prophet fallen so far from journalistic integrity that even its editor now dares to print lies?" They were brave words uttered at his defence, but even Harry could sense the uncertainty that lurked behind McGonagall's staunch frame.

"Lies? Oh you may wish it were so, but believe me dear Professor, your boy just as much as confessed it himself." Thicknesse was almost frothing out the mouth with satisfaction.

"How dare-"

At this point, Harry decided to say something before the situation at hand really deteriorated.

"It's true," he muttered, of all things he could have said, "I am a parselmouth."

Nearly every face in the room turned to him with shock, stunned by his confession.

The truth isn't important. It's what the rest of you do about it that is.

"But being a parselmouth certainly doesn't prove me to be Colin Creevey's attacker-"

"There are scores of witnesses who would gladly testify to your conversation with Harold Quant, as well as to his mentions of Mister Creevey. The photographer himself has already relayed to us his series of events. When informed of Mister Creevey's role as informer of your various Quidditch perils, what did you do but groan, groan with exasperation and contempt for the boy!"

"Well if I groaned," he muttered sardonically, "then obviously no further questioning is needed about my murderous intentions."

Behind them, a few Aurors choked back laughter.

"That isn't all we have, Potter," Thicknesse continued, unperturbed. "Your last public appearance involved a wink and the words 'I reckon they've saved the day at least a couple of times', 'they' referring to your signature gesture, did they not?"

"Oh, and now I wink-"

"Answer the question, Mister Potter. Did you or did you not say those words moments after you had winked as an assurance of your wellbeing to your acquaintance Hermione Granger?"

Harry shrugged. "Oh, I apologise," he returned. "I should probably answer that verbally, shouldn't I? Lest you translate the next action I make into me being the Dark Lord's son or something equally ludicrous."

Thicknesse's eyes narrowed, far from amused. "Is that a confession, Mister Potter?"

"A joke, sir," Harry drawled to the amusement of the Aurors. "While I realise humour is a concept lost on you-"

"Try not to stray from the subject at hand, you arrogant, disrespectful boy," Thicknesse snarled. "The last words you had spoken, in relation to your wink, clearly signified your awareness of the link between their timing and the incidents that occur afterwards, yes? You went so far to state they "saved the day", clearly indicating your winks as being planned with precision and foresight. Each one of them was made with a clear understanding of the near future, each one of them signalling an instance no one else but yourself could expect. And what happens after this particular wink but the attack of Colin Creevey?"

"That is, I think, enough, Mister Thicknesse." Dumbledore, finally, had decided to intercept. "You bring up many interesting assumptions along with your accusation, Pius. Assumptions which I do think it is time to correct.

"The boy is a Parselmouth, yes, but merely speaking a language has never been enough for one to instigate an attack. Otherwise, I'd think your superior Mister Crouch who I know speaks over a hundred languages, would be somewhat of a Dark Lord himself, don't you think?"

"But the Heir of Slytherin-"

"Hagrid, who you accused fifty years ago of holding the title, was about as fluent with Parseltongue as I am with Mermish."

Thicknesse's face was slowly turning red. "He – but he winked for Merlin's sake-"

"I don't think there's anyone in Britain who hasn't been privy to Mister Potter's wink, Thicknesse," Snape remarked, adding his two cents. "While it surprises no one that it has taken you so long to deduce what most of us have realised quite some time ago, please refrain from making too much of a fool out of yourself by announcing your obtuseness to the Wizarding World."

Thicknesse spluttered, clearly a stranger to Snape's patented sarcasm.

"Yes, Thicknesse," Snape continued patiently, "We do realise a correlation exists between certain events and Potter's…winks. And such is even more reason to believe in his innocence. Is it not true that when these events do occur, they operate to Harry Potter's advantage? I highly doubt a boy with such foresight could have possibly failed to predict his own arrest had he made it so indisputably obvious that he was the perpetrator."

Thicknesse snorted, unconvinced. "You overestimate your student, Snape. Arrogance is never fool-proof. It was inevitable that Potter would botch up his careful plans one day." He glared at Harry. "You must think you're incredible, boy. A national hero at one and sending celebrities to prison before you've even hit puberty."

Harry, despite knowing he was on the verge of being arrested, couldn't help but rise to the occasion and grin. "If you must know sir, I do think I'm pretty awesome. But who knows – maybe you'll decipher the mystery behind the wink for yourself one of these days, eh?"

Thicknesse looked seconds away from cursing him. Behind them, the Aurors sniggered once more, eager to show their dislike for their superior. As relief flooded him in having avoided a disaster and he allowed himself a moment to relax, he wondered what it had taken for Thicknesse to convince the Aurors to act in his aid.

"This issue is far from over, Potter," he spat. "Mark my words – someone will push you off that pedestal very, very soon, and there will be nothing your arrogance or wit can do for you."

Harry gave him his sweetest smile. Merlin, if looks could kill.

Immediately after delivering his warning, Thicknesse turned to leave. His Aurors dallied for only a minute, looking in far better spirits than when they had first entered. Dawlish and Kingsley were the last to leave. Dawlish shot him a quick smile and Kingsley, having waited till he was the only Auror left in the room, turned to give Harry a wink before hastening to join the others.

At the sudden lack of crowdedness in the room, Harry breathed a moment's relief. It was a win, but only narrowly so. Barnabus' editorial was sure to send great repercussions across Wizarding Britain and no doubt a riot awaited him outside Dumbledore's office.

"A narrow escape, Mister Potter," Snape commented. "You seemed a little off form this morning."

"Severus," McGonagall rebuked, though she seemed to agree. "Potter, you need your rest. I will accompany you back to the Hospital Wing-"

"Hang on a minute, Professor," he interrupted, ignoring her affronted reaction. He turned to Dumbledore, who watched him expressionlessly. "Headmaster. I think I've heard far too much about this Heir of Slytherin not to ask you this – just exactly what is the Heir of Slytherin, why are they attacking Hogwarts and why am I the one accused of being him?"

Snape snorted. "Disappointing, Mister Potter. What with your curiosity and penchant for research last year, one would have expected you to investigate into Hogwarts' history long ago. Especially seeing as you were attempting to convince the rest of us that you were the Heir of Slytherin at the time."

Harry snorted. Trust Snape.

McGonagall seemed scandalised by the Head of Slytherin's nonchalance. "Severus, really. This is quite a serious matter we have here-"

"The Heir of Slytherin," Dumbledore interrupted, his humourless tone echoing McGonagall's sentiments, "is the last living descendent of Salazar Slytherin who possesses his ability of Parseltongue."

Harry frowned. "It has to be more than just a hereditary title, Professor."

"Perceptive," Dumbledore remarked. "You are right, Mister Potter. The legend of Slytherin's heir concerns not just any heir, for there have been hundreds, but rather it is the legend of the true Heir of Slytherin. An heir that carries not only his blood, not only his gift of Parseltongue, but also the vision that Salazar Slytherin stood for and believed in."

"And just what did he believe in?" Harry had a clue.

Dumbledore regarded him with wary eyes. "In the crudest sense, Slytherin advocated for the eradication of all Muggle-borns, and subsequently for a Wizarding society that only consisted of Pureblood witches and wizards like himself." He smiled. "Of course, such is a thousand year old tale passed down largely by word of mouth. It is very possible his intentions have become altered over the years."

Harry sighed, thinking of Slughorn's words. "Well then. There's only one person the true Heir could possibly be, isn't there?" If Dumbledore had expected him to jump at the defence of his house's namesake, he said nothing to suggest it. "The Dark Lord – or as I'm told, Tom Marvelo Riddle."

Dumbledore stared at him sharply, clearly not expecting him to have known Lord Voldemort's real name.

"May I ask how-"

"Professor Slughorn doesn't only hold social gatherings during our lessons, Professor," Harry said pointedly.

Dumbledore nodded. "And did he tell you of the first time the Heir of Slytherin-?"

"Certainly. Let's not even get to the fact that Hagrid the Hogwarts Groundskeeper was wrongly convicted of posing as the heir." Harry grimaced. "It was with the awareness that things could seriously worsen beyond control that I sought out Mad-Eye Moody to be our Defence teacher."

Dumbledore nodded once more. "I must say, I'm rather impressed with Horace. One would have expected his actions to be a little more…self-motivated."

Harry snorted. "He wouldn't be a Slytherin if self-interest wasn't his greatest concern, though as for why he's so eager to assist me…" He shrugged. "Or perhaps it has something to do with my mother and that it was her love and sacrifice that led to my triumph against the Dark Lord which did it for him…" He grinned. "I suppose, at the end of the day, between letting the Dark Lord rule once more and having the Boy-Who-Lived run free, he chose the lesser of two evils."

Dumbledore's eyes had once again reverted to their sharp, penetrative state. Something in Harry's words had noticeably shocked him. "You know of your mother's sacrifice?" Harry shrugged in response. "May I ask how-"

"I told him, Headmaster," Snape said curtly. "As I did the prophecy."

If anything, Dumbledore became even more surprised by this statement. "Ah," he said after a moment. "I – thank you, Severus."

"It was not my story to keep," Snape returned evenly, "though perhaps I would have, had certain…assumptions not been proven false the day I met Mister Potter."

Harry stared between the headmaster and his Head of House, mystified as he was sure McGonagall was also. Both avoided his gaze.

"So about this Heir," he brutally interjected, when neither seemed to feel the urge to enlighten him. "Only he could possibly have the power to open Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets and release the beast, probably his very means of purging the school's Muggle-borns. And now that the beast has indeed been released, it would be safe to say that the longer this goes for, the more our Heir the Dark Lord is gaining power, yes?"

Dumbledore had, it seemed, given up trying to deduce where Harry had drawn his conclusions from. "Yes, Mister Potter. But what astounds me is how Tom Riddle could have recovered to a state powerful enough to enter Hogwarts grounds undetected, reopen the Chamber of Secrets and release its monster, with every confidence that he could possibly succeed."

Harry couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at Dumbledore's voluntary confession. "Something less difficult than possession," he answered slowly. "Is it possible to possess not a human, but perhaps an animal? Or even an object of some sort that is carried around often by students…?"

Snape snorted. "The possibility of the Dark Lord encasing himself within the bindings of a schoolbook is highly unlikely, Potter. Even less chance than Ronald Weasley's infamous pet rat has of being a disguise."

Harry shrugged. "Just a thought."

Dumbledore, however, looked pensive.

"If the lot of you won't mind, I do believe it is time for Mister Potter to return to the Hospital Wing and rest," McGonagall interrupted, irate at the apathy all three of them seemed to show towards Harry's wellbeing. Harry didn't complain; if anything, he was slightly amused at the way McGonagall seemed to treat them, like the mother figure he'd often admired on the telly, rounding up the boys and stopping them from blowing anything up. It touched him a little to know how much she cared for him, despite the image of fairness she protruded in the classroom.

Which reminded him. "Where's my guardian?" Harry asked, steps away from the door. "Shouldn't Aunt Cassiopeia be present at something as momentous as my arrest? I would've thought…"

His chain of thought trailed off. There was silence as no one answered him. Harry swallowed, struck momentarily with the thought that perhaps it would have been better not to have stopped and asked. Perhaps he should have just allowed his ignorance to protect him, and perhaps it would have preserved for a time, as the Hogwarts students preoccupied themselves with the editor-in-chief's shocking article on the Boy-Who-Lived's Parceltongue ability, never bothering to read beyond the pages focused on Harry Potter and certainly not any of the obituaries printed at the back that would document his great-aunt's death.

Finally, Snape, the bearer of bad news, told him.

"I'm sorry, Potter. We thought you knew."

-wizardry-

Cassiopeia Black, the eldest member of the Blacks until her death, was found dead hours after the Quidditch Game that prompted the coining of two Quidditch moves, both made by her great-nephew.

As he had suspected, the news had been pushed aside by all that had happened before and after the discovery, most of which was credited to Harry. The Parselmouth story only served to cause further controversy in the life of Harry Potter, and no doubt drew for the Daily Prophet another record sale of papers. Angering Cuffe had been an arrogant and foolish thing to do, and it took Harry only the worst of circumstances to realise.

Yet again, Hogwarts found itself split. The majority of the school seemed to accept the fact that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin as being amongst his long (and still growing) list of achievements. As such, most Slytherins treated him with wary respect, with the occasional person of questionable sanity practically worshipping the ground he stood on. Unsurprisingly, the Hufflepuffs either avoided him or attempted to rile him with a backhanded compliment of some sort. Then there were the Ravenclaws – torn between curiosity (how exactly was it that a half-blood Potter came to bear the blood of Slytherin?) and the repulsion that came with believing Harry was behind Colin Creevey's attack. Cho and Marietta had all but avoided him, though Cho gave him the occasional sympathetic look when she passed. The Gryffindors were the only ones who went on fanatically defending his innocence, though he knew the count of his supporters lessened every day.

"You're saying the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who defeated You-Know-Who twice, is also the Heir of Slytherin?" he had heard one of the Weasley twins exclaiming to a classmate days ago. "Mate, get your priorities sorted."

"We've got you all figured, Potter," Macmillan had hissed to him as he and his group of glaring Hufflepuffs passed Harry one afternoon. "Don't even think that attacking us Hufflepuffs will be something you can get away with."

"Harry, you wouldn't know another use for the mandrake root, would you?" Daphne had asked casually one breakfast morning as she pondered over her half-finished Herbology essay. "I've got the beauty benefits, and there's of course the use in potions, but what were the health-"

"Daphne," Pansy had hissed.

What had followed was a moment of silence, during which Harry, who had his eyes focused on his meal, presumed glances were exchanged. Daphne had evidently gotten the message, for the rest of the morning had been spent with a lingering awkwardness amongst them, one that gambled with Harry's patience. The other Slytherins had followed in Daphne and Blaise's examples, staying subdued until, presumably, he had left their congregation to do something.

This, unfortunately, was becoming a chore. His closest friends were the only ones in Slytherin that remained dubious to his being the Heir of Slytherin, but they seemed convinced that he was grieving for the great-aunt that had died. Every word was treaded on carefully. Perhaps they hoped to avoid any outbursts they had expected him to give.

Was he sad that his great-aunt had passed? More than merely a little. Cassiopeia Black wasn't exactly the perfect guardian but she had been something – she had provided him with a home, a heritage and a tutor. She had been strict and cruel at times, but she was not without her reasons. Like every mother who saw the potential for greatness in her child, she had wanted only the best for him and from him.

He had been given fair warning that her health was deteriorating, but when the news did hit him, he was still surprised. Amid all else that was happening, he had taken her completely for granted. This naturally didn't help curb his guilt.

But what truly frustrated him, more than the question mark they had drawn beside his innocence could ever succeed in blackening his mood, were the rumours of his great-aunt's death that emerged as the days passed. Word had gotten out that the two of them had visited Godric's Hollow less than a month before Cassiopeia Black's death. The old tale of the township being cursed with death seemed to have returned, this time in full swing as people all around him speculated amidst fears of him being the Heir.

"Luna," he finally snapped one afternoon in the library, "shut up."

Luna, oblivious to all that was stirring beneath the surface, had been entertaining her vicinity with The Quibbler's explanation for the cause of his great-aunt's death, blood loss from the unexpected vampire attack of an undead lover. She blinked at Harry's sudden interruption.

"I'm sorry," she said, when it became obvious even to her that Harry wasn't about to say anything, "have I offended you?"

Nearby, Daphne stayed wisely quiet but from her leaked a muted scoff. No one seemed particularly eager to defend Luna, not when it was Harry she had incensed.

He shrugged in response. "You mightn't mean any harm," he remarked as he gathered his things, "but I wish you'd think about what you have to say first before – you just take all the speculation and treat it like some – that's my guardian there!"

Around him, as always, people stared.

"It's alright for you," he continued, "to take it like an interesting theory, but guess what Luna? That's my great aunt your father's magazine is publishing bollocks about. That's my great-aunt! And if you think it's alright to spew any of that garbage without any consideration for how the rest of us is feeling, you in your simple little fantasy world – well then you're wrong, because it's not alright. It's not."

His outburst seemed to have shocked everyone, even the Slytherins. Daphne and Blaise had both dropped their disdainful façade long ago and even Hermione, who of course was nearby in the library and had witnessed his outburst, seemed to take his words with disbelief and disappointment.

Great. Within an hour, the lot of them will probably take it as confirmation of me being the Heir of Slytherin.

Only Luna seemed to look apologetic. "I'm sorry, Harry Potter. I-"

Harry stormed out of the library, the rising need to escape flooding him.

Yet again, his life had become a soap opera, something others took entertainment out of, perhaps a life at moments envied, but one which most were happy to label as being someone else's. Jokes and conversations were being made at his expense, and Harry Potter's most recent outburst would no doubt be the latest news by the end of the day.

When he finally withdrew from his anger, he realised he had made his way to the lakeside. Still frustrated, his hands grabbed at the pebbles that rested on the edge of the lake. Then, with all his might, he threw as far as possible, sending a cataclysm of tiny stones forward, piercing the smooth surface of the lake.

"Bollocks," he found himself saying out loud. "Bloody hell."

It was inevitable – at the end of the day, no matter how the rest of the world including himself wanted to see Harry Potter as, he was still just a boy. He had flaws, despite how he wished he didn't, and he had emotions. Were he anyone else, perhaps Hermione Granger, he could easily call his actions as being in the wrong – he had been irrational, he was childish and no part of what he had done was what a leader should do. But what did Harry Potter see? He knew he had erred but help it he could not. Human nature was like that at times – it got even the best of men.

For perhaps hours, he stayed where he was, at the lakeside. Before long, he noticed figures in the lake bobbing at the surface as they watched him. At a distance, they seemed humanoid – perhaps mermaids, or perhaps kelpies the surrounding mist was playing tricks of the eye on. Another day and he would have been interested but it was the wrong time for sight-seeing. Tonight, he stared at them blandly, counting their heads. Twenty-eight had come and gone. Above him the skies reddened, softening the colour of the grass.

Perhaps this was mourning. Even though he consciously felt that he was sad but not distraught, perhaps a greater part of him sensed that this was the death of someone who, in the years to come, would have truly mattered. It was what could have been that was really getting to him. Only a year of knowing Cassiopeia Black and his life had changed so dramatically. Perhaps by the time he finished Hogwarts, he would have been able to think of her as a mother.

"Hell," he muttered. "Just…hell."

"Having a good time here, are we?"

Harry started. The distinct quality of Moody's voice eliminated the need to confirm by turning to face him. Instead, he stayed where he was, waiting for his teacher to join him.

What Moody had bought with him surprised Harry a little. In his hand was a folded newspaper cut-out.

"If that's another slew of lies you're handing me-"

"It's your guardian's obituary," Moody said bluntly. "Thought you might like a copy rather than hearing it for somewhere else."

Harry took it gingerly, unfolding the paper to discover a picture of what he presumed to be his great-aunt, infinitely younger and looking remarkably similar to Cassiopeia Black the Second.

Cassiopeia Black

1915-1992

The Honourable Cassiopeia Black has humbly left us after a life as a cultural icon, philosopher, political commentator and literary critic. Her contribution to the Wizarding World has been exceptional. She is credited for appropriating Nietzschean philosophy for the Wizarding population in her works Masters and Slaves, The Question of Good and Evil and Power, The Third Option, of which accommodated her own influences from her contemporary Gellert Grindelwald. The introduction of his ideology to the British Wizarding community is attributed to the sole efforts of Ms Black, whose longest and most controversial work For The Greater Good is speculated to have been written in his honour. Her philosophical and political works are furthermore presumed to be You-Know-Who's greatest influence, forming much of his earlier principles; her political support of his cause years later also assisted in much of his early rise to power…

Harry's hands shook as he continued to read. Certain words stood out, repeated throughout the page-long obituary. Finally, when he had finished, he crushed the thin paper in his hands, fiercely scrunching it into a ball.

"Bloody hell," he said, "I didn't know her at all, did I?"

How ironic was it that the most he would ever learn about his great-aunt, perhaps his closest magical relative, would be through her obituary? Never once had he bothered to question her background, never did he even consider she had a history worth pondering over. It horrified him to think that he had been living with perhaps the greatest supporter of not one, but two dark lords. No wonder the Daily Prophet made him out to be the next dark lord when Cassiopeia Black was his guardian.

But then there was the other thing – he had lived with perhaps one of the greatest Wizarding minds, one that had contributed so immensely to Wizarding culture, and he'd never even known. No wonder she got along so well with Bathilda Bagshot – they were probably chums back in the day. He had underestimated the cruelty of his great-aunt to be something solely rooted in prejudice and hatred. Was she a better person than what he had seen her to be? No. If anything, she seemed even worse. But it was indisputable that she was a far more astute individual than he'd given her credit for.

How must she have thought I saw her as? Perhaps as just an old lady, too strange and crazy to take seriously, of whom had such a unique past I had never once bothered to question.

-wizardry-

"Potter?"

A muffled response was the only reply Professor Snape received as he enquired in the second year Slytherin boys' dormitory.

Harry, meanwhile, was busy attempting to decipher Master and Slaves, the first book his great-aunt's obituary had mentioned. It was a convoluted mix of philosophy - obtained from the Muggle philosopher Nietzsche and his concept of master-slave moralities which Cassiopeia occasionally alluded to – Wizarding psychology – in which his great-aunt brutally separated the Wizarding world into the Dark and Light wizard mindsets, then proceeded to analyse and compare the two – cultural critique – in which she connected the 'growing apathy of the Wizarding world' with the domination of the Light wizard mindset – and propaganda, where every second chapter seemed to end in relation to the miracle that was Grindelwald. Despite this, Harry couldn't help but feel light being shed the more he read. 'For the greater good', a phrase he could still somewhat remember his great-aunt saying during their first disastrous meeting, was in fact Gindelwald's motto.

"Potter," Snape repeated, this time resigned, "what are you doing?"

Wordlessly, Harry handed him the article. Whether or not, Snape pondered over its crumpled state, he mentioned nothing. There was silence as he scrutinised its contents.

"Cassiopeia Black," Harry muttered. "Nothing is what it seems these days. Even people you thought you knew turn out to be something completely different. And to think even the Daily Prophet's obituary writer knew her better than me…"

Snape snorted. "Despite being astoundingly mature, Potter, you still never fail to act your age at times. You think a mere stranger, most likely employed to write obituaries for those whose loved ones fail to produce any, knows more of Cassiopeia than you do?"

"Yes," Harry bit back. "That is exactly what I think." He snatched back the article. "A cultural icon, a philosopher, a political commentator, a literary critic. I never knew she was any of these things when she was alive. I never cared – never even bothered to-"

"Potter, wipe your eyes."

Indeed, he was startled to discover they were wet.

"You truly think there was nothing Cassiopeia Black offered for you, beyond that of a guardian?" Snape's eyes were the softest Harry could ever remember them being. "How about a mother, Harry? How about a parent who cared?"

Harry sniffed. "She worshipped Grindelwald, that much is clear. And probably the Dark Lord too. As for why she took me in – well, I suppose it explains why she always urged me to take on the Wizengamot, doesn't it? She thought I'd follow in their footsteps."

Snape sighed, slightly irritated. "You are mourning, Mister Potter," he murmured. "When you are calmer, please think things over. There is a reason why no one stopped her from being your guardian, just as there is a reason why you have not discovered her illustrious career until after her death-"

"And what is that reason?" he hissed.

But Snape just shook his head. "It is not my place to tell," he said. "Perhaps one day, you will realise why the rest of the Wizarding World has forgiven her." Then he picked up her obituary. "This was written in the Daily Prophet, Mister Potter. I wonder if this being the same newspaper accusing you of posing as the Heir of Slytherin should mean anything to you."

With that, Snape left.

And for the first time he could remember, Harry cried.

-wizardry-

As the days passed and the Daily Prophet no longer saw it necessary to show their respect for the recently deceased, a slew of articles had been published – and by Cuffe himself – that 'exposed' the true colours of Cassiopeia Black. As if Harry hadn't already felt the sting of her past's betrayal.

Talk of Harry as the Heir of Slytherin naturally continued, now stronger than ever what with stories of Slytherin house's notoriety burning under the growing flame of Cassiopeia's history.

Like him, his generation seemed largely unaware of the figure that was Cassiopeia Black beyond what the Daily Prophet had promptly published as an indirect attack on Harry. As a mark of their ignorance, most had soaked up whatever Cuffe had written. The man was careful – perhaps in anticipation of the retaliation that was likely to follow, he had cited all his sources with astonishing accuracy. Phrases were taken straight out of Cassiopeia's mouth, testified by various witnesses he had used an entire page to list. Harry knew this, because Hermione Granger had seen it prudent to inform him that she had personally looked up every single source.

"This isn't like the time with Skeeter," she said, looking apologetic. "Cuffe learnt from her mistakes. He's directly quoted from most of his sources and none of them are used out of context either. What he's writing is the truth. I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry shook his head, not saying anything. Perhaps she had expected him to ask her why she had bothered attempting to help him, but his mind was too numb to formulate into words all that he had to say.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione repeated as he walked off, still dazed.

How could he even begin to defend her honour when – as a first – every word the Daily Prophet had published was the unforgiving truth?

In the days that followed, he drifted between meals, lessons and sleep. He took in Luna's apology serenely with only one ear listening. He asserted his wellbeing to a concerned Hermione, then to his fellow Slytherins who were beginning to find him abnormally inattentive. McGonagall took him aside, assuring him his grades were as excellent as ever, though could he please answer more questions in class, and if there was anything she could do for him, he only needed to ask. All the sly comments and slurs thrown his way had become muffled, something he was somewhat thankful for.

Days passed before things began to change. Daphne slammed her cutlery on the table one morning, her patience finally broken.

"That's it. I've had enough," she snapped, "snap out of it, Potter. Do you truly think that only you are entitled to grieve?"

Harry stared woodenly. "I'm not-"

"She was just as close to you as she was to Draco and Cass," Daphne snapped, "both of whom have known her their whole lives. But have you even bothered to consider how they would feel?"

He reddened, then discretely looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of either Cassiopeia or Draco. He found the two sitting on the other end of the Slytherin table, eating and conversing nonchalantly. Despite their indifferent appearance, Harry couldn't help berating himself for having completely forgotten about them.

"You never even liked her," Daphne said sourly. "Do you know when her birthday is? Because I'm pretty sure if I ask Cass there, she can answer without even thinking. Can you say the same?"

"You don't think I realise I knew nothing about her?" he hissed back. "You think there's no part of me that wishes things were different?"

"If that's what you're thinking, then you certainly haven't done much to remedy the situation, have you?" Daphne continued mercilessly. "What about her funeral, Potter? They buried her while you were too busy moping. Only a handful of people turned up, what with no one having felt it necessary to announce any official gathering. Where were you then? Waiting for an invite while the rest of us actually bothered to inquire?"

Harry, meanwhile, was feeling torn between guilt and anger. On one hand, Daphne had a point. But the fact was that there was far more to the story than what Daphne believed. He refused to allow her to continue without saying nothing of his own.

"Let me tell you something, Daphne," he said quietly, "human emotions aren't quite as flexible as we'd all like to think. You can't just turn them on and off, sad people can't just tell themselves to be happy. I'm sorry for not celebrating, even though I've only known her for a year, even though I never declared my utmost devotion to her, even though it might seem to you that I clearly have no right to be sad. I give you my utmost apologies for acting the way I have, but don't even think you can tell me to 'snap out of it'." He glared. "Not to mention, you're asking me to justify my emotions. I'm telling you that me ever having to justify how I feel is nobody's business, least of all yours."

Around him, spectators watched with wide eyes. Harry had half a heart to transfigure their food into popcorn; that would complete the scene.

As always, the Slytherin crowd remained silent. Harry inwardly laughed. He should have known it was too much to hope for any volunteers at his back.

Daphne burst into laughter.

"And the sad thing is that I'm not even surprised," she spat. "When was the last time any of us were entitled to even a pinch of Harry Potter's business?"

And just as quickly, the odds were back in Daphne's favour.

"You never seem to think much about the rest of us, do you? It's always about your politics, forming connections that benefit you, trying to save the world and all that, while the rest of us little people live on without getting so much as a second glance from the great and mighty Harry Potter."

Beside her, Blaise's gaze was fixated on his plate.

Harry scoffed. "You seem to think I have a remarkably short memory, or were you just hoping I'd forget the time the lot of you ditched me the instant you felt Malfoy was close to replacing me?"

Daphne flushed but remained indignant. "And naturally, you just assume we owe you our loyalty or something. We're not chess pieces, Potter. You can't just expect us to take your stand when you've never even bothered with trying to win ours. So not all of us survive Killing Curses in our spare time. That doesn't automatically make us beneath you. If you expect some sort of blind following where the rest of us don't exist until you need us, then think again, mate."

"She likes you, you know," Blaise muttered to them minutes before Transfigurations as they waited for McGonagall to appear. "Daphne I mean."

Harry turned around and stared at his friend incredulously. "Correct me if I'm wrong Blaise," he responded, voice delivering his surprise, "but did she not just yell at me in front of the entire school?"

Blaise snorted. "You really are a dim one at times, mate," he mused.

"You think what she did was right?" he muttered.

Blaise gave it to him bluntly. "What she did was heartless, but you've got to stop underestimating the rest of us. Maybe in your grand narrative of a life, we're just the supporting characters, but don't think for a minute that we value any less. Lately, it just feels like everything you do, the rest of us are being left out. I'm saying this on behalf of everyone. Surely, we still matter.

"Not to mention," Blaise added just as McGonagall entered the classroom, "Luna still deserves an apology. You've been pretty brutal, adopting her then abandoning her to the rest of us. Even for a misfit, she deserves better."

Harry sighed, then wordlessly shook his head.

Despite the petulance that lingered behind Daphne's demand for him to stop mourning, both Daphne and Blaise had made something clear - Their objections shone doubt over his leadership, a doubt that could very well be present in every other corner of Hogwarts. The Weasley twins and Hermione, Luna and the other Ravenclaws Cho and Marietta. He was letting them down in dismissing their presence and taking them for granted. Now was not the time to lose whatever precarious support he still received.

The road ahead might be mine to walk, but that road doesn't have to be an empty one.

His emotions retained their potency in the days to come, but he was markedly more mature. He made more of an effort during meals to socialise around his table. In the library, he hunted down Hermione and apologised for acting so out of character. Hermione had blushed a little out of surprise at his sudden courtesy, then ran off stammering something that sounded like forgiveness. The Weasley twins were good sports, who brushed off his words with a "glad you're back, mate". The Ravenclaws were a little trickier, needing something more than a simple apology to be pacified. At the end of a long talk, it seemed that most of the Ravenclaw girls were resolved in believing his innocence, perhaps with the exception of Marietta who remained slightly hesitant.

Then there was Luna. Harry finally found her wandering the Halls one afternoon.

"Luna," he called.

Luna turned, her wide eyes staring at him vacantly. "Harry Potter," she said calmly. "Have you come to yell at me again?"

Harry shook his head vehemently. "I'm sorry, Luna," he said. "I got angry at you last time for something that wasn't completely your-"

Luna waved his apology off dismissively. "It was my fault you know," she said lightly, "I'm very good at saying the wrong things at the wrong time. Don't worry, Harry Potter. The Quibbler's stopped printing things about your great-aunt now."

He nodded. "So...friends?"

Luna beamed. "I'm honoured to be your friend, Harry."

"Thanks, Luna. Er, what are you doing right now?"

Luna pointedly at her bare feet, her smile dimming. "My room mates like to hide my things around the school, you see."

Harry frowned, wondering which of the Ravenclaws he'd talked to earlier could have done something so cruel, then berated himself for being so self-absorbed, having forgotten about the ill-treatment Luna had received in the beginning of the year.

"Come on, Luna," he finally said, "let's look for your shoes together."

It took another hour and the employment of several more than willing Slytherins, but eventually they spotted the shoes tucked behind a suit of armour. Luna had been mightily pleased, so much that she gave him one of her corkscrew necklaces the next time she saw him.

And Harry Potter is back, he thought.

As tiring as it was at times, he held up his image the best he could as the days passed. This was not the time to lose his grip; only too many people were waiting for him to stumble. Cassiopeia would probably return from the dead and kill him should he do so.

It was about time he got his act together.

The opportunity came for him to inquire over both Cassiopeia and Draco the very next day, when all three were called to Headmaster's Office. Before entering, Harry quickly seized the chance to speak to them.

"How are you?"

Draco shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "Definitely not an occasion to celebrate over," he muttered. "Though I can't say I'm all that surprised – Queenie here only told us as much when she came here."

Harry, still mystified over why Draco called her Queenie but also knowing it was an inconvenient moment to bring up the question, turned to Cassiopeia. She seemed noticeably less indifferent, but similarly shrugged. "I was prepared."

"Cass-"

"Let's just enter," she said sharply.

It turned out Dumbledore had summoned the three for the purpose of notifying them of the reading of Cassiopeia's Black will, set to commence in a week's time.

"It will be held at the Ministry," Dumbledore informed them. "Certain officials have seized the opportunity to confiscate nearly all her assets under the guise of searching for illegal objects."

Draco and Cassiopeia both responded with indignation. "That's not fair! She has her own solicitor, they can't just take over his job!"

"How dare they just take her things? My father-"

"They can't look in her Gringotts vault," Harry interrupted, remembering Gringotts as one of the safest places in the world – what with such tight goblin security that rarely agreed with the Wizarding Ministry, it was doubtful that the goblins would hand over to the officials the right to sift through their vaults.

Dumbledore nodded. "You are right, Harry. That is the one area of the Wizarding World they have little control over but rest assured Cassiopeia couldn't possibly have fitted all her wealth inside one vault.

"This is evidently a setup," he continued. "Cassiopeia Black knew many witches and wizards, some of which held reputations questionable in the eyes of the Ministry. This is an opportunity for them to officially arrest any of these unconventional and so far unconvicted individuals."

The message was clearer than ever – Pius Thicknesse was far from over his failed attempt at arresting Harry Potter, and fate had presented them with another brilliant scheme. Should anything Cassiopeia Black had bequeathed him with in her will be even the slightest bit illegal, Harry was doomed.

The day of the will's reading came only too soon. During Potions, an anxious Cassiopeia asked for Draco and Harry, to which Snape consented with a simple nod. The two packed their things, Draco swiftly and Harry fumbling a little, mind preoccupied. Then all three made their way to Dumbledore's office.

They arrived at the Ministry through the Headmaster's Floo, finding themselves in a chamber packed with numerous witches and wizards. Draco and Cassiopeia immediately dispersed into the crowd, no doubt eager to get away from him. Harry focused his attention on the people who Cassiopeia must have noted in her will. Some of them Harry could identify – Longbottom's Black grandmother, the Crouch sisters (whom he carefully avoided), an unsurprising Bathilda Bagshot who was busy chatting to a witch until he caught her eye.

"Harry dear!" she cried. "How delightful to see you once again."

Harry nodded, noting the badly muffled gasps from several people nearby as they noticed him.

Professor Slughorn was also nearby, looking as if he had won the lottery as he moved from person to person; no doubt most of them were famous in one way or another. The Malfoys were also present, standing with Draco and Cassiopeia both at their sides.

"Madam," he said quietly to Bathilda, "I read my great-aunt's obituary the other-"

"Oh, and how horrendous it was!" Bathilda chorused. "It was sent to me, you know. First time I've read anything the Daily Prophet'spublished in ages. What a load of tosh all of it was."

Harry blinked.

"One mustn't only regard someone's life through the lens of one pair of eyes, you know. Many facets make up a person and personally. A true historian knows to examine all his sources before placing the judgement." She winked. "Truthfully, I find Cassiopeia's literary works far more outstanding than her politics."

Harry blinked once more. Of course. The article didn't even mention anything beyond her ties with Grindelwald and Tom Riddle.

"Besides," Bathilda continued, "all that happened decades ago. Cassiopeia's always had her morals fixed where they were, but she could see the flaws. I'd say that over time, she realised her mistakes in entrusting her faith onto symbols that were, ultimately, just human."

The moment at the graveyard suddenly came back to him – his great-aunt had for an instant broken down, clearly disillusioned about something after noting the symbol etched on the Peverell grave. We trusted in the wrong man. Could it be possible that she had realised her mistakes after all?

All too soon, their attention was called by a sour-looking wizard.

"'Being of sound mind and in the presence of witnesses, I hereby bequeath my estate as follows'," the solicitor began. "'To Lucretia Prewitt, I leave you my house-elf Timmy, under the condition that he provides his service solely for persons of Black blood and no other.'"

Lucretia seemed mightily pleased.

"'To Clement and Celeste Crouch, I leave you the pair of Black crests that hang in my living room, under the hopes that they will inspire a deeper understanding into what it means to be a Black."

The pair flushed, eyes shifting sourly.

The list continued, seeming endless. In death, his great-aunt had taken the opportunity to clear all her long-standing debts, misunderstandings and rivalries.

"'To my longest friend and most persistent critic Bathilda Bagshot, I give you my entire collection of historical works and the sum of one thousand galleons under the condition that you spend this money on what you have always desired…

"'To Draco Malfoy and his parents Narcissa and Lucius, I give you my Australian estate, where good weather and abundant sunshine will hopefully endow you with healthier complexions…To Callidora Black, I give you…'"

The Malfoys let out a collective breath, evidently disappointed. Of everything their wealthy relative could have given them, it was almost insulting to think that all they would receive was a mere house.

"'To Horace Slughorn, I give you my entire collection of crystallised pineapples, all forty-eight different flavours, as well as my potions vault, under the condition that you will supply my ward Harry Potter with any training that he requires for the next two years…"

"'To Cassiopeia Black, my youngest and longest ward, I give you the piano that was already yours, my house-elf Remmy, my wardrobe and my entire collection of jewellery, under the condition that she does nothing to undermine the Black name."

It seemed like quite a hefty inheritance to Harry, but Cassiopeia was evidently disappointed. Money wasn't mentioned, nor estates, the two worthiest components of any will. As a parentless child with no sanctuary, she would most likely have to depend on another relative until she came of age, something that Harry knew her pride would never allow her to do without feeling humiliation. To worsen matters, his great-aunt's condition was a great insult. After all Cassiopeia had done for her namesake, their relative had perhaps still sensed her ward's lingering resentment at being second to Harry in her guardian's eyes.

"The remainder of my estate, including my house, the manuscripts of all my works – finished or unfinished – and my Gringotts vault, I leave to my ward Harry Potter," the wizard continued, "along with the remainder of my personal possessions, all my business holdings and assets, which Mister Potter will manage to the best of his abilities after my death. Signed, Cassiopeia Black.' Ladies and gentleman, that is all."

The will had finished. No one seemed greatly surprised by the ending, though nearly everyone was dissatisfied.

"The Ministry would like to say a few words before you leave," the solicitor said frostily. "Cassiopeia Black's will has been extensively reviewed for illegal or highly dangerous objects." No one seemed surprised by this. "The Ministry has appraised as much of her properties and assets as within the rights of the law, and nothing of questionable nature has been discovered…thus far."

The Ministry solicitor was glaring directly at Harry now. "Of course, should any part of her will expose itself to be of a corrupt nature in the near future, the Ministry would like to warn you now that we will not hesitate to arrest its keeper."

There came a pause in the room as the Blacks looked between each other and discretely at Harry. It was obvious who the Ministry was targeting – Harry was now the owner of his great-aunt's Gringotts vault, the contents of which remained a mystery to those barred out of entering goblin territory unauthorised, and it provided a brilliant excuse for the people who were desperately searching for ways to pin him down.

He was no longer treading on thin air – he was stamping on the fine needles that lay beneath his bare feet.

-wizardry-

That weekend, during his lesson with Professor Slughorn, his tutor made it clear that under no terms was he to visit Gringotts until matters concerning the Heir of Slytherin were settled.

"The Ministry is desperate enough to use any excuse to incarcerate you, Harry," Slughorn told him. "As soon as you step foot into Gringotts, they will undoubtedly be notified and Aurors will be ready by the time you leave goblin territory."

"They can't," Harry said disbelievingly.

"They will," his tutor confirmed. "There's little we can do about it, except…" He paused. "How are your relations with the goblins?"

Harry shrugged. "Alright, I suppose." Then a thought struck. "Wait – I just remembered something. I saved a goblin's life before First Year. They owed me a debt, which I used to help myself get emancipated…"

Slughorn's eyes widened at the revelation. "Why excellent," he exclaimed. "We can easily write to Gringotts and ask for a summary of Cassiopeia's assets, a small favour in the name of their debt."

Which was what they did immediately. Within an hour, Gringotts had replied with a thick roll of parchment that effectively listed the entire contents of Cassiopeia's vault. Unsurprisingly, half of her assets consisted of illegal Dark objects, some of which Harry guessed were the typical Black heirlooms his great-aunt had hoarded for years. Then there was the money, an expectedly long value that Harry pushed to one side. What interested him the most was what came near the end of the list.

"Cassiopeia's second revised will?" he read incredulously.

Professor Slughorn was equally surprised. "That sly girl," he murmured. "She must've known all along…"

It made sense, Harry thought. The Ministry-read will was squeaky-clean, something that seemed unlikely when most of the recipients were Blacks who bordered if not firmly sat on the Dark side. No doubt during her last days, Cassiopeia had stashed nearly everything that was hers into Gringotts and leaving a few inconsequential things that could not fit behind so as to not raise suspicions, under the hopes that Harry would carry out her true wishes.

At the thought of the fact that his great-aunt had known of her demise for so long before it would arrive, Harry swallowed thickly.

A part of him was torn, knowing that even in death, his great-aunt expected him to obey and carry out his duties unquestionably. And after all that he had read, knowing what he did about her now, how could he? It was one thing to do something out of loyalty, but sometimes what came first was the substance of morality. Harry wasn't dumb – he held no delusions to the fact that the contents of her second will, stashed away from the public eye in her Gringotts vault, would consist of illegal Dark objects. And upon knowing this fact, Harry had to consider a few things. First, what on Earth did he owe any of these people, these arrogant, conservative Purebloods who looked at him down the bridges of their upturned noses and sneered at his appearance, if not at the sole fact that he was a Half-blood?

For despite Dumbledore's reluctant tolerance of Harry's association with the Blacks, the Headmaster's earlier warnings lingered in the recesses of Harry's mind. He had known of the consequences when he'd stepped foot into Slytherin territory, first on the first day at Hogwarts, then again at Artcurus Black's funeral. The people and their calculative dispositions were faults he had learnt to adjust to. Their political views were ones Harry had so far avoided confronting, though that was largely due to the flexibility of their self-preservation rather than anything on his part. He had, for purposes of survival as well as others of pleasure, forged relations with what people like his parents – and invariably the Weasleys –considered to be 'The Other Side'.

But despite this success, several things made it impossible for Harry to truly blend in. Perhaps most shocking for the Slytherins was that on top of all of this, Harry Potter was also a Parcelmouth and for some, the natural contender for the Heir of Slytherin. Exceeding that was his position as the emancipated owner of two seats in the Wizengamot. But one identity no one could dispute was the lightning scar on his forehead, despite being obscured under his cap most of the time.

He had, first and foremost, a prophecy on his shoulders. One which defeat had been a possibility so horrific that it had required his parents' sacrifice just to thwart. A year ago, Snape had given it to him – to die or to live, and he wished to live.

To carry out his great-aunt's will as she had undoubtedly planned for him to do would inevitably mean for Harry to aid the very side his parents had fought their lives against.

He mentally scoffed. You underestimate me, aunt. Helping my enemies is something no sane person would ever do.

But another, more rational part of him saw something of an opportunity.

No one except himself, Professor Slughorn and Gringotts knew of this second will's existence, and if they did, they were reluctant to ponder over its absence.

Clearly, the second will was just a bonus – he could go on living his life forever withholding its contents and no one would suspect a thing. Or, he could give them out to individuals whenever he desired, without ever having to mention the will. It could be from the kindness of his heart for all they knew.

Because Cassiopeia had left the will in her – now Harry's – vault and had filled it with objects Harry could distribute at his own discretion.

Realisation dawned.

His great-aunt had just given him a pot full of gold with the implied intention to use them as bargaining chips when it came to manoeuvring political support or alliances.

She had known of the precarious situation Harry would inevitably fall into, sometime after her death, and she had prepared for it.

That or, you know, Harry had opportunistically thought up the idea himself.

Naturally, that had him split. On one hand, he could be potentially distributing Dark objects. It was even just being the Boy-Who-Lived. As someone who aspired to be part of the Wizengamot someday, this was an act of immorality with severe consequences. But on the other hand, the Ministry – Crouch, the backstabber – was perhaps breaths away from arresting him. Desperate situations called for aid and the will provided him with that.

Either way, one thing was obvious - he needed to see that will.

At this, Slughorn shook his head emphatically. "Impossible at the moment, even for you Harry. Just stay seated for a while longer and we'll wait till this is all over."

He sighed helplessly.

"There are stillthings she's left for you outside of Gringotts, you know," his tutor placated him. "She gave you her manuscripts of virtually everything she has ever written-"

"That reminds me, professor." Harry stared at his tutor. "How well did you know my relative, before her death?"

Horace blinked. "Why, as well as any other fellow under her employment I suppose."

"And it never occurred to you to question what a person with her past was doing supervising Harry Potter's education?"

Horace blinked once again. "I apologise, Harry. I never thought-"

"Here's what I don't understand," Harry said, tugging at his hair out of frustration. "My initial impression of men like Dumbledore was that they were totally unaccepting of the other side, that they met prejudice with prejudice. He tried to convince me to move out of Slytherin, you know. And when that didn't work, he tried to convince me to get better friends. But when it came to Cassiopeia Black being my guardian, the propagandist of both Grindelwald and Tom Riddle, why was it that even Dumbledore never said a word of complaint, not a single thing against her? Why was it that all of you just accepted her role in my life and told me I could do worse? Why is it that even in death, no one dares to sully her name, except for the likes of the Daily Prophet, who only did it in an attempt to discredit me?"

Slughorn watched him as he ranted with soft eyes.

"Harry," he finally said, "your great-aunt lived a marvellously long life and she would turn in her grave should she know of the younger generation remembering her through the much exaggerated article of a corrupt newspaper. We who have lived before and through the war, we have seen things those who have only ever known prosperity and war's victory take for granted every day. Years before you entered her life, she was a figure who dwelled permanently under the light of the Wizarding media, and despite her political leanings, her sheer brilliance was what caused so many to respect and admire her. It is a great tragedy that our children should remain ignorant to all that has happened before them.

"Before you form any judgements, I think you owe it to her to read her manuscripts."

Harry sighed. Before her death, Cassiopeia had conveniently piled all her writings into one box. Unfortunately for him, the rolls of parchment had only managed to fit due to the Extension Charm placed on the box. Despite the effort it would require, he knew it owed it to her.

"Perhaps you would like me to organise them for you," Professor Slughorn offered.

Harry didn't even attempt to hide his relief.

Nearing the end of their lesson, Dirk Cresswell decided to pay them a visit. Tom, who had admitted him into the Leaky Cauldron's parlour, winked good-naturedly at Harry before leaving them. For a moment, relief flooded him. It seemed that there still existed those who saw through the holes of the press, those who were willing to support him and showed their support in even the simplest of ways.

"Potter," Cresswell began, sounding extremely tired, "is it so difficult to keep your head out of the public's eye, even for a second?"

Harry scowled. So much for hoping for an ally.

"Granted, you hardly had the foresight to prevent a death," he continued, "but couldn't at least – I dunno – wink less? Merlin, you have your work cut out for you."

"My greatest apologies for the inconvenience sir," Harry remarked sourly.

"Look, I'm not here to argue," Cresswell said with equal exasperation and haste, "and certainly not with you. You have enough enemies as it is. Potter, I'm here to help."

There was silence as Cresswell waited for a response. Harry nodded patiently, leaning back to see what the man had to offer.

"I told you last time we met that Mister Crouch was planning a coup," Cresswell continued when it became evident he was going to say nothing.

"I remember it quite vividly," Harry interjected.

"Yes, well, it's going to happen soon. Really, really soon."

He nodded patiently, waiting for him to continue.

Professor Slughorn voiced his thoughts. "Would you like to elaborate, Dirk? You've been awfully brief about this alleged coup. Can you at least tell us when it'll be?"

Cresswell shuffled uncomfortably. "That depends on Potter, actually," he finally answered. "It comes down to what the Boy-Who-Lived decides to spring on the Wizarding World next. With the press on the Ministry's side, it wouldn't be difficult twisting an innocent scenario into the validation the Ministry wants."

"Validation for what?"

This time, Cresswell looked him straight in the eye before answering. "Validation that you deserve to be locked up or confined, Potter."

"What?"

Several things ran through Harry's head. First, there was the imminent event of Crouch's scheme to take over the Ministry. Second, there was Harry Potter, and the efforts of the Ministry to bring him down. As for how the two were interlinked, he remained puzzled.

"What does locking me up have anything to do with Crouch gaining power?"

Cresswell shook his head. "See, here's the thing," he began. "The Ministry have got you pinned down as a – a wildcard. You're just too unpredictable. You brought down Lockhart and you brought down Skeeter, both of whom had an image in the public was booming. Merlin, before then, you even brought down Dumbledore. And let's not mention what you've done to You-Know-Who, or his vessel. Frankly, you're picking off anyone who's competing for public attention, and within a year of entering the Wizarding world, you've already gained a monopoly in terms of fame. Even just thinking about what you'll be like once you leave Hogwarts is quite frightening.

"Then there's the Ministry. You should know by now that it hates sharing the limelight. Fudge might be asking Dumbledore for help in every second problem he gets, but you don't see him boasting about it. Nor did Crouch complain when you crowned him leader of the Wizengamot – he's hoping to become the next Minister of Magic anyway, and where better to start than there? But what the Ministry hates, above all else, is being made a fool out of."

Cresswell continued. "They don't like it when an eleven-year-old kid comes along and destroys whatever semblance of peace they had with exposing You-Know-Who's presence, demanding independence with emancipation, even throwing off Dumbledore, whom they've been hoping to get rid of or hire for years. They don't like it when heroes they've applauded and celebrated turn out to be fools, or when a twelve-year-old kid has more control over Hogwarts than what they have ever managed to accumulate.

"Let me put it simply to you, Harry Potter. To the Ministry, you're a threat. If you weren't so good at destroying people and saving the day, they'd use you like Crouch first did to gain power. The problem is that you're becoming too volatile for your own good and in the Ministry's eyes, the Wizarding World is just better off without you."

As Cress well's long and winded monologue came to an end, the three of them sat there, two of them stunned while the last breathed heavily in an effort to gain back his momentum.

"So let me get this right," Harry finally said, slowly, "the Ministry is basically trying to make me disappear in order to get their head back in the game…"

"Yep."

"And Crouch is thinking, Why not? Might as well play a hand in it and find a use out of his downfall..."

"Er, somewhat."

"So I have the entire Ministry waiting for me to botch it up right now, with possibly the Wizengamot joining in now that its leader would like a piece of the cake, and definitely the Daily Prophet and Cuffe not holding back when it comes to slandering Harry Potter after a little incentive, all the while I have my school being attacked by a monster I'm supposedly responsible for."

Both Slughorn and Cresswell, shuffled uncomfortably at his bluntness.

"Crudely speaking, yes."

Harry looked between the two of them. "Any advice?"

"Try to keep your face out of the papers?" Slughorn suggested.

Cresswell coughed. "You could always attempt to track down the beast and help tame it, thus renewing your image in the public's eyes, even just temporarily. Bearing in mind that to do so would only make you seem even more of a threat to the Ministry, of course."

Harry sighed, long and hard. Life, despite his best attempts, had suddenly become a lot more complicated.

"Looks like I'm doomed then."

-wizardry-

Even better was news of Crouch's execution of a new Educational Decree – all whole-school activities held on school premises were to be supervised by Aurors. This of course meant Quidditch matches, during which Harry suspected Crouch had wanted a firm eye watching, but it also meant meals in the Great Hall every day. Immediately after news of its approval from Professor Slughorn, Harry saw the change in Hogwarts. The Aurors had indeed stationed themselves evenly around the Great Hall. Their presence came as a relief to most students, who naturally applauded Crouch's generous act of supplying the best-trained Aurors to protect Hogwarts and her children from whatever lurked within the castle walls.

Perhaps Harry would have been one of them, had he not known better.

The only negative impact of their presence was that the students were more convinced than ever that Slytherin house was the embodiment of all evil. That seemed to be the message endorsing Aurors to the school inevitably led to. Those who had always been hostile to his house and Harry were positively gloating with the thought that Harry was close to being caught.

The frustration followed him into the Second Year Slytherin dormitory one evening a week after the new decree had been set in place, when the one place he had hoped to find a little peace of mind and refuge from the Great Hall had descended into chaos. Yet another fight had erupted between Ron Weasley and his fellow Slytherins. This time, it involved nearly all of his Slytherin friends - Cassiopeia and Draco were absent, though not Draco's two goons, Nott probably had better things to do and wisely avoided the confrontation – as well as a couple Slytherin prefects, including Flint, who watched on.

"How dare you! You shame our house, Weasley."

"Honestly, Parkinson? There are worse things I care about."

Harry paused a little from the book he was reading, choosing for a moment to watch the situation from is bed. As always to her enemies, Pansy's words were acerbic and spiteful. But it was Ron's words that had taken him by surprise – perhaps it had something to do with their interactions between limited to nil with the boy constantly avoiding the Slytherin table during meals, but Ron seemed more…mature.

"Maybe it's just me, but have you seen what this place has done to my sister?" Ron continued. "There was a time when she knew how to smile. And, yeah, she didn't care about all that pureblood stuff."

"Slytherin isn't exactly telling her not to smile," Blaise snarled back. "Maybe your little sister's grown up. Learnt at thing or two about her loyalties."

"You should consider taking pointers, Weasley," Daphne chipped in. "Though I'm beginning to think it's too late for you. You're a blood traitor through and through."

Weasley pulled a vicious face. "Oh yeah? Still better than being a Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes then fell back onto his bed, so exhausted with the same handful of dirt being constantly thrown around between the two.

"It's time you learnt a lesson, Weasley. Crabbe, Goyle."

For an instant, Harry's bottom jaw dropped. He swivelled round for confirmation and, sure enough, the two goons were moving to grab hold of Ron. The power shift in the room had also changed – the others had slowly surrounded Ron, who had naturally backed away until his body hit the wall. Crabbe and Goyle each grabbed a shoulder and for an instant, a look of fear crept onto Ron Weasley's face…

Suddenly, every single wand in the room whipped out of the hands of their owner, only to land on the bed of Harry Potter. There was silence for a moment as jaws slackened. Harry took the opportunity to speak.

"Help me out here, will you," he drawled. "I can't seem to comprehend just what it is you lot plan to do to Weasley. Crabbe and Goyle physically restraining him of course only brings two possibilities to mind." Slowly, he got up of his bed. The wands flew into his palm. "Brute force or magic. Let's consider the two, shall we?

"If indeed the lot of you were planning on the former, then I commend you for your hypocrisy, resorting to Muggle means to reinforce your beliefs on the very creatures you hate."

To their credit, Crabbe and Goyle seemed a little chagrined, having let go of Weasley, who merely stared at Harry incredulously.

"And if it was the latter…"

He sighed, putting off his shoes before flinging the wands back. In one movement, each returned to its much surprised owner.

Then I am truly disappointed to see that none of you have changed since you first arrived at Hogwarts.

Daphne was the first – and only Slytherin – to say anything.

"Don't you care?" she said. "About what he's done?" Harry stared at Ron, who had fixed his eyes on the ground at his feet. "He's begged Dumbledore to move him into Gryffindor!"

What? For a moment, Harry was rendered speechless. For a thousand years, Hogwarts had operated on a Sort-once-no-questions basis. No doubt there were students who had come before Ron Weasley, Sorted into a house they had always loathed, and no doubt such students had seen it paramount to ask their headmaster to be resorted. Reading Hogwarts, A History had shown that the Sorting Hat Sorted once and once only. It simply refused to allow a student into any house that wasn't its own. Why then would Ron have ever been allowed to become a Gryffindor? The idea of it wasn't just humiliating for Slytherin – it was ludicrous! Surely even Dumbledore wouldn't allow it to happen.

Unless Ron hadn't actually been to see Dumbledore…

At his stupefaction, Daphne grew triumphant. "That's right!" she hissed. "Like the coward he is, at the slightest bit of hardship our house goes under, he runs, tail between his legs, to his brilliant role model Dumbledore, and begs to be released from the clutches of evil Slytherin house, back into Gryffindor, the sanctuary of angels. So excuse me, Potter, if any of us find the need to push him a little! And if you had any true loyalty to Slytherin, you wouldn't stop me – you'd join in!"

Here came a second wave of silence, in which once again all eyes cemented their gaze to Harry Potter.

It would be easy to give in to what Daphne had hoped for, he knew that. Perhaps one year ago, he would have. Indeed, on their first night at Hogwarts, hadn't he been one of the newly-Sorted Slytherins to gang up on Ron, even then? However much he liked to hope he was defending the good for evil, he knew he could not draw the line there. Ron wasn't the good guy, but nor was he bad. His fellow Slytherins had their reasons, but they weren't saints either.

And at that instant, something in him changed.

It was largely due to this change in him that, moments later and to Daphne's great disappointment, he merely shook his head and said, "You taught me how to treat my allies – so let me return the favour and teach you how to treat your enemies. Two wrongs don't make a right, Daphne. You don't fight what's wrong by being more wrong, you fight it by being the moral high ground, by being right. Because that's what comes with believing you are truly better than your opponent."

He made his way to the door.

"It took me a while to learn what I've learnt, and I have a long way to go when comes to perfecting it. But if you don't get what I'm saying, then let me ask you. Is this" - He gestured at their assembly – "how Slytherin shows to the rest of the school that we're the better house?"

For he had realised something – the difference between a leader and an outcast was a simple one, something that at times he still had trouble distinguishing outside of the theoretical. Perhaps that was why for the majority of his life, he was one or the other, outcast or leader.

Retaliating cruelty with cruelty never earned you respect – only fear. He had been feared at Stonewall Primary for this reason, because in defending himself with an offense, in exchanging Dudley's punches with a pig snout, he had failed to show the other victims of Dudley's gang that he was any better. Coming to Hogwarts and discovering the Wizarding world, very little had changed. It was just a bigger playground this time, and perhaps the stakes were higher than what they had been. He had won verbal fights with the Gryffindors only to gain nothing but their resentment.

But what had earned their respect? It wasn't a show of power as the Boy-Who-Lived, or shifting the power structures of the Wizengamot. That never gained the lasting support of the majority. If anything, it only made him more vulnerable as a public figure, set him up to be doubted and outed as a future Dark wizard for those who thrived on the Tall Poppy Syndrome. Even the Weasley twins had understood it – they never cared for power or wealth, no matter how lacking they were in either. Certainly, his ability to speak well did little to change public sentiment – he could defend himself but to what end would he achieve support when his words would only lead to some feeling triumph, others bitterness and contempt? And perhaps some had gained satisfaction in hearing him yell out at Luna, but what had he achieved except the weariness and perhaps disappointment of his peers?

What did it take to be a true leader, then? Compassion and the need to serve his people, that he already knew. But at that instant, as he watched Ron knowing that should he join in with the others, things were never going to change, that Ron was merely going to walk away more convinced than ever that Slytherin was evil, he learnt something else.

What truly made a leader diverge from an outcast, what made them gain instead of lose support under the public light, was that they were willing to sacrifice some things and take hold of their humility, if it meant that they could maintain their high ground and their grasp on what they knew was right. True leaders wouldn't resort to falling to the level of their enemy just for some satisfaction in the win. Because in doing so, they automatically lost the respect of their people, and their victory would be an empty one.

Perhaps that was why Lord Voldemort was fated to lose. Very likely the Dark Lord and his followers had been powerful till the very end, but in resorting to terror and coercion to influence the Wizarding public had marked their downfall from the very beginning. The Ministry had immediately made being a Death Eater illegal. They were seen as a group that thrived on terror, to which the specifics of their ideology (beyond pureblood = good, or muggle = bad) came second, and by default the Wizarding World could never take their thinking into rational consideration. The Death Eaters were never viewed as a political party. Their shows of power and might had only frightened the public, even those who were reactionary, into turning away. And that was why the world had celebrated their defeat that fateful Halloween night eleven years ago.

For most of his life, he had been the outcast – a step away from leading his classmates on the playground, but unable to gain their friendship simply because he was seen as no better than Dudley. At Hogwarts, he remained singular, unused to having friends simply because he'd operated alone for so long. But while the haters remained ever-present in his vision, there were now also people who expected him to lead. Lead more than just a group of children at Hogwarts, but make his mark on the political stage.

Perhaps this was the moment his great-aunt had been hoping for, the first time they'd met all those years ago.

It was time Harry Potter became a leader.

Notes:

I apologise if Harry came off as a bit too weepy. Despite how mature he is, he needs to recognise that in many ways (though perhaps not mentally), he IS still a kid. This is his first instance of a relative's death which he can remember, but his grieving is more complicated than merely being sad someone who cared for him has died. To me, this was how I felt at the death of a distant relative I had previously been indifferent to. As we commemorated her departure and recounted the highs of her life, I was struck by the overwhelming regret of never having really, truly known that her life had once been a remarkable adventure. That every time I had assumed my conversational subjects were too intellectual for the likes of her, she could very well have been seething away in anger, being patronised and overlooked by someone far less experienced than she was. For Harry, this needs to be combined with his horror at discovering the other, darker side of his great-aunt's past. Something that she had thus far avoided having him uncover. This is not unlike Canon Harry discovering Dumbledore's past in the seventh book.

Harry Potter is undoubtedly growing up. This chapter marks the last phase in his transition from a boy into a leader. He's learnt quite a lot from this chapter. Daphne broke it to him the notion that the little people mattered – something that I think has been long due, as Harry's arrogance rises and he takes his Slytherin friends for granted. Perhaps some of you might think that's understandable – Harry has so many bigger things to worry about, but that comes with being a politician. No matter how close you are to political death, you've still got to smile and wave to your backstabbers and allies.

At the same time, what I think shouldn't be forgotten is that the downfall of many great men have been their followers. Harry's friends are far from perfect. They're still people bred with a rigid set of beliefs who only will only succeed in alienating their leader if they remain that untouchable minority. In the chapters to come, Harry is going to have to not only change into the leader that he needs to be, but he'll have to change his supporters too.

This chapter ended on a note that truly resonates with me. I have alot of admiration for the late and great Christopher Hitchens, particularly the stance he took in West Beirut in early 2009, despite the pressure the SSNP (Syrian Social Nationalist Party) have on alot of Lebanese locals. Upon spotting their political sign - literally a red Swastika in circular motion - being plastered across posters, Hitchens tookout a permanent marker and written "No, No, Fuck the SSNP".

Which was naturally spotted by a SSNP thug, who had within minutes rallied his other SSNP pals to beat up Hitch.

Hitch and the two other journalists he was with escaped onto a cab by the skin of their teeth. During the abuse, the journalists had called for the aid of a Lebanese police.

The police had backed away, fearing the SSNP.

Reflecting on his actions to Michael J Trotten, who had apologised for having not warned Hitchens of the violence the SSNP thugs were characterised by, Hitchens said this: "I appreciate that, but I would have done it anyway. One must take a stand. One simply must."

My sincerest apologies also for taking so long to post this chapter. As a writer, I suffered a moment of serious doubt. Not writer's block, just writer's doubt if you will. Any person is capable of writing, but a writer's greatest pride is being able to write well. When this comes under questioning, cue the self-doubt. I won't bore you with an elaboration into the specifics of my doubt, but for everyone reading this and anyone who has flamed an author in the past, believe me, us writers know our works are far from perfect. Sometimes you spelling it out for us helps, but when you sink into the act of condemning their work? That just hurts. If you want to see change, make it constructive. Learn to be forgiving – don't rule an author out just because the first chapter is a little dodgy. Keep in mind that often the first chapter was written years ago, like when the author was just shy of fourteen and thought what she had under her fingertips was the most exciting thing in the world. Please, please don't kill that spark. If you really want to make a difference, then help it grow. Teach that spark how to be better, bigger, brighter. Because for some of us, no matter what you say, we aren't going away. You can keep singing the same tune, but the only one listening is you, and any other person whose opinion you might unfortunately succeed in swaying.

Next: A LOT more action to make up for the lack of it in this chapter. Prepare, if you will, for a Moody-run Duelling Club. More politics next chapter of course, hopefully Horcruxes if I can make it fit, Azkaban and a bloke (someone who I genuinely swear to you you'll never guess) who escapes from there.

My 18th birthday is coming up next month, so here's to hoping I can post the next chapter before then!

quaquaquaqua