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mickume

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"Can we count on Snape being one of them, though?" Harry asked.

"It doesn’t matter," Hermione said. "We’re probably going to see him at meals three times a day, plus class for several hours a week, for the next seven years. Can we really avoid ever meeting his eyes in all that time?"

"True," Harry said. "And Snape may not be the only Legilimens we ever meet. I wouldn’t want anyone else reading my thoughts, either."

"But that’s the problem," Hermione said. "The only way to keep people out of your head is by letting someone in. You can’t learn Occlumency that will hold up to a Legilimens without being attacked by one."

Harry frowned. He started flipping through the pages, idly skimming a passage here or there, but his mind was elsewhere. There really was nobody he wanted in his head. The natural answer was to use Hermione, but if she knew just how mercenary some of his feelings about her were...

Still, what other choice did he have?

"D’you think we should do this together?"

"I—us?" Hermione said, looking a bit pink.

"Yeah," Harry said. "This looks like you could pick it up easily, and I can’t think of anyone I would trust more with my secrets."

She turned even pinker and looked down at the book in her lap, but he could tell she wasn’t reading the passages about Voldemort. What was she doing?

"Th-thanks," she said, looking up at him shyly. "I think I’d like that."

Does she...fancy me?

And just like that, he had his solution.

He looked down at his lap, playing with a corner of a page. "Good," he said, a little faintly. "Only—can we try to stay away from...you know...personal stuff? You know...feelings?"

Harry risked a glance; Hermione had turned even redder and looked away. "Erm, yes, that sounds like a good idea," she said.

Of course she would agree to that; she was afraid he would discover her feelings about him. And she was an honest girl—she’d stick to her side of the bargain.

"Good," Harry said, allowing some of his relief to bleed into his voice. "So what do we have to do?"

The Grangers did everything they could think of to make sure they made it to Kings Cross on time on January 5th. They compiled packing lists, put everything but the essentials away the afternoon before, went to bed early, awoke with the dawn, and prepared to catch a train that would arrive an hour before the Hogwarts Express left.

Unfortunately, it’s always the things you don’t think of that get you. In this case, they hadn’t thought of the little blue booklet on their counter, the one that said "British Rail Passenger Timetable, Christmas & New Year Supplement". January 5th was the last day of the schedule, and one of the trains they’d planned to use wasn’t running. They’d had to wait for a later one—one that would reach Kings Cross only six minutes before the Hogwarts Express left.

Now Harry was sitting in a worn and stained cloth seat with his eyes closed, trying to shut out the clattering wheels and the fretting Grangers, adding his own frustration with the train ride to the potent mix of emotions he was slowly sinking into.

This, it turned out, was the Occlumency style that most suited him. Hermione favored what was usually considered the best approach—clearing your mind of all thoughts, and eventually building a deceptive layer of false thoughts in the resulting void. Harry, though, had found this impossible to do, and had adopted the second technique: filling his mind with strong emotions that would mask his thoughts. He wouldn’t be able to trick a Legilimens, but he’d still be able to keep them from discovering the truth, which was enough for him.

(That was a relief, because the book warned that the third style—maintaining lots of irrelevant, nonsensical thoughts—could slowly change the personality of the Occlumens practicing it.)

To his frustration and worry about possibly missing the train to Hogwarts, he added his anger at Snape’s mental incursions and his grim determination to beat the slimy git at his own game. Then he reached for other sources of emotions.

R.J. Lupin—Remus, it turned out—had written back. He had been a friend and classmate of both of Harry’s parents, particularly his father, and the letter was full of information Harry had been hungry for his entire life: what his parents had really been like. Unlike Charlus and Dorea, Remus had become attached to Harry’s parents by choice, and his stories showed why: they really were extraordinary. James’s charisma was positively luminous, while Lily’s breathtaking talent was matched only by her willingness to help others reach their own potential.

But, excited as Harry was to correspond with one of his parents’ friends, he was still a little wary. Harry had long since decided that nobody came to save him from the Dursleys because there was nobody to do so, but then he discovered Remus Lupin, a man who had spent hours every day with his parents for seven years, and yet when their only son was in need, he’d done no more than send a few letters that hadn’t been received for years. Why?

Until he knew, Harry decided, he would not be able to trust this man too much.

This distrust and hurt too he added to the feelings covering his thoughts.

Perhaps the biggest stressor of late was Awlthrow. The goblin had assured him that his knives would be ready by the time he left for Hogwarts, but no owl had arrived with a package or even a note, and when he’d sent Hedwig a few days ago to ask for an update, she’d returned empty-taloned. It appeared that Awlthrow’s estimate had been optimistic. That was a big problem—if he didn’t walk in wearing those knives, the staff might be within its rights to confiscate them, and then he’d have to spend the entire term without any weapons.

He added his anger and betrayal at the broken promise to the now potent brew of emotions filling his mind. After a moment of reflection, he decided he was honest enough to include his very real fear of spending the next five months defenseless.

To that he added his anger with the teachers for confiscating the weapons in the first place, his amusement at the loophole he was trying to exploit, his gratitude towards Hermione for finding it, his satisfaction that befriending her had worked out so well, his—

"Harry, we’re pulling into the station," Hermione said, and he opened his eyes.

"Right," Harry said, and turned to Hermione’s mother. "I wish we had time for proper farewells, but thank you for taking me in this Christmas."

"It was a pleasure," Jane said with a smile, and Lance came down the aisle pulling two trunks.

"Thank goodness for the, ah, special features on these," he said. "Be careful in the station, and at school, both of you."

"We will, Dad," Hermione said, and each of the students took their trunk from him, moving towards the door seconds before it opened. "See you in June!" Hermione called over her shoulder as they started running.

Kings Cross was not as crowded as it could have been, but that’s not really saying much. They still had to push through a crowd of travelers to get a trolley, then race most of the way across the station, weaving around people. At one point, a guard yelled at them to slow down, but Harry tugged Hermione forward, keeping up the pace. The guard gave chase, but a moment later they passed through the portal to the hidden platform, losing him.

The platform was crowded with parents and families, but the few students still on it were rushing to board. The train whistled, steam beginning to billow from the engine; the clock hanging over the platform showed seconds to spare.

"Hurry!" Hermione cried, but Harry didn’t have breath to reply.

Harry skidded around a family of redheads to get to door of the last car. Then, with a hard pull, he yanked both trunks off the trolley and up into the train. Hermione followed him on board and the door shut behind her as the train began to move.

The two of them slumped back against a compartment door, catching their breaths. "I suppose we should find an empty compartment," Harry said.

Hermione looked over her shoulder. "I think we already have," she said. And sure enough, when Harry turned and peered into the compartment they were leaning against, it was empty.

Why wouldn’t anyone have taken it?

"Okay," he said. He leapt to his feet and then offered Hermione a hand before the two of them dragged their trunks into the room. Harry turned to the luggage rack and stopped short when he noticed a long, flat box on the seat, wrapped in brown paper and twine, with a card tucked beneath the knot.

"Hermione," he said, "that wasn’t there before, was it?"

"What?" she replied, turning to look. "Oh, erm, I don’t believe so..."

Hesitantly, Harry picked up the card and flipped it open.

You may find your custom order enclosed. If it is satisfactory, please deposit the agreed-upon payment in the box, and your house will receive its title. If you are not satisfied, the item will return to me in one hour, and we can discuss your complaints at your leisure.

Though enchantments on goblin steel never dissipate, those on the leatherwork will fade over time. I recommend that they be renewed every five years. Though any craftsgoblin can do this, I would be happy to do so for ten Galleons.

Fulfilling your commission has been a pleasure.

"It’s my knives!" Harry said, undoing the knot and tearing the paper off.

"Oh!" Hermione craned her neck to see.

Harry took the top off the box. Within it lay a baldric, made of black leather with a silver buckle bearing the Potter crest. Three filigreed sheaths were attached to the front, each containing a knife with a silver and leather handle. Harry reached down to pick it up, and started when the leather went from black to khaki—the color of his pants, he realized.

"It must have a color-change charm," Hermione said.

Harry lifted it out of the box and over his head. The baldric sat heavily on his shoulder, the three knives arrayed across his chest. He pulled one from its sheath, and although it was a bit longer and heavier than his usual set—he’d asked Awlthrow how big it’d need to be to reach a mountain troll’s heart—its balance was exquisite. He flicked his wrist to grasp the blade in throwing position, and his fingers found just the right spot.

He examined it more carefully. The blade had a groove to lighten it; on closer examination, what looked like unpolished metal in this fuller was actually covered in hundreds of tiny runes. The handle had a shield inlaid in silver; he shifted his grip back to it, and realized he could actually feel its shape against his palm. The second knife had a dragon, and the third a banner wrapping around it with his family motto. He would be able to tell the three knives apart by feel.

Hermione, meanwhile, had picked up a piece of parchment that was in the box. "What’s it say?" Harry asked.

"It’s talking about enchantments. The baldric will size to fit you, the blades will never need to be sharpened...your hands will always find the right grip, and the knife won’t cut when held by the blade...they clean themselves and "imbibe only that which strengthens them’...the baldric and sheathed blades are invisible to Muggles...oh!"

"It says each knife will always be in its sheath when you reach for it, no matter where it was before!"

Harry set the knife in his hand down on the bench next to him, then reached for the sheath—and the hilt was right there at his fingertips. When he looked down, the knife had disappeared from the bench. "Bloody brilliant."

She was so impressed, it took her a moment to remember to say, "Language, Harry."

When they’d finished inspecting the knives, Harry pulled a bag of gold from his trunk that he’d already counted out. Before he paid, though, he grabbed a roll of parchment and jotted down a note:

Fantastic work. I’m sure I’ll hire you again someday. —HP

He put the note in the bag of gold, and the bag in the box, and before it hit the cardboard, it vanished, to be replaced by a sheet of parchment with a seal stamped on the corner: the deed to the set.

This Harry slipped into his pocket before he turned to Hermione. "Well, shall we try them out?"

"There’s something else we should do first," Hermione said. She opened her trunk and started digging through it. "Deeds are supposed to be registered with the Ministry. I think the wizard who runs the Magical Land and Property Registry must be a big fan of yours, because he fell all over himself to help. He sent me the proper parchmentwork." She pulled out a scroll that must have been eight feet long.

[stuff with other students as they head back to school; everyone’s getting soaked by torrential rain]

"Are...are you sure this is a good idea, Harry?" Hermione asked as they climbed out of their boat. "I mean, what if I’m wrong?"

"You’re not wrong often, Hermione. Don’t worry."

They walked through the door. The warm air of the castle had barely washed over them when Harry heard a shout of "Potter!" He swiveled his head and spotted Snape cutting through the crowd, his hair looking marginally cleaner than usual.

"Thank you, Potter," Snape said. "Normally I would have to search you for contraband to find it, and then we would have to call back the train to expel you. You’ve saved us a lot of trouble on both fronts. Follow me."

Both of them moved to do so.

"No, not you, Granger."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. The last thing Harry wanted was to be taken in private by the prime suspect in his last near-murder, who was seeking to disarm him.

But there was nothing for it. Harry looked back at Hermione. "It’s okay. Save me something?"

"Of course," she said. "I—I’ll see you later."

He gave her a reassuring smile and followed Snape up to the entrance hall, then down to the dungeons, and finally into Snape’s office, a chilly room lined with shelves full of Snape’s previous victims. The fireplace in the wall was cold and empty; a single tiny window near the ceiling showed only inky blackness.

Snape closed the door and turned to face him. "So," he said softly, "did you think we’d forget about your little Halloween stunt while you were gone, Potter? Or is the famous Boy Who Lived above the rules?"

"Neither, Professor. In fact, the rules specifically allow me to wear my family’s heirlooms."

"Heirlooms?" Snape hissed, stalking closer. "Do you expect me to believe this...thing has been in the Potter family for generations?"

Snape gave Harry a piercing look. Quickly, before he could use Legilimency, Harry looked away, down to his pocket, and extracted the deed. "No," he said. "I expect you to believe it was sold by a goblin to my family line." He held it up.

Snape snatched it out of his hand and strode to his desk. He tapped his wand on an oil lamp, which lit at once, and hunched over to read it.

For a long moment, there was silence. Harry fought to remain still, to look confident and correct and not the tiniest bit worried that he might not leave the room alive.

Then Snape snorted. "An amateurish forgery," he hissed. "You wouldn’t have the money or the contacts." He lifted the parchment to the lamp.

"Wait—" Harry took a step towards him, hand outstretched, but it was too late: the flames were already consuming the parchment.

Snape dropped the burning parchment in an empty cauldron on his desk. "Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the people who do have that happy power. You will wait here." He extinguished the lamp and swept out of the room.

Harry looked down into the cauldron, staring at the smoldering pile of ashes and puddle of molten wax that had been the deed. There was no way Snape would’ve thought it was fake—he must have known, must have burned it on purpose, to deny him the ability to prove the set was a valid heirloom.

But what was he going to do? Say that a Hogwarts professor had destroyed his evidence?

Harry shivered. It was cold in here, and there was nobody to see him do it.

Ten long minutes later, Harry finally heard footsteps in the hallway. He squared his shoulders, suppressed his shivers, put on a mask of confidence, and turned to face the door as it swung open.

Minerva McGonagall waved her wand at the fireplace, which erupted in flames, then looked over Harry, her lips thinning as her gaze lingered on the baldric.

"Mr. Potter," she said, "do you not remember my explicit instruction two months ago, before the entire student body, concerning the carrying of weapons in this school?"

"I do, Professor," Harry said calmly.

"Then explain yourself."

"I don’t suppose you have a copy of the Hogwarts rules?"

McGonagall looked to Snape, who walked to his desk and pulled out a thick book—the same book Hermione had found in the library months before. He brought it to McGonagall, who opened it on her lap.

"Hogwarts Uniform and Dress Code," Harry recited. "Title 17, Chapter 3, Section 31, Subchapter 6, Subsection 107, Clause 252-A-42."

McGonagall flipped through the pages rapidly, peering at the page. Then she put on her reading glasses. Then she leaned closer. Then she squinted. Then she took off her glasses, cleaning them on her robe, and put them back on. Then she tipped it toward the firelight. Finally, she read the rule aloud.

Once finished, she looked at him skeptically. "This...knife belt of yours is an heirloom?"

"Yes," Harry said.

And then McGonagall asked the question Harry had most dreaded: "Do you have documentation to that effect?"