Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Returning to Sanity	By : AchillesTheGeek Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 31212 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter books or films, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 52
- 53
- 54
53. Favour Returned
Monday 13 July 1998
Hermione Granger was royally cheesed off. Firstly, Harry had disappeared on Saturday, and hadn't told her anything about it before he'd gone; and however much her head told her that he and Draco were an item and of course they would want to spend time together exclusively, just like she did with Ron, her heart still felt miffed. On Sunday she had learnt that they'd been at the Manor; Harry passed on lots of useful contacts from Lucius, and she had been grateful; but her heart told her that this was wrong; it should be her helping him, not the other way around. That was how it always had been before.
And now, to cap it all off, they were sitting in the Potions class and he wasn't following the instructions. Not that she was watching him like a hawk. Oh no. She wouldn't do that. She didn't care what Harry did. If he botched the potion, that was his problem.
Oh bollocks, she told herself. The simple fact of the matter was that she was jealous of Draco. Draco who was sitting next to Harry. Draco who had the easy camaraderie with him. Draco who spent time with him, and knew his little secrets. Because Harry always had little secrets, little things he did that he didn't want known – he was pathologically publicity-shy, and with good reason, she mused – but it had always been Ron and her who shared them. Who knew what he was thinking. Who were there to be the voice of reason for him.
And now they weren't there, and Draco was.
And right now, Harry was doing the wrong thing with his potion.
"Harry!" she hissed at him. "What are you doing?"
He turned around to face her, his hair flowing gently around his face as he did, and it suddenly struck her how gorgeous he was. He had always been 'just Harry' to her and she had never given a second thought about him being attractive; but somehow right now it forced itself on her: those beautiful lips with a ready smile, the eyes with a bright green sparkle. His whole face radiated happiness.
"Brewing Expositor Falsitas," he replied, too smoothly, and she knew the words were a challenge to her to call him on it and explain that he was doing it wrong, because he wasn't doing it 'by the book'. But she could already see in his eyes the dancing laughter: he knew a better method. Because of course this potion wasn't in 'the book'; they were brewing from the notes Snape had left for Borage. All of a sudden the different pieces came together in her mind: he and Draco had been away, Auror Banks had been away, and now they were brewing a potion Snape had devised, but not using the official instructions. And it made a coherent picture: Snape must have left different, better, instructions, and Harry and Draco had been at Spinner's End and got them, with Robin as Auror escort keeping them out of trouble.
And suddenly her heart got what her head was telling her: he and Draco were good for each other. He had never looked happy like this before. Hell, he'd never looked anything but angry or nervous in a Potions class, and here he was full of beans, busy chopping mandrake root like a pro.
No-one had ever managed to get under his skin like Draco had, and now that ability was the foundation of mutual love, rather than antipathy, she could see that he was learning from the blond; even his movements as he chopped the root echoed the same ones Draco was making.
And all her reservations suddenly evaporated. Draco couldn't hurt him, because of the Debt; but there was obviously more to their relationship. She could see it in Draco's eyes; the same look of devotion that was so often there in Ron's.
She smiled. "Good-oh," she said in reply. But the real message – of love and acceptance – passed between them, without words, and they both felt much better.

Hermione was not the only one keeping an eye on Harry and Draco. Stefan Ivanov was keeping his head down, but every now and then he would furtively glance over at their table. And he was mystified. What were they doing? The potion called for wormwood, yes, but not yet; and surely the fool wasn't going to add the laburnum leaves straight after? But hang on, he was infusing them in something – it must be the juice from the Sopophorous beans; but he hadn't seen him chop them?
What was going on? The Bulgarian was transfixed by what to him was an incredible display of arrogance: going against both the instructions on the board and the general rules of potion making, Draco and Harry both simultaneously added wormwood and the beans to Draco's potion; and then, immediately after, to Harry's.
Ivanov held his breath. This was either going to be the biggest explosion he'd ever seen, or the brewing of some completely different potion; his money was definitely on the first, and he tiptoed away gingerly. After a few seconds, it was clear that nothing was going to happen; there was a slight hissing noise, and then both cauldrons seemed to start bubbling away happily with the slow 'plop-plop' noise that Stefan recognised as the sign of a properly blended potion happily coming together and just about to change colour to the next stage.
He came back to his desk, and peered over. He nearly fainted when he saw the colours – the potion was exactly the sky-blue colour it was supposed to be. After the next three steps. Somehow, Malfoy and Potter were a week ahead of the rest of the class. And, after last week's debacle, nearly two weeks ahead of him. Swearing softly under his breath, Ivanov returned to his cauldron with a vengeance. He wasn't going to take this lying down; he would brew it perfectly, by the instructions, and show that he was just as good as these English.

Other eyes were watching the drama as well. Corner had been hoping for some excitement; when Ivanov had moved away from his desk, he had turned to Neville and, knowing the other's reputation for potion skill (or, rather, lack of it), said, "looks like he's expecting an explosion, Longbottom; have you been giving Potter tips?"
But to Corner's disappointment, nothing happened. Indeed, when Ivanov went back to his desk and checked Draco's potion, his face told Corner that things were grim. The bloody Death Eater was getting ahead of them, this was clear. He watched Ivanov crack on; and as a Ravenclaw, he wasn't going to let Malfoy show him up either.
Horace Slughorn was rather bemused. By the end of the class, there was a strange dichotomy. Half of the class was working with feverish determination; the other half seemed to be getting on with things, to be sure, but with a happy, friendly demeanor. He watched carefully; there was no problem being happy, but one did have to take life in the potions classroom with a good deal of care; accidents could be very serious.
He decided it was time to wander around and give encouragement where it was needed. He was pleased to see that Ivanov's skill was starting to show; he had been nearly a week behind, but now he seemed to be at a level with the rest of the class, and he congratulated him for it. He wandered on; happily giving a helpful hint here or there as needed: some powdered doxy eggs added to Mr Longbottom's cauldron helped to rescue it to the pea-green stage required, for example. He was glad to see that the man was keeping up, and he seemed to have accepted the advice quite happily. Indeed, Longbottom made a note to investigate doxy eggs and their properties later. Slughorn couldn't understand why the note Snape had left had been so awful about Longbottom; true, he would never be a master potioneer, but he seemed competent enough, and interested.
But all these thoughts left him when he came to Malfoy and Potter. He stared gob-smacked at their potions. The two cauldrons in front of him were practically identical; in each, there was a pin-wheel effect of sky-blue and a deep, musky pink. His eyes ranged down the board; Merlin! he thought, this was the stage they were supposed to reach in about three weeks' time. There was something more than skill here, he was sure of it.
He took up position between the two students, making sure no-one would overhear. "This is astonishing," he murmured, "you two are two full weeks ahead. Just exactly how have you managed that?"
Harry decided that a little bit of the truth was required. "Well sir," he said, "Professor Snape had left me a few pointers in the note that Professor Borage gave me. We've just been putting them to good use."
"Yes, I can see that," the wily old master replied quietly. "Well done, both of you." He wandered back to his desk at the front of the room, lost in thought. Snape had given Potter pointers? But Snape hated Potter; the remarks he had left Slughorn had removed any doubt about that. Just what was going on?
The bell to signal the end of classes went while Slughorn was still musing, largely oblivious to the tensions simmering amongst the Eighth Years.

Tuesday 14 July 1998
The tension boiled over in their practical Defence Against the Dark Arts class the following afternoon. It was a sunny day, "too sunny to be cooped up inside," Robin Banks had insisted, and he them out onto the Quidditch pitch where they were set to practice their Shield skills. Professor Merrythought went out with them, but took up a position in the stands, observing. She wanted to see what her offsider would do by himself.
To begin with, the lesson worked brilliantly: they were grouped in threes, one to fire a simple, low-level offensive spell – Robin suggested they use the jelly legs jinx or the tickling charm; one to stop it with a shield; and one to observe and comment. Since Harry had taught shield work to Dumbledore's Army, most of the students proved competent at a basic Protego; after perhaps an hour of the students casting spells and shields, with Robin and Harry wandering around and observing, the young professor was happy that all of his students were ready for something a bit more exciting.
He got them in groups of four, two sending the Stinging Hex or the Bat Bogey hex, two using shields; this time, of course, they had to work at blocking spells from different directions and it took a surprising amount of time for the defensive casters to work out that they could focus on one attacker, trusting their partner to focus on the other. In the meantime, a couple succumbed and had to have salve applied and counter-hexes; Robin made sure that they were all well versed in these, too, so the failures became teaching opportunities themselves.
After about twenty minutes, Robin called a break.
"Right!" he said cheerfully. "You're all competent in basic spell work, but you need to learn to work together and trust one another more in defense."
"How do we know we can trust one another?" a student asked. Robin looked at him – it was Terry Boot; the Auror made a mental note of 'trouble maker' as he went on seamlessly.
"Well, you've lived together long enough; make sure you're partnered with someone you trust. Your room-mate, if no-one else. Or do you mean outside school? If you sign up as Aurors, you'll always have a partner, and he or she will always have your back; in a domestic situation, you need to train with other household members, and learn to trust them."
"Do we really need this?" one of the Beauxbatons girls asked.
"I know the war is over, but we still have to be on our guard," Banks replied. "Voldemort may be gone-" he noticed the general shudder at the name, but continued, "but there are still people out there who agree with what he was trying to do. We need to be ready to defend against them. So now I want to see groups of five – three attackers and two defenders. Let's see whether you can stand against a stronger assault."
This would have worked brilliantly, except that somehow Blaise and Neville wound up partners against the three Ravenclaw boys; to begin with, they cast the stinging hex, but then came the Severing Charm; and as the two defenders were getting and keeping their shields up, there came a barrage of Diffindo and Lacero, the Cutting Curse; and then Corner and Boot each cast a strong Confringo, at which point the shields started to buckle quite dangerously.
Harry had been watching the five out of the corner of his eye, and knew immediately that this was serious. The three were not participating in a lesson any more; they were actively seeking to do serious damage. He hurled himself into the fray, 'Protego Totalum!' springing from his lips. The shield went ahead of him, protecting the two defending students admirably; but unfortunately, Gryffindors having a tendency to heroic action, Harry had rather forgotten to shield himself properly. A stray Cutting Curse hit him in the leg and he started bleeding. The world started to slip away from him; he heard a huge hue and cry, and Robin Banks was there, he could hear him, and then all went black …

Ivan Smetana had been sitting in the stands, watching the Defence class with interest. This young Auror knew his stuff, and was very personable; and it seemed that everyone was learning the shields quite quickly. Even the Beauxbatons girls seemed to be quite proficient at it; though he would never say it out loud, being something of a male chauvinist, he was impressed by how well they were doing and how quickly they had picked things up; and they certainly seemed to be working together better than the other students. Better, he had to admit, than the Durmstrang students in his care. He looked over to the two; they were in the same group of five, but Smetana was pleased to see that, rather than sticking together in what could have been a Durmstrang versus Hogwarts situation, his own two boys were on opposite sides: Ivanov was being an attacker while Anderssen was partnered with one of the Hogwarts students – Ron Weasley, in fact, he could see now – and the two were definitely holding their own against the other three.
And once again, Potter was being outstanding. It was hard to tell who taught more: the professor or the student. Potter had an easy grace to him, and the other students took to him immediately. He could see that the boy had their respect; and not just because of his fame. He was really good at this. He went from group to group, teaching and encouraging with an easy swagger. Even when he reached the group that the two Durmstrang students were in, he was no different; and Smetana was pleased to see his boys interacting with him, asking questions and – yes! Anderssen had finally got the hang of a Protego Maxima! The blue-white light shone out of his wand and he could see Potter casting quite a strong Stupefy at it, which exploded harmlessly.
And then things got out of hand. Those Ravenclaw boys, they were trouble, he knew it; and suddenly they weren't casting the low-level spells any more. Ivan had enough experience with dark magic to feel where this was headed. He jumped to his feet, beside himself with rage. He looked around at Anderssen and Ivanov; the two had clearly spotted what was going on, and he was glad to see that Anderssen had surrounded the whole group with a Protego Maxima. This was what he had taught them, and absolutely the right thing to do – running into the fight would only make things worse, while protecting those around him would make sure they were safe and ready to help once the teachers had calmed things down.
And then Potter was down. Smetana was surprised how that made him feel. On the one hand, the lad had failed to keep himself safe; he should have been shielded, he should have expected that the curses could come his way just as much as any other. And perhaps he wasn't as strong as Smetana had thought, if the spells these boys knew were enough to bring him down. But on the other hand, hesitation could well have meant serious trouble for the two boys under attack. Those other boys weren't casting Tickling Charms any more. Moreover, Potter shouldn't have to shield himself against unprovoked attack. This was a school, not a battlefield.
By the time he reached the boy, Auror Banks had him on a stretcher and was clearly In Charge, in the way that good teachers can be at a moment's notice. Good. Smetana thought. Just one other thing to do. The Incarcerous and Expelliarmus came out of his wand almost without thinking, and three students lay bound in front of him.

Draco was sitting in one of the small self-study rooms in the library working on his Transfiguration homework – Harry had found it a snap, but somehow the spells were eluding him. His Evanesco was working fine; but Vanishing and Returning objects he didn't seem to be too good at. Professor McGonagall had given each student a dozen matchboxes to practice on; they were told not to open them until they had Vanished and Returned them; that way, they would not know what was inside them, so they would know if their spell had actually brought back the same matchbox or merely created a similar one. One of the Ravenclaw girls had asked how they would know this; if they didn't know what was in the matchbox to begin with, how would they know when they opened it after the event that it was the same?
"Oh, you'll know," had been the crisp, enigmatic reply.
Draco came back to the present. Day-dreaming again; that seemed to be the issue. Eventually it occurred to him that the problem was concentration. And they had been taught a handy spell for that …
"Prosecho!" he cast. Suddenly, there was the now familiar feeling of being squeezed through a keyhole; and the only thing in the world, the only thing important, was the matchbox in front of him.
"Evanesco!" he cast, and the matchbox vanished. No surprise there; but could he bring it back?
"Resurgo!" he cast.
And there, on the desk, was a matchbox.
And now the moment of truth. Was it the same one?
He opened the box, his hand trembling. A little flag popped up, a square of tartan; a little tinny horn played a tiny triumphant tune of "dah-dah-dah-DAH-dah-DAH!" and the word 'Congratulations' appeared on the flag.
Draco grinned. McGonagall had been right; he certainly knew that he had succeeded!
At this point, a pain in his stomach reminded him that it must soon be time for dinner. He opened the door and walked into the library, to find it practically deserted. Funny, he thought, it's not that late is it? A quick tempus showed that there were still ten minutes or so till the evening meal; surely someone else would have been studying in the library?
He looked out of the window, and saw a procession coming up from the Quidditch pitch. That was strange; there wasn't a match today? And then he saw the stretcher in the front of the procession, being sped along by charms, and the raven-haired figure immobilised on it, obviously placed in a protective body-bind curse.
He would have known that figure anywhere. His heart fell to his boots as he rushed out of the library.

Draco met the procession as it got to the front doors of the castle.
"What happened?" he demanded breathlessly as he met the procession.
"There was a fight," Marie Thibault began. It might, in retrospect, not have been the best place to begin; certainly, Draco seemed to just lose it. A fight! This was what he had been afraid of all along; this was why he wasn't in the Defence class. A thousand thoughts raced through his head all at once – who had attacked his Harry? Or was it Harry who started it? Who was hurt?
But what came out of his mouth was, "What? Harry, you were in a fight? What the hell were you thinking? Are you alright?"
The green-eyed Gryffindor, hardly able to move a muscle, looked up at his fiancé, and winced inwardly. The shock on Draco's face unnerved him far more than any of the curses had been able to do. What if Draco was really hurt by this? He looked like he was about to fall over himself, and for the first time, Harry realised with his full rational mind what had been obvious to Draco for months: Defense Against the Dark Arts was a class where people could throw curses at you, and pass it off as part of the classwork. It was, quite simply, dangerous. A part of Harry had always known that; but he had thrived on the danger. But now, with a fiancé, he realised he just couldn't be that reckless. Before, if he died, he died. No-one would really have cared. They would have found some other poor sap to defeat Voldemort. But now; now it mattered. Now, he mattered, to someone else. And the reality of that fact hit him with an emotional force he had never truly considered before.
In the middle of his turmoil, the old insecurities came to the fore again: what if this was all too much for Draco? What if he decided Harry just wasn't worth the effort? He strained with all his might; but the body-bind held him rigid.
"Mr Malfoy, I'll explain later. In the meantime we have to get Mr Potter to the infirmary immediately," Auror Banks said crisply. There was none of the cosy conspiratorial tone he had used at Spinner's End; this was the teacher admonishing a student who was in the way, and Draco recognised it and stepped back to let them pass. In doing so, he lost his footing and his face, viewed from Harry's stretcher, took on quite an angry aspect. Harry grimaced; and finally, his magic overcame the body-bind curse enough for him to speak.
"Draco!" he cried hoarsely, "I'm so sorry, don't leave me, I'm sorry…" and then he trailed off into blissful unconsciousness …

Pomfrey would not allow anyone into the infirmary.
"Not even next of kin?" Draco demanded.
She looked at him sternly, and then relaxed just a little. "Technically, you're not that, not till you are married. But I suppose you do have some claim on him. All right, but make sure you stay out of the way."
An hour later, Harry was still unconscious, and Draco could tell that all was not as it should be. Poppy was not pleased; she was bustling about, clicking her tongue, casting diagnostic after diagnostic. Eventually, she stood still and stared at her patient with a sigh.
"Will he be all right?" Draco asked timidly.
"What?" Poppy said, stunned out of the reverie she had fallen into. She had obviously forgotten that he was there at all. "Mr Malfoy, are you still here? Yes, he'll be alright; but he should have come round by now. He's been overdoing it again, hasn't he?"
"Maybe…" said Draco, and then, as the matron stared at him sternly, he confessed about the visit to Spinner's End. He swore her to secrecy then told her about the excitement of the convicts in Snape's house, followed by the trip to the Manor. Poppy tutted and clucked.
"Right, add that to the stress of teaching this afternoon – I was watching from here, he was teaching as much as Auror Banks was; and then he gets hit by a Cutting Curse and two Stunners at the same time – look you can see it here, quite plain, in the diagnostic readout," she said when he looked disbelieving, passing a piece of parchment that she had charmed to show the extent of his injuries.
"What the hell was he doing?" Draco demanded.
"I don't rightly know," the healer replied. "But if you're going to stay here, Mr Malfoy, you will have to stay calm. Tell me, did you say anything to him after the event? Any more stress?"
Draco's face fell, and he told Poppy the events at the front door. She looked at him with a strange mixture of parental concern and professional detachment.
"I think, given this little story," she said, "that I'm going to put my foot down with Mr Potter." She waved her wand over him. "Right. That's a little spell to keep him out for twenty four hours at least. I suggest, Mr Malfoy, that you pop down to the Great Hall and find something to eat and see what you can find out about what happened. And hopefully when he comes round I won't have to tie both of you to a bed to make you rest!"
The words were stern, but the tone was light, and Draco realised that he was incredibly hungry, so thanked the medi-witch and made his way to the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was full of noise. As Draco entered, the Beauxbatons girls spotted him immediately, and called him over.
"Draco!" one of the Thibault twins started. "'Ow is 'Arry?"
"Oh!" Gabrielle Delacour said, seeing him come up. "'Ave you seen 'im? Is 'e recovered?"
"I have seen him," Draco said gravely. "He is in no immediate danger; but he will be in the Hospital Wing for a while now."
They started to ask him a million more questions, but he waved them down.
"Please excuse me," he said, his voice striving for its usual politeness but rather betraying his tiredness. "I must have something to eat."
"Of course, of course, please, sit 'ere, we shall get you some food," Madame Dubois expounded, but Draco smiled at her and excused himself, saying he should probably reassure Harry's friends.
In fact, Draco had decided that he wanted to know exactly what had happened, preferably from someone who had been there, and someone who was a little less flighty than the French girls were likely to be. Madam Pomfrey was right; he had to stay calm. He had flown off the handle before, and he had not missed the look in Harry's eyes. A look of hurt, and betrayal, and fear. One the Debt was reminding him that he should not have put there. He sighed. He loved Harry; he wasn't going anywhere. He'd accepted the ring from Harry, and as far as he was concerned, that was a permanent commitment. He just wanted to know how to get Harry to believe that too, to get him away from this fear of losing Draco.
He looked around the table and decided that some fence-mending was probably in order. He had not missed the odd glance from Granger – Hermione, he reminded himself – and he had very little doubt that she was feeling somewhat jealous of him. Gryffindors wore their hearts on their sleeves; he might have sniggered at them for it in the past, but he had to admit that knowing where you stood definitely made it simpler to deal with them.
So he very deliberately sat with Ron and Hermione, and asked them about what had happened. And by the smile that came onto Hermione's face at being asked, he knew he had made a good decision.
"Today was supposed to be all about Shield charms," Hermione said. "They are not as well-known as you might expect."
"You may not know, but the twins made a good living for a while selling items with basic shield charms on them," Ron added. "The Ministry bought up all their stock when they started out."
"Yes, well," harrumphed Hermione, clearly a bit peeved that Ron had interrupted.
"Sor-ry!" he replied, clearly not meaning it at all. "Just trying to give Draco a bit of background."
"Yes, well, about today," Draco replied, trying to keep them on track; he didn't really want to be part of one of their little relationship squabbles, no matter how endearing they might be.
"Today. Shield charms. Well, everyone in Dumbledore's Army knew how to cast a basic Protego; it was one of the things Harry made very sure of. That helped a lot; and so while we started off with simple hexes being thrown at simple shields, we got a bit more ambitious."
"Maybe too ambitious," Ron suggested. "We were three against two at the end, with Harry and Robin walking around keeping an eye on everyone. It probably would have been fine, except that the three Ravenclaw boys were partnered against Blaise and Neville. I think they've got a bit of a thing about gay people, so Neville was an obvious target."
Draco privately agreed; he had been watching the Ravenclaws closely, ever since they had all suspiciously been absent together on the first day. They were definitely up to something, that had been clear.
"OK, so they attacked Neville and Blaise? But how did Harry get involved?"
"He was being a sort of teacher's assistant, I guess," Hermione replied. "So he felt he had to charge in and do something. It's what he's like, you know that."
"Yeah, I guess I do," Draco agreed. He would much rather Harry had stayed safe; but he could understand that that just wasn't Harry. And anyway, Blaise had protected him on the very same Quidditch pitch; how like Harry to return the favour. "So he got caught up in the middle, then?"
"Pretty much," Ron said. "I saw him cast an awesome Protego Totalum, which completely shielded Neville and Blaise, but he wasn't thinking about himself, and some curses got through. I'm not sure which ones …"
"A cutting curse and two stunners," Draco answered promptly. "Pomfrey told me. And what about the Durmstrang students?"
Hermione and Ron looked at each other blankly. "As far as I know, they weren't involved," Hermione replied, and Ron nodded.
Draco sat back. From what had been said, he had been worried that somehow it was Harry's fight; but now he knew that it wasn't, he could relax a little. But then, of course, the shock set in, and he struggled to hold himself together. Harry was hurt, and he had done nothing to stop it, and he couldn't be there to make things better, and he was going to have to spend the night without him. It was all too much all of a sudden.
Strong arms snaked around him from both sides, and he suddenly found himself surrounded by Pansy and Blaise.
"It's OK, Dray," Pansy cooed. "We understand."
And there, in the middle of the Great Hall, the Ice Prince of Slytherin almost lost his cool enough to burst into tears.
Almost.
No, it wasn't a tear running down his cheek. Just condensation. That must be it. Mind you, it was quite strange, the look it put on Grang- er, on Hermione's face. Like she actually cared.
"Here," she said, and pushed a bowl of apple crumble in front of him. "I know you like it."
And all of a sudden there was a fight going on inside his head. The Slytherin part was saying, no, he didn't like crumble; and how did Granger know, anyway; and what was she trying to get out of him by giving it to him? DON'T TOUCH IT!
But there was another part, the part that he always thought that came from Harry, the part he called his inner Hufflepuff. And that part simply thought: Apple Crumble. Yum. From Granger. Because she does actually care. And it's not that she wants anything; it just means I'm accepted.
He picked up his spoon. His inner Hufflepuff had won.

The Headmistress's door opened in front of him even before the Durmstrang chaperone had knocked.
"Please come in, Mr Smetana," McGonagall's no-nonsense tones entreated. "You have come at a very good time."
He entered the room to find the two Defence professors and the three Ravenclaw boys ranged in front of the large desk. McGonagall was standing behind it, and her face was as stern as he had ever seen it.
"It seems that we have a large issue here arising from the Defence class this afternoon. I wonder if you can tell us what you saw, Mr Smetana?"
"Ah," said the European, and launched into a very careful, circumspect account of the afternoon, being fastidious about sharing only what he had seen with his own eyes; to no-one's surprise, his account exonerated the Durmstrang students.
"He would say that," Terry Boot said, under his breath.
"He would say that, Mr Boot, because from what I saw, it is entirely true," Auror Banks replied. "It is difficult to see any way that anyone but you three was involved in the attack."
Smetana relaxed, but then looked both wary and a little confused. "Excuse me, why is this so important?"
"Because," the Headmistress replied, "I have just received this report from Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary." She passed him a piece of parchment, which he read while she continued, "it seems that not only was Mr Potter hit with curses, but the Cutting curse was somehow wrapped around a small object of some kind – we're not sure what, it had fallen to pieces inside Mr Potter's robes, but from the holes in the robes it can't have been much bigger than a galleon – which had been cursed with the Flagrante Transfero curse."
Smetana drew in his breath sharply.
"This is … incredible," he said, speaking more to himself than to the others listening. "I had thought it strange: Mr Potter is a strong wizard, why would he succumb to the curses that were sent against him so easily … but the Flagrante curse, that should have burned, and gone on burning. Why did it stop?"
He looked back at the parchment. "And with Transfero, it should have set up a reaction in anything it touched, his robes, yes, even his flesh. By rights, he should have burned to ash."
"You seem remarkably well-informed," Auror Banks said drily. "Have you seen this used before? Are you able to shed any light on who might have used it?"
"I read somewhere it was one of the curses that that mad-man you had here used," Smetana said, rather vaguely. "Other than that … Frankly, it is incredible to me that any of these three would have had such an object, or known how to create one."
"I am of the same opinion," Professor Merrythought replied. "And so, my suggestion stands, Minerva."
"Very well," the Headmistress replied, her voice sounding very tired. "We will continue the vigilance. And as for you three," she said, turning to the three Ravenclaws, "you should consider yourselves lucky. At any other time, I would definitely have had to consider expulsion. You may go."
Boot, Corner and Goldstein blanched visibly, but thanked the Headmistress and Professor, and left the office looking thoroughly chastened.
"Excuse me, what is happening?" Smetana asked as the door closed behind them.
"They have overstepped the bounds of the class by several yards," Merrythought replied. "There is some evidence that they deliberately attacked the two students with curses well beyond the level they were supposed to use, which your statement definitely corroborates."
"So," McGonagall continued, taking up the story, "it has been decided that they are not quite acting in the spirit of co-operation and unity demanded of our eighth year students, and will not be continuing in the programme. However, they are eligible to apply for Hogwarts in the school term starting in September."
"I see," Smetana answered. He could see at once that this was a clever punishment. The stigma would be considerable, he could see that; but, as they had been kicked out but not expelled, they really had no alternative but to come back with the normal September intake. Otherwise they would be seen as forfeiting their education themselves, which Smetana guessed that no-one from the bookish Ravenclaw house would dream of doing.
"It is a most fitting solution," he said. "But you still have to find your curse-caster, yes?"
Robin Banks looked tight-lipped. "Indeed we do," he replied.
"Well, perhaps we should all get to it, then," the Headmistress said, with such an air of finality that the other three were up and half-way to the door before they really knew what was happening.
"I wonder if I could have a word with Mr Smetana?" a voice asked from behind the Headmistress.
Minerva turned to regard the portrait of the former Headmaster.
"Yes, of course, Albus," she replied. "Would you like me to leave you in private?"
"Thank you, that would be very kind," the painting replied.
And so it was that a minute later, the Headmistress's study was empty but for Ivan Smetana and the painting of Albus Dumbledore. Even the other portraits had vacated their frames, the European noticed. Just what was going on?
Dumbledore regarded him with that grandfatherly air that had so often been commented on; but his words were surprisingly direct.
"We need your help, here," he said bluntly.
"I see," the chaperone replied. This was no time to play dumb, he decided.
"Do you have any ideas?" Dumbledore asked.
"It has to be one of the Beauxbatons girls," came the reply. "Everyone else checks out. The only Hogwarts students who could have done it were the three attackers, and it was clear to me from where I sat that they didn't; they were totally engrossed with throwing curses at the other two boys. There's no way it was Potter himself; he would have had to activate it in the air, and the report shows that's impossible. It wasn't my boys; I'd know if they had anything like that, and I promise you, they didn't."
"Hmm. All right. Any idea which girl?"
"Yes," came the reply, and Smetana shared his suspicions.
"Interesting," Albus said. "You may well be right. Thank you, Igor."
"Ivan," the other protested.
"Yes, of course, my apologies," said Albus, with a smile. "Thank you for your help. We may have had differences of opinions on how to lead a school; but perhaps there is no one right way, after all. I am intrigued by your glamour; it's very strong. How do you keep it up?"
The other man sighed. "All right, I suppose there's no getting away from you, is there," he said, and the glamour he had been wearing for weeks dissolved around him. "In some ways it isn't a glamour – the man it represents died while we were poly-juiced as one another, and this one seems to have become easy for me to adopt as a consequence."
"Interesting," Dumbledore mused. "And deserving of further discussion, and investigation. But perhaps another time? Good night, and thank you for your help. Oh, and I know we didn't get on when I was in life; I do hope we can be friends going forward."
With that, Dumbledore walked out of his painting.
"Remarkable," Igor Karkaroff said to himself, as he took up the persona of Ivan Smetana once again and left for Dumbledore Tower.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have set up a thread for replies at http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/56042-review-replies-for-returning-to-sanity/ . Please indicate which chapter you are reading, as aff doesn't make that clear. I will generally try to reply to posts before posting a new chapter.
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Returning to Sanity