Once Harry was released from the Hospital Wing, everything sort of went back to normal. Professor Lupin had come back to school and everyone else was thrilled to hear that they didn't actually have to do the essays. In celebration of Gryffindor's defeat, Malfoy had removed his sling and taken to pretending to fall off of his chair whenever Harry walked by.

"Cut it out, Malfoy," I berated him, having had enough. "You're so immature."

He smirked. "You're just saying that because you lost."

"I'm saying that because you're being immature," I said matter-of-factly, "and if you don't wipe that stupid smirk off your face I'll do it for you."

He was midway through saying "is that a threat" when a large, blubbery object hit him square in the face. It slid down comically and landed with a jiggly bloop on the table — a crocodile heart. Hardly being able to control myself, I burst into a fit of raucous laughter — tears fell from my eyes.

The rest of the Gryffindors had joined in, and Malfoy's face had went pink. I barely noticed that Snape had taken fifty points from Gryffindor, and that Ron didn't look at all sorry for what he did, which just made me laugh harder.

"You have a terrible laugh, Holmes," Malfoy scowled something fierce, returning from the washroom as I wiped the tears from my eyes.

"You have a terrible face Malfoy," I told him gleefully. "We all have our shortcomings."

He smirked fiendishly. "You didn't seem to think it was so terrible when—"

I slapped a hand over his treacherous mouth and sent him my nastiest glare. I still refused to talk about it, because I refused to think about it. I didn't like the idea that I'd enjoyed kissing Malfoy, berries or no berries.

The next Hogsmeade Saturday, Ron, Hermione, and I bid goodbye to Harry. Ron and Hermione were arguing about Scabbers and Crookshanks again. Trying to get them to stop arguing was a good distraction from my thoughts. They finally stopped once we reached the cobbled path, and the white, shimmery snow made the town look like a Christmas card.

"Up for Scrivenshafts?" Hermione asked me. "I need some more ink."

"More ink? Hermione, it's only December," Ron remarked. "I can't say I'm surprised with all that work you're doing but maybe you should take a break."

"My Muggle Studies essay isn't going to do itself, Ron," Hermione replied primly. "Besides, if you actually did the work for our classes you'd almost be out too."

"I don't choose to use four pieces of parchment when the minimum is one," Ron said, scowling.

"Let's go," I said quickly, before it could escalate. "And then after that we can go to Honeydukes and get something for Harry, how's that?"

"Sounds good," said Ron, looking at Hermione warily.

We walked to Scrivenshaft's in the snow. It was a relief to be inside — the heat washed over us and melted the frost from our eyelashes. After visiting a few more stores for some Christmas shopping, we trekked to Honeydukes to get sweets for Harry. The smell of sweets engulfed me once again, as did the warmth of the shop on its own.

"I claim the treacle tart — it's his favorite," I announced immediately, turning on my feel before either of them could protest.

"That's hardly fair," Hermione rolled her eyes. "But we'll go look anyway."

She and Ron walked off to go browse the other shelves. I stooped to pick up some treacle tart when I felt a pair of eyes on me. I turned around to see none other than Malfoy; in the exact same spot he was last time, almost as if he was waiting for me.

"Escaped again, I see," I said. "Where are your friends?"

"Three Broomsticks again," he replied, eyeing the Treacle Tart I was holding, " for Potter?"

I nodded. "Another rough week for Pansy?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Rough month — don't tell her I told you. Her parents are getting on her about her grades and she's starting to snap."

I frowned on her behalf. I'd never know what that was like, always being self motivated for schoolwork. That could explain why she was so mean all the time. "Well, tell her if there's any way I can help — you know, in this situation I'm not supposed to know about — I'd be happy to."

Malfoy tilted his head. "You'd do that?"

"Friend of a friend, or whatever they say," I waved it off. Malfoy ignored my nonchalance on the matter, though, and promptly smiled.

"You Gryffindors and your hearts of gold," he tutted to himself. "I'll let her know what you said — you know, hypothetically."

"Alright," I turned away with the tart, trying to figure out why my stomach was doing flips. I raised my hand in a wave. "I'll see you, Malfoy."

"See you, Holmes."

I found Ron and Hermione in the Unusual Tastes section. I squeezed my way through the crowd to them holding the Treacle Tart, standing between them. They seemed to be getting along now. Ron was grinning and holding a jar of Cockroach Clusters. Once he saw me, he shoved them under my nose.

"What do you reckon about these?" He suggested.

"Definitely not," replied what was unmistakably Harry's voice.

Ron threw the jar into the air in surprise, and I whipped around to see Harry catch it effortlessly and hand it back to him, laughing.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, voicing everyone's surprise. "What are you doing here? How — how did you —?"

"Wow!" Ron beamed, setting the jar back on the shelf, "you've learned to Apparate!"

"'Course I haven't," said Harry. He lowered his voice and leaned in. He then pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and showed us how it turned into a map that displayed secret passageways in the castle and everyone's whereabouts.

"How come Fred and George never gave it to me!" Ron groveled, outraged. "I'm their brother!"

"But Harry isn't going to keep it!" Hermione said quickly. "He's going to hand it in to Professor McGonagall, aren't you, Harry?"

"Are you mad?" Ron asked Hermione, shocked. "Hand in something that good?"

"Hermione, have you any idea how helpful this could be?" I asked. "We could see everyone's whereabouts any time we wanted."

"Exactly! What about Sirius Black?" Hermione hissed. "He could be using one of the passages on that map to get into the castle! The teachers have got to know!"

"He can't be getting in through a passage," reasoned Harry. "There are seven secret tunnels on the map, right? Fred and George reckon Filch already knows about four of them. And of the other three — one of them's caved in, another's got the Whomping Willow planted over the entrance, so you can't get out of it. And the one I just came through is really hard to see down in the cellar — so unless he knew it was there —"

Ron cleared his throat and directed our attention to a poster on the door.

BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC: Customers are reminded that until further notice, Dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade every night after sundown. This measure has been put in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and will be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black. It is therefore advisable that you complete your shopping well before nightfall.

Merry Christmas!

"See?" Ron pressed. "I'd like to see Black try and break into Honeydukes with Dementors in the village. Anyway, the owners would hear a break-in, wouldn't they? They live over the shop!"

"Yes, but Harry still shouldn't be coming into Hogsmeade!" Hermione argued. "He hasn't got a signed form! If anyone finds out, he'll be in so much trouble! And it's not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black turns up today? Now?"

"Like I said yesterday, he'd have a job spotting Harry in this," said Ron, motioning at the students and the snow.

"Come on, Hermione, it's Christmas," I said gently. "Harry deserves a break."

Hermione pursed her lips.

"Are you going to report me?" Harry teased.

"Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry—"

Ron steered Harry away from the two of us to show him all the candies and sweets that Honeydukes had to offer. After we all paid, we decided to go to the Three Broomsticks to introduce Harry to butterbeer. I hoped Malfoy and his friends had left by then — Malfoy would have no problem reporting him.

"You should have at least brought the Cloak," I told him.

"I was too excited about the map to go and grab it," he replied, shivering.

"You'd be a lot warmer if you did," I said matter-of-factly. "And safer."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry rolled his eyes, teeth chattering.

"Would you like my scarf?" I offered.

"I'd hate to take it from you," he said.

"It's alright, I've got hair," I replied. I took it off, exposing my neck to the cold wind, and handed it to him. He wrapped it around his own neck, sighing happily.

"Thank you," he said. I shrugged. "No problem."

"What did Malfoy want?" Harry asked slyly. I frowned at him.

"You saw that?"

"I walked right by you and somehow neither of you saw me," Harry told me. "You two have always had your own little bubble."

"It was just, you know," I didn't want to give Pansy's situation away. "Things."

"Snogging in Snape's storage cupboard things?" Harry wiggled his eyebrows until I shoved him.

I groaned, cheeks red. "I wish you'd stop reminding me that that happened."

The Three Broomsticks was crowded when we got there. Madam Rosmerta was serving up drinks at the bar. Ron went to go get them, and returned with four tankards of warm butterbeer. Despite the sweetness, I was glad to have something warm to hold and gratefully let the butterscotch-smelling steam waft into my face.

"Merry Christmas!" Ron raised his tankard, and the four of us clinked our glasses together.

A breeze went through the pub and the four of us looked up to see McGonagall, followed by Flitwick, then Hagrid, enter. After Hagrid came the Minister of Magic — Cornelius Fudge.

Instinctively, Ron and I, closest to Harry, pushed him underneath the table by the top of his head, his butterbeer splashing all over his robes and the floor. Hermione was searching around wildly, finally looking at the Christmas tree beside our table.

"Mobiliarbus!" She whispered, and the tree drifted over to us before landing softly in front of our table, hiding us from the teachers.

"I still have trouble believing it," said Madam Rosmerta. "Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I'd have thought. I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. If you'd told me then what he was going to become, I'd have said you'd had too much mead."

"You don't know the half of it, Rosmerta," Fudge muttered. "The worst he did isn't widely known."

Ron, Hermione, and I shared a look.

"The worst?" asked Madam Rosmerta. "Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?"

"You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta," Professor McGonagall spoke. "Do you remember who his best friend was?"

"Naturally," said Madam Rosmerta, laughing lightly. "Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used to make me laugh! Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!"

It wasn't anything we hadn't heard before, but the confirmation of it seemed just as harsh as the truth.

"Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends." Fudge was saying. "Nothing changed when they left school. Black was his best man, then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him."

I could feel Harry tense beneath the table, considering I'd been the one to tell him. At the time, he'd seem pensive over the information, but had it sunk in since then? Had the reality of it started to fester?

"Dumbledore told them to go into hiding, and that their best chance of hiding from You-Know-Who was the Fidelius Charm." Fudge continued.

"How does that work?"

"An immensely complex spell," Professor Flitwick answered, "involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside said person, the Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it."

"So Black was the Potters' Secret-Keeper?"

"Naturally," Professor McGonagall said. "James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself. Yet, I remember Dumbledore offering to be the Potters' Secret-Keeper himself."

"He suspected Black?" Madam Rosmerta gasped.

"He knew somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements," said Professor McGonagall. "Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who."

"But James Potter insisted on using Black?"

"He did," Fudge said heavily. "And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed—"

"Filthy, stinkin' turncoat!" Hagrid exclaimed. Half the bar fell silent at his sudden outburst. Professor McGonagall shushed him, but he continued anyway. "I met him! Emilie and I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people! It was me that rescued Harry from Lily an' James's house after they was killed! An' Sirius Black is there, white an' shakin', he was. I didn' know he was their Secret Keeper! An' yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN' TRAITOR!"

"Hagrid, please!" Professor McGonagall said warningly. "Keep your voice down!"

"How was I ter know he wasn' upset abou' Lily an' James?" He continued. "It was You-Know-Who he cared abou'! An' then he says, 'Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I'm his godfather, I'll look after him —' Ha! But I'd had me orders from Dumbledore, an' I told Black no. Black argued, but in the end he gave in.  But what if I'd given Harry to him, eh? I bet he'd've pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes' friends' son! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark Side, there's nothin' and no one that matters to em anymore . . ."

There was a long silence, both from the teachers and from us. I could almost feel Harry shaking from under the table.

"But he didn't manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him next day, right?" Madam Rosmerta said.

"Alas, if only we had," said Fudge. "It wasn't us that found him, but Peter Pettigrew — another of Potters' friends. Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters' Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself."

"Pettigrew — the fat little boy who was always tagging around them at Hogwarts?" Madam Rosmerta asked.

"Hero-worshipped Black and Potter," said Professor McGonagall. "Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I — how I regret that now." She sniffed.

"There, now, Minerva," said Fudge gently, "Pettigrew died a hero's death. Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later — told us how Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing, 'Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?' And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. Blew Pettigrew to smithereens . . ."

Professor McGonagall blew her nose. "Stupid boy . . . foolish. He  was always hopeless at dueling — should have left it to the Ministry . . ."

"I'll tell yeh, if I'd got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn't've messed around with wands — I'd 've ripped him limb from limb," Hagrid roared.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Hagrid," said Fudge. "Nobody but trained Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have stood a chance against Black. I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes — a crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him . . . a heap of bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments —"

The five of them blew their noses simultaneously.

"Well, there you have it, Rosmerta," said Fudge dolefully. "Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black's been in Azkaban ever since."

"Is it true he's mad, Minister?"

"I wish I could say that he was," said Fudge. "I certainly believe his master's defeat unhinged him for a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man. Yet, I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban. Most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark, but I was shocked at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite rationally to me. It was unnerving. You'd have thought he was merely bored — asked if I'd finished with my newspaper, said he missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at how little effect the Dementors seemed to be having on him. He was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day and night."

"But what do you think he's broken out to do?" asked Madam Rosmerta. "Good gracious, Minister, he isn't trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?"

"I daresay that is his eventual plan," said Fudge. "But we hope to catch Black long before that. You-Know-Who alone and friendless is one thing. . . but give him back his most devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly he'll rise again . . ."

Professor McGonagall set down her glass, stood, and pushed in her chair. "You know, Cornelius, if you're dining with the headmaster, we'd better head back up to the castle."

The teachers left, and Madam Rosmerta went back up to the bar. Ron, Hermione, and I looked between each other before simultaneously dropping to look at Harry below the table, speechless.