BETWEEN THE LINES - DementorDelta.doc

http://www.walkingtheplank.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=2686

Summary: Harry discovers a secret in his Potions text and a friend in the Half-Blood Prince.

Between the Lines

by DementorDelta

Harry lay back on his pillows, the battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making propped up on his knees. He'd left his bed curtains open, but the boys were used to his oddness regarding this particular book. Since it was only this one book, and not, say, Goblin Rebellions of the Renaissance, they didn't tease him about it any more. Well, at least not much. The book was very thick and heavy; the writing was wedged in from many different angles, depending on the potion printed on the page.

Harry was squinting at one that might be improvement to Draught of the Living Death, or simply a really cracking recipe for brownies, when Ron came back from his shower.

"You getting dressed?" he asked, toweling his ginger hair.

"Oh, right," Harry replied, dropping his legs to the bed and blinking up at Ron. He started to slide out of bed but the heavy book went toppling off its perch. He made a grab for it, and several pages flipped past as he laid the book back on his bed. He started to close it when he noticed that, unlike most of the early pages, which were crammed full of tiny writing, this one had a single notion in the upper right hand corner.

"Memorius Potion," it said, with a line drawn down the page that faded and spluttered as though the quill had lost nearly all its ink, and a number. "447." Harry stuck one of his own quills in that page and shut the book before rushing off to class.

That evening when he dragged out his Potions text, he'd forgotten why he'd marked the page with a quill, then smiled sheepishly to himself. A memory potion, if that's what it was, might be really useful, he thought. Especially if it could help him memorize the instructions in Advanced Potion-Making itself so he didn't have to keep peering at the instructions during class.

Only when he turned to page 447, it was blank. Harry flipped back to his quill marker making sure he'd got the page right, then turned back to the page in question. Blank. In fact--

Harry frowned. Page 447 was a blank page in between two pages of regular text. Why would someone put a blank page in the middle of a book? Suspicious, he got out his wand and tried several simple spells. The page remained stubbornly free of text. He hadn't forgotten his idea that his dad might have been the original owner of the book. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he muttered over it. Nothing.

But the idea of the Marauder's Map brought about another idea. Snape had tried some spells on it when he'd caught Harry with it in third year.

"Reveal your secret," he tried, touching his wand to the page. A faint ripple of magic trickled up his wand, setting off tiny red sparks and making one of his fingers feel as though he'd slept with it in an awkward position. "You are hiding something," he said, more elated that he'd been right than downcast because he still didn't know how to unlock whatever secret was concealed on the page.

He tried to remember what else Snape had done to prod the Marauder's Map. "I command you to reveal the information you conceal," he intoned, as though that was an actual spell. To his amazement a faint black mark appeared in the upper left hand corner. With growing excitement Harry watched it form letters from an invisible quill, then words, in writing he was already familiar with from his frequent study of his Potions book.

"Property of the Half-Blood Prince."

Harry sat back in his bed and stared at the words. True, he knew no more than he had a few moments ago, but he was on the right track, surely. Mindful of his experience with Tom Riddle's diary, Harry kept his wand on the page, thinking how best to proceed. Unlike Riddle's diary, the words didn't sink away into the page.

"Who is the Half-Blood Prince?" he asked it, feeling a little ridiculous talking to a book.

Words formed again and the hairs on Harry's arm prickled. "Why should I tell you?" it wrote.

Harry cleared his throat. "Because I command it." He tapped his wand on the page as though working a spell.

For a moment he thought nothing would happen. Then, "Looks like it's not your day then, is it?"

Even through his frustration, Harry smiled. It sounded exactly like something the person who'd written "Just shove a bezoar down their throats," would say. Then he thought of something. "How come you answered before when I commanded you?"

"As if anyone could command me in my own book." A pause, then, "Still haven't worked it out, then?"

Harry frowned at it, feeling as though the book was smirking at him. He re-read what the book had written, noticing again that the words remained put, and didn't sink away like his other experience with books that wrote back. Having a sudden inspiration, he laid his wand in the crease of the pages, and fumbled over the side of his bed for some ink and a quill. He thought a moment, then wrote:

"Are you Tom Riddle?"

The reply was quick. "Who?" Then, "Worked it out, did you?"

Instead of responding to the mild taunt, Harry wrote, "It works when I write in it?"

His question was ignored. "How did you get my book, anyway?"

Harry grinned. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because I developed the potion that makes it work. And I'm writing in my book right now. Therefore you must be writing at a different time than me." A pause where the quill seemed to leave a scratchy blotch before going on. "Unless you've developed the Memorius potion too."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that. He'd never heard of that particular potion, but he wondered if it might be the same sort of thing his father had used on the Marauder's Map. He decided to be honest, and try to find out.

"I haven't," he wrote. "I've been using your book in Potions. It's dead brilliant. The comments I mean."

"You must be from after my time, then," it wrote. "The book was clean when I got it and no one's ever written back before."

"Won't you tell me then, who the Half-Blood Prince is?" Harry wrote, holding his breath a little as he wrote.

"I am, stupid. This is my book."

Harry didn't like to think his father might go around calling strangers 'stupid' but he supposed he might do the same if he found someone snooping around in his own stuff so he tried again. "I mean, what's your name?"

"You first."

It didn't seem like a request, but just in case, Harry wrote simply, "Harry."

"Hello, Harry."

He waited. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?" he wrote finally.

"Why should I?"

Harry nearly threw down the quill. If this was his father, he was just as arrogant as the memory in Snape's Pensieve suggested. "I didn't know being brilliant in Potions gave you the right to be an arrogant bastard," he wrote, nearly closing the book. But he'd left his wand in the center, and was pulling it out when a reply started scratching out.

"Do you really think I'm brilliant in Potions?"

Harry nodded, forgetting the writer on the other side couldn't see the gesture. Then he wrote, "And jinxes."

"Thank you." Another pause and Harry was beginning to think the conversation, which had gotten down nearly to the bottom of the page, was over. Then the words wavered slightly and seemed to scroll up so that the top few lines disappeared, leaving the last few lines with more space.

"If I tell you my name, will you tell me how you came across my book?"

"Yes," Harry wrote, aware that his heart had started to pound.

"My name is Severus."

The words seemed to magnify themselves on the page as Harry stared at them in horror, sounding out the syllables as they were being written, his brain refusing to accept them until they formed the complete name. It couldn't be--

An old potions book. Brilliant if sarcastic comments scribbled in the margins. Jinxes and hexes that Hermione had warned him might be dark. Snape's book. And Harry had taken it to bed with him. He slammed the book shut and scuttled away from it like a crab left bereft by the sea. He came up fast against his own headboard, still staring at the battered old book lying in the center of his bed.

He felt worse than he'd felt when he'd found out the secrets lurking within Tom Riddle's diary. At least he'd never cherished the old diary the way he'd cherished this book. Never defended the author of the diary as he had the original owner of his potions text. God, he'd even--

Horror oozed into his gut, so thick he could nearly feel it filling his nostrils. Had even thought of the book's owner might be his father, someone he'd actually like. Harry hated Snape, and always would. Extending one leg, Harry pushed the book to the edge of the bed, but couldn't reach far enough to make it go over.

He thought about yelling for Ron to come over and yank the offending book off the bed, but then he imagined having to tell Ron that the Prince was really Snape, and Ron would get that look and he probably wouldn't touch it either.

Nearly smacking himself in the forehead, Harry grabbed his wand. The first spell on his lips was Incendio, but he wasn't sure he could get the fire out before waking up his dorm mates or catching his own bed on fire. He settled for a simple Wingardium Leviosa to ease the horrid thing off his bed, then frantically swiped at the duvet to make sure no lingering bits of paper remained. Leaning over the bed he stared at the rubbishy old copy of Advanced Potion-Making before shoving it a few more inches under his bed with the tip of his wand.

When he did finally get to sleep he dreamed he was falling into Tom Riddle's diary again, only it was Snape in the Chamber of Secrets, hanging upside down by his ankle but still laughing at Harry for being so stupid.

Unfortunately the next day was Potions, but Harry was not about to retrieve the book from under his bed. He didn't even bother asking Hermione to share her text, crowding in with Ron, who looked at him questioningly but budged over so they could share with a "you owe me one" expression. They both did horribly on their Boil Remover Potion, and Harry could tell that Professor Slughorn attributed Harry's failure directly to Ron.

He and Ron both lagged behind, but Harry waved Ron on ahead, not ready yet to explain why his textbook was under his bed--and all too likely to remain there. He gathered up his supplies and made his way to the front of the classroom.

"There's no need to apologize, my boy," Slughorn said, eyeing him sympathetically from beneath his brow. "Even your mother had an off day or two. Why, I remember something as simple as Beetle Juice Potion threw her off her game. Never perfected it, as I recall--"

"Er, thanks, professor," Harry said, though he'd had absolutely no intention of apologizing. "I wondered if I could ask you something."

"Of course, of course," Slughorn said, looking like he was about to launch into another reminiscence about Harry's mum asking him something too, so Harry cut in.

"Can you tell me what a Memorius Potion is?" he asked.

Professor Slughorn's mouth closed with a snap. "Memorius Potion? Can't say I've ever heard of one called that," he said, rubbing the side of his chin. "Certainly there are potions for enhancing memory, or suppressing them--is that what you mean?"

Harry shifted his books. "I'm not sure. I heard about this potion and just knew you'd be the one to ask about it." He nearly winced at the suck up, worthy, surely, of Malfoy, but Slughorn did indeed look flattered. "I, er, forgot my textbook today, and I was just wondering if a memory potion might help me, um, remember stuff."

"Well, there is the Memory Enhancement Potion, but I'm certain a bright lad like you mastered that in fourth year." Slughorn looked very much like he wanted to pat Harry on the shoulder, so on the pretext of shifting his books again, Harry took a slight sidestep.

He had a very vague memory of the potion Slughorn was talking about, but that didn't seem like something the pr--Snape would have been concerned about in a sixth year text. "Any others? More complex ones? Say to preserve the memory of someone in a diary for example?"

Slughorn looked intrigued. "Preserve someone's memory in a diary? Odd notion, that, but I can't say I've ever heard of such a thing. Or at least not a potion for it." He studied Harry through shrewd eyes. "Thinking of inventing one? It could be useful, very useful. I remember your mother talked once of inventing--"

But whatever potion his mother had wanted to invent, Harry did not really want to hear about. He thanked Slughorn, and under pretext of making his next class, dashed away.

Only Defense Against the Dark Arts was next and Harry was late. Snape took points, of course, but Harry nearly always lost points in Defense, so at least they'd got that out of the way early. He tried not to look at Snape during the lesson, tried not to think of any version of his most hated professor as a young student, one whom Harry had adm--

Harry looked down at his text again, focusing on the lesson on avoiding counter-hexes. Snape never called on him in Defense unless he was sure Harry didn't know the answer anyway. It wasn't as though Harry didn't know for sure what kind of young man Snape had been. He'd been inside his Pensieve after all. That memory made him squirm in his seat, so he shot a glance at Snape to see if more house points were in the offing, relieved that Snape was criticizing Neville's wand technique.

Unbidden Harry watched Snape's fingers curling around Neville's wand, and he thought of how many times he'd wondered about the Prince writing in his text, testing his jinxes and revising the potion instructions. Angry with himself, Harry looked away. He did not admire the young man Snape had been. Even if his own father had bullied him into creating defensive spells. Even if Harry himself had seen what sort of young man he had been.

He must have made some noise shifting in his seat, because Ron looked at him strangely, as though expecting Harry to lose them more house points. Luckily Harry got through the rest of Defense without attracting anymore attention.

He was not so lucky with Ron. "What's with you?" he hissed, as soon as they were out in the hall. "Where's the Prince's book?"

Harry schooled his features to look blank. "Just forgot it," he said, wondering how he was going to explain conveniently forgetting it for the rest of the term. Maybe he should look into Memory Altering Potions; that way he could make Ron forget Harry had ever had a second-hand text. He knew Hermione would know, and Harry slunk after Ron glumly, trying to think of a way to destroy the book in various spectacular ways, but always getting stuck on the necessity of having to drag it out from under his bed.

Though he didn't mean to, Harry ducked his head to see if the book was still there before he went to bed. Maybe he'd get lucky and the cleaning elves would have taken it away and--

But the book was still there.

Harry had another bad dream--this time it was his father laughing at him. To his horror, Harry realized he was now the one dangling upside down, feeling as he had during the Tri-Wizard Tournament when he'd been nearly befuddled into thinking the ground was sky. His robes had fallen around his shoulders and his mum was looking thunderclouds at his dad. For some reason, Harry looked around wildly at the laughing students, looking for another familiar face. He was looking for Snape, but couldn't find him, just as his dad said, "Who wants to see me take off Harry's underpants?"

He awoke in a cold sweat and checked to make sure he was still wearing the pants he'd gone to bed in. Softly he addressed the book beneath his bed, which he visualized was like a bomb ticking away under there, the glowing numbers slowly counting down to Harry's doom.

Tomorrow, it's Incendio for you, he thought.

But the morning came and Harry still didn't want to touch the book even though he knew how irrational his antipathy was. He'd touched Tom Riddle's book, hadn't he? And this was no worse, surely. He waited until the dorm had emptied out, and tipped his wand under the bed, sliding the book toward him.

It looked the same as ever, if a little dustier. Harry rubbed his nose, looking around for something to wrap it up in, not knowing how he was going to survive Potions, or explain to Ron, but knowing he had to get rid of the book. Somehow getting rid of the book was tied up in forgetting who the book had actually belonged to, and Harry very much wanted to forget.

When he didn't see any convenient clothing lying around to wrap it up in, he huffed and touched the end of his wand to it. Nothing happened. Suddenly he felt ridiculous. It was just an old book. Just because Snape had once owned it, didn't make it any less just a ratty old book.

Had owned it, written in it, had made Harry laugh with the clever jinxes and hexes, had gotten him top marks in Potions, had--

Stop it, stop it! As though the book were already on fire Harry picked it up with just his fingertips and tossed it on the bed. Again, nothing happened. Nothing except it opened. Harry saw the familiar scrunched up notes in the margin, and moved closer, as though the notes would start writing back to him the way the Memorius Potion page had.

Using his wand, he flipped a few pages, then, overcome with a curiosity he couldn't explain, turned to page 447.

He half expected it to be just as he'd left it, or even blank. Instead he saw at once that several things had changed. Just under the place where the pri--Snape had written "My name is Severus" was a blacked out line. Not just crossed over, but completely obliterated. And just under that was just one word in the Prince's handwriting. "Bastard."

Harry looked toward the door, as if he expected Snape to be standing there, watching him though if the head of Slytherin were to suddenly appear in the Gryffindor boy's dorm, there would be more at stake than Harry's Potions' text.

Without thinking it through, he picked up his quill and ink and wrote two words quickly, before he changed his mind, then shut the book and shoved it back under the bed.

That evening he told himself he would just check the brief message and hide the book away again, delaying its fate until he was faced with what to do about Potions. Sure enough, there was a new line beneath his own brief, "I'm sorry," was "You're still a bastard."

His quill was in his hand and he pressed it to his lips once before writing, "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have left without answering your question." Only this time he didn't shut the book. It took only a moment before a reply appeared.

"So?"

He read up a few lines, skipping the blacked over line. "I got your book from my Potions Master," he wrote, in answer to the question left hanging. "I didn't have one when I got to school, and your book was in the classroom."

There was a pause, and Harry felt himself tense up, hoping that the prince, young Snape, didn't ask for more of an explanation. "I wonder why I left it there," came the reply.

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. Then, before the person on the other end, wherever that other end was, undertook that line of questioning again, Harry wrote, "Did you invent the Memorius Potion?"

"So, you're curious again, is that it?" came the prince's response.

Harry could practically hear the sneer in the words. "No one here has ever heard of it," he wrote. He waited but there was no immediate response. As before, the words wavered slightly and edged up the page, leaving more room at the bottom. Still, no response. He tried another tack. "It's really clever."

"I know." The Prince's reply was terse.

"How does it work?" Harry wrote. He was rather forcibly reminded of who he was writing to when the reply came back.

"Why should I tell a bastard like you?"

Harry sat back on his bed, quill hanging limply from his fingers. This wasn't the Prince he was writing to--not his friend. This was Snape, his most hated teacher.

The only advantage he had, then, was that Snape didn't know that, though that point made a lot more sense in Harry's head.

"Fine," he wrote, "Look, I'm not asking for the bloody recipe; I just want to know how this thing is working." He stared at the words, thinking about closing the book and shoving it back under the bed, but it might be too late for that. Then he added one more question.

"You haven't put a piece of your soul in here, have you?"

The response was immediate. "Are you mad? What sort of dunderhead would put a piece of their soul anywhere but where it belongs?"

Harry was just about to respond with a vehement denial when the words began scratching furiously across the page again. "Have you put a piece of your soul in here?" the words asked, and Harry could just picture Snape peering at him suspiciously.

"No!" he wrote. Then underlined it. "It's just something I heard about once."

Almost, Harry could hear the writer on the other side sniffing in disapproval. "I don't want anything like that in my book," it said, as if that settled the matter.

"Your book?" Harry wrote. "I think it's my book now."

"You ungrateful beggar," the book wrote.

Furiously Harry dipped his quill and wrote, "For all you know, you could be dead in my time." He resisted the urge to underline the word 'dead' maliciously.

For a moment he wondered if the prince--if Snape--had closed the textbook. Then words began scratching themselves across the page. "There are some boys here who've already tried to kill me once. Maybe they succeed and that's why you've got my book."

Suddenly Harry wanted to write back that young Snape wasn't dead, wanted to reassure him somehow. But telling the Prince that he'd lived to grow up into a cruel sadistic prick would only lead to questions Harry didn't want to answer.

Before Harry could think of a way out of the hole he'd dug with his quill and his cruelty, more words appeared. "I have to go." Just that, and no more, though Harry waited to see if any more words appeared.

He lay awake a long time. He hadn't even meant to write in the bloody book again--how had he allowed himself to go so far, even being deliberately cruel? No amount of telling himself, "It's only Snape," assuaged his conscience. He remembered vividly the Snape he'd seen in the Pensieve last year, so very young and alone. And just as much of a prick, something inside him whispered.

Blowing a breath over his face that blew his fringe up, Harry climbed out of bed, digging once more for his quill. He wrote, "Why did they try to kill you?" He wasn't expecting an answer, so after waiting a few moments to make sure, he closed the book and finally managed to sleep.

He checked for an answer before dashing off to breakfast, but his words were still the last ones on the page. Since he had Potions that afternoon, he stuffed the book in his backpack. He didn't bother checking for a reply before class, but, having his text back, got high praise for his Concealing Potion, thanks to the prince's notes scribbled in the margin.

"You found it!" Ron whispered.

"Yeah," Harry said, through he didn't go into any details with Hermione scowling at them both. It wasn't until he was packing up his things, letting Slughorn's praise flow over him, that he flipped Advanced Potions Making to page 447. There was something written under his own question. Harry shut the book hard without reading it, afraid that if Ron saw it, or worse, Hermione, that he'd have to do more explaining than he was ready for.

He made sure he had his quill and bottle of ink stashed away under his pillow before he went to bed, finally pulling open the book.

"Because I tried to find out their secrets," the Prince had written.

Harry felt a small flush of triumph and wrote back, "What makes you think their secrets were any of your business?" Since it was late, he didn't quite expect an answer, but apparently young Snape was as much of a night owl as his elder counterpart.

"Because they made sure I knew they had secrets worth knowing," appeared under Harry's question. "It was a trap."

Harry worried his lower lip, trying to figure out a way to get more information, without revealing how much he already knew. "You're so clever," he wrote, "Couldn't you have got away?"

The reply was swift, and to Harry's eyes, angry. "I was outnumbered!"

Harry was trying to figure out a reply when another sentence dashed across the page. "Why do you care?"

Because you're alive and my father is dead, Harry thought, sitting back in the bed and staring at the book. Finally he wrote, "I'm just curious. Do you think we've ever met?"

"I don't know anyone named Harry," the prince wrote. "There's a Harriet in my house, a first year."

Despite himself, Harry laughed softly. "I'm not a girl," he wrote. "And I've never heard of anyone else called 'Severus'." Which was perfectly true, he told himself. Aside from Snape, he'd never heard the name before.

"Mum wanted a proper wizard name. After she married my dad."

Harry licked the end of his quill thoughtfully. Finally he wrote, "Your dad wasn't a wizard?"

The reply, when it appeared was underlined. "Half-Blood Prince, stupid." There was a pause, then, "Mum was named Prince before she got married."

It was weird to think of Snape having a mother, let alone being ordinary enough to call her 'Mum'. "I thought all Slytherins were purebloods," he wrote back huffily, not liking being called stupid.

The reply was so slow in coming that Harry thought young Snape had gone off to sleep. Then, in careful letters, "How did you know I was a Slytherin?"

Harry's anger had made him careless. He thought a moment and wrote, "Only Slytherins bother about bloodlines anymore."

Luckily the return words weren't long in coming. "What House are you in?"

Harry decided to be honest, lest he trip himself up again. Even as a boy, Snape was probably suspicious enough to quiz him on what color the carpets were in the Slytherin boy's dorms or something if he tried to lie.

With a flourish, he wrote, "Gryffindor."

The response was immediate. "A bloody Gryffindor is using my book?"

Harry wished there was a magical means of writing a smirk on paper. He wrote, "My book now," and closed it quickly and went to sleep, tonight without dreaming at all.

The next time he had Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry sat in the back. Though that was not unusual, his thoughts today were. He wondered if Snape's mum was still alive. He wrinkled his nose, trying to picture a happy Snape family Christmas, complete with festive swags of deadly nightshade and a nip of arsenic in the eggnog.

It was no use. Snape--this Snape--had never been a boy. He must have sprung fully formed out of rooks and ravens from some dark defective dream.

A shiver went through him and he looked around, realizing suddenly that Snape was no longer at the front of the classroom at the same time that a silky voice sounded beside his ear. "Perhaps, Mr. Potter, you would care to share whatever is amusing you with the rest of the class?"

"Just thinking how glad I am that class is nearly over," Harry said quickly, eyeing the huge hourglass at the front of the room just as the sands ran into the bottom and the bell sounded. He gathered up his books and scrambled out of the room in the hurried exodus but didn't miss Snape, arms crossed and glaring, watching him leave.

He checked his Advanced Potion-Making text before dinner. Underneath his own remark, something had been blacked over. Harry grabbed a quill and wrote, "Can't take a little cheek?"

No answer came back right away so he added, "Going to dinner, be back soon."

When he got back to his room he saw that he had a reply. "I don't call rubbing my nose in it, cheek."

Harry frowned, not sure what he meant, so he wrote, "Rubbing your nose in what?" This time he didn't have to wait for his answer.

"I can't think of any other reason why you'd have my book except that I must be dead wherever you are."

Harry suppressed a brief flare of contrition. "That's just morbid," he replied. "I can think of loads of reasons you might have left it behind at school."

A blot ran briefly down the page, then was swiped away before the next line appeared. "Like what?"

Harry, who hadn't actually thought it through, licked the end of his quill again before writing, "Suppose you're a really rich and famous wizard now and you've donated all your books to charity."

"I wouldn't donate this one. It was my mum's when she was at school."

Harry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Did she invent the Memorius Potion?"

The reply, not unexpectedly, was acerbic, "Don't you think I'm smart enough? I'm loads smarter than you."

Almost…almost Harry wrote something to refute his earlier assertion that the Prince might not be dead. He suspected that Snape had a rather morbid streak and didn't want to aggravate it further.

"Don't get huffy," he wrote. "It's pretty advanced magic."

The reply was grudging. "My mum did teach me a lot of stuff before I came to school but everything in my book I've invented on my own." There was a pause and Harry wondered whether the prince nibbled on the end of his own quill as well. "Have you told anyone else about it?"

It was easy to be honest. "Just about some of the other spells in the book. Not this one."

"I'm still working on it," the Prince wrote. "Not that it isn't really good already."

It sounded so much like something Snape would say, the real Snape, that Harry laughed.

"You okay there, Harry?"

For one wild moment he thought it was the Prince's voice that had spoken, that perhaps the Memorius Potion could do more than enhance writing. Harry whirled toward the sound to see Ron standing in the door.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, as Ron crossed to his own bed.

"Good thing it was only me," Ron said, glancing at the heavy book in Harry's lap. "Laughing at homework is, you know, sort of weird."

"I won't do it again," Harry said sheepishly. Ron didn't exactly look convinced. He looked down again at the book in Harry's lap and Harry resisted the urge to close it. Instead Ron pulled out his own Transfigurations text and settled back on his pillows.

"Why are you still working on it?" Harry wrote, but almost before he got the question out, a sentence was coming back.

"What took you so long?"

"One of the boys in my dorm came in," Harry wrote.

"How many in your year?"

"Five," Harry replied.

"There are twelve in mine," the Prince wrote.

Harry had often wondered why there were so many unused classrooms and an abundance of squashy armchairs in the common room, until that summer he'd seen the Order of the Phoenix photo and seen how many others in his parents' year had lost their lives.

"It must be nice to have so much privacy," the Prince went on. "I could get so much more done if I had a room of my own."

"What are you trying to do?"

"For starters, I want to use the Memorius Potion on two things so they can remember each other and not just the writing on one. "

Harry thought about this for a moment, then wrote, "Isn't that what we're doing now? Writing back and forth?"

"In the same book, though," the prince replied. "I've been trying to charm composition books and lecture notes to do the same thing but they don't work properly."

Harry kept writing as Neville and Seamus and Dean wandered up to their beds, studying in between replies until his quill sputtered and he looked round to realized he was the only one still awake.

"Nox," he wrote, and closed the book.

Harry thought about what the Prince was working on, the potion to use in a composition book, when he probably should have been paying attention in class. Thinking how cool it would be if he, Harry, could come up with the solution Snape was searching for and present it to him, he had several scenarios of oh-so-casually presenting the Prince with just exactly what was missing from the spell. Suddenly he felt an elbow in his ribs and looked around. He hadn't followed along in Transfiguration, but hoped Ron had so he could copy his notes.

They filed out of the classroom with the other students, and Ron gestured down their shortcut, down a deserted corridor to avoid clumps of girls angling to get Harry to invite...