"Ron! Ron! Wake up! Something's wrong with Harry!" Miranda shakes Ron frantically, as the boy in he bed adjacent continues to thrash.

    "Wha—whassamatter, what's going on?" Ron mumbles groggily, eyes widening as he sees the scene before him.

    "Get McGonagall now!" Miranda commands, at this point other members of Gryffindor have risen due to the commotion. Ron jumps out of bed and runs to fetch the professor, while Miranda goes to Harry's bedside.

    "Harry? Harry I'm here, are you okay?" She takes his hand in hers. As soon as she does her eye flashes bright green and she descends into a terrifying scene. Her thoughts are overwhelmed with others as she recognizes Mr. Weasley, cowering on the floor of the Ministry. A snake strikes him again and again, blood pouring. Miranda is petrified, it's like she can hear the snake's voice inside her head, that and the screams of Mr. Weasley. And then just as soon as it has started, it stops.

    "Harry— Miranda! HARRY! " Miranda opens her eyes with a gasp of breath, her head surging with an unbearable pain. She nearly collapses to the floor as she crawls away from Harry's bedside.

    "Miranda!" Ron is standing over her looking extremely frightened. Beside her, Harry has toppled out of his bed, sheets twisted around him. He was drenched with sweat. Miranda clutches her head, practically writhing in sheer agony. She rolls over and vomits onto the rug.

    "Should we call someone?" A voice says, frightened. Miranda can't recognize it, her head throbs as she tries to pull herself upright. She has an overwhelming feeling that Harry needs her, almost like she can hear his own pain. "Harry! Harry!" And Ron— his dad, she has to tell someone— she has to— the pain is blinding.

    "Your dad," Harry pants to Ron, having managed to steady himself. "Your dad's . . . been attacked. . . ."

    "What?" says Ron uncomprehendingly.

    "Your dad! He's been bitten, it's serious, there was blood everywhere..."

    "I'm going for help." Miranda hears footsteps running out of the dormitory, and she takes several large gulps of air. Harry is right. She's seen it too. But how—

    "Harry, mate," says Ron uncertainly, "you..you were just dreaming..."

    "No!" Harry cried out furiously; it was crucial that Ron understand. "It wasn't a dream . . . not an ordinary dream. . . . I was there, I saw it. ...Idid it...."

    "He's right," Miranda insists weakly, shaking with the effort of it. Her whole body is trembling, and her eyes are unfocused. She feels dizzy, and retches again, "I— saw it too. Ron— he's hurt bad, we have to—"

    "Harry— Miranda, you're not well," Ron stammers. "We went for help."

    "I'm fine!" Harry chokes. "There's nothing wrong with me, it's your dad you've got to worry about — we need to find out where he is — he's bleeding like mad — I was — it was a huge snake. . . ."

    "Ron he was at the ministry," Miranda pleads, holding on to the bedpost for support. "I swear Harry's not lying. I saw him too— I saw it..."

    "You saw it?" whispers Harry, finally registering her presence. Miranda grabs his hand, nodding tightly. "You saw it," Harry breathes shakily.

    "Over here, Professor . . ." Professor McGonagall comes hurrying into the dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose.

    Miranda has never been more relieved to see her aunt.     "What is going on here?" McGonagall rushes over, brisk and to the point. "Miranda what— what happened? Mr. Potter?"

Harry and Miranda trip over their words, gasping, "Mr. Weasley— the Ministry— he's hurt—you have to send someone, now."

    Harry explains, "I was sleeping and then I— the snake was attacking him. I was there. I was—"

    "Slow down. Are you telling me you dreamed this?" McGonagall's brow is deeply furrowed.

    "It wasn't a dream!" Harry shouts, standing straight up. "It was real. You have to believe me, I'm not mad. We're running out of time. Please."

    "He's telling the truth, professor," Miranda adds, pleadingly. "I saw it too. Please, Auntie."

    McGonagall doesn't blink, "I think we better pay a visit to the Headmaster." They are so relieved that she is taking them seriously that they do not hesitate, but jump out of bed at once

    "Weasley, you ought to come too,"  Professor McGonagall advises. Dutifully, they follow Professor McGonagall past the silent figures of Neville, Dean, and Seamus, out of the dormitory, down the spiral stairs into the common room, through the portrait hole, and off along the Fat Lady's moonlit corridor. Panic has flooded all of Miranda's senses, and she doesn't even notice that her and Harry are still holding hands. They had to move faster.

    "Fizzing Whizbee," says Professor McGonagall when they reach the stone gargoyle. The wall behind it splits in two to reveal a stone staircase that is moving continuously upward like a spiral escalator. Though it is now well past midnight, there are voices coming from inside the room. Professor McGonagall rapps three times with the knocker, and the voices cease abruptly as though someone has switched them all off. The door opens of its own accord and Professor McGonagall leads them inside.

    "Oh, it's you, Professor McGonagall . . . and . . . ah." Dumbledore is sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leans forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before him.

    "Professor Dumbledore, Potter has had a . . . well, a nightmare," says Professor McGonagall. "He says . . ."

    "It wasn't a nightmare," Harry corrects quickly.
Professor McGonagall looked around at Harry, frowning slightly. "Very well, then, Potter, you tell the headmaster about it."
     "I...well, I was asleep..." begins Harry. "But it wasn't an ordinary dream...it was real...I saw it happen..." He takes a deep breath, "Ron's dad — Mr. Weasley — has been attacked by a giant snake." There is a pause in which Dumbledore leans back and stares meditatively at the ceiling. Ron is white-faced and shocked.

    "How did you see this?" Dumbledore asks quietly.

    "Well . . . I don't know," replies Harry, rather angrily. "Inside my head, I suppose —"

    "You misunderstand me," Dumbledore, still in the same calm tone. "I mean . . . can you remember — er — where you were positioned as you watched this attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside the victim, or else looking down on the scene from above?"

    The question is so specific that Miranda feels Dumbledore must know something she does not. She can tell Harry is surprised by the query as well.

    "I was the snake," Harry mutters after a hesitant moment. "I saw it all from the snake's point of view. . . ."

    Nobody else speaks for a moment, then Dumbledore, now looking at Miranda, questions, "And what is your role in all this, Miss McGonagall?"

    "Well, I had a headache so I went to the common room for a glass of water, but then I saw that something was wrong with Harry, so I went in to make sure he was okay, I grabbed his hand and then..." Miranda trails off, unsure.

    "Yes, Miss McGonagall?" Dumbledore prompts serenely.

    "I— I don't know exactly what happened, but it was almost like I was transported somewhere. Except I was still at Hogwarts, and I saw Mr. Weasley getting attacked."                                    "Interesting," Dumbledore mulls, annoyingly calm.  Miranda doesn't feel like Dumbledore is grasping the urgency of the situation, Why is he wasting time with these pointless questions? "Has this happened to you before?" Why did that matter?

    "Never."

    "And may I ask what position you saw the scene from?"

    Miranda replies hurriedly, not knowing its importance, "I was seeing it from outside. I could see the snake and Mr. Weasley, but..." Miranda falters, debating whether or not to divulge the next bit of information. She hadn't had enough time to process what it meant herself.

    "Yes?"

    "It was like I could hear the snake's thoughts, mine were still there— but there were other thoughts in my head too—that didn't belong to me..." Miranda gulps, shifting uncomfortably, as Dumbledore peers at her intensely.

    "Is Arthur seriously injured?"

    "Yes," answers Miranda emphatically — why are they all so slow on the uptake, do they not realize how much a person bleeds when fangs that long pierce their side?

    "Everard?" he addresses the portraits sharply. "And you too, Dilys!"
A sallow-faced wizard with short, black bangs and an elderly witch with long silver ringlets in the frame beside him, both of whom seem to have been in the deepest of sleeps, open their eyes immediately.

    "You were listening?" inquires Dumbledore.
     The wizard nods, the witch says, "Naturally."
     "The man has red hair and glasses." Dumbledore instructs,  "Everard,

you will need to raise the alarm, make sure he is found by the right people —"

Both nod and move sideways out of their frames, but instead of emerging in neighboring pictures neither reappear. "Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwarts's most celebrated Heads," Dumbledore approaches the magnificent sleeping bird on his perch beside the door. "Their renown is such that both have portraits hanging in other important Wizarding institutions. As they are free to move between their own portraits they can tell us what may be happening elsewhere. . . ."

    "But Mr. Weasley could be anywhere!" Harry exclaims.

    "Everard and Dilys may not be back for several minutes. . . . Professor McGonagall, if you could draw up extra chairs . . ." Professor McGonagall pulls her wand from the pocket of her dressing gown and waves it; three chairs appear out of thin air. They all sit down, watching Dumbledore over her shoulder

    "We will need," Dumbledore murmurs to the bird, "a warning." There is a flash of fire and the phoenix had gone.

    Moments later, the silver-ringletted witch has reappeared in her picture, she coughs, "Yes, they've taken him to St. Mungo's, Dumbledore. . . . They carried him past under my portrait. . . . He looks bad. . . ."

    "Thank you," Dumbledore indicates Professor McGonagall. "Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other Weasley children."

    "Of course. . . ." Professor McGonagall gets up and moves swiftly to the door; Miranda casts a sideways glance at Ron, who is now looking terrified. "And Dumbledore — what about Molly?" Professor McGonagall pauses at the door.
     "That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished keeping a

lookout for anybody approaching," says Dumbledore. "But she may already know . . . that excellent clock of hers . . ."

    The study door opens once more, and Fred, George, and Ginny are ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all three of them looking disheveled and shocked, still in their night things.

    "What's going on?" asks Ginny, who looks frightened. "Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad hurt —"

    "Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore explains."He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you to Grimmauld Place. You will meet your mother there and proceed to the hospital."

    "How're we going?" Fred is more shaken than Miranda has ever witnessed. "Floo powder?"

    "No," Dumbledore shakes his head, "Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey." He gestures to the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. There is a flash of flame in the very middle of the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floats gently to the floor. "It is Fawkes's warning," Dumbledore, catches the feather as it fell. "She must know you're out of your beds. . . . Minerva, go and head her off — tell her any story —"

    There is no need for any of them to ask who she is, as McGonagall dashes out of the study in a swish of tartan, determined.

    "Come here, then," Dumbledore motioned to Harry, Miranda, and the Weasleys. "And quickly, before anyone else joins us . . ." They all gather around his desk. "You have all used a Portkey before?" asks Dumbledore, and they nod, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle. "Good. On the count of three then . . . one . . . two . . . three."

    Miranda feels a powerful jerk behind her navel, the ground vanishes from beneath her feet, her hand is glued to the kettle; he is banging into the others as all speed forward in a swirl of colors and a rush of wind, the kettle pulling them onward and then —

    Her feet hit the ground so hard that her knees buckle, the kettle clatters to the ground and somewhere close at hand a voice says, "Back again, the blood traitor brats, is it true their father's dying . . . ?"

    "OUT!" roars a second voice.

    Miranda scrambles to her feet and looks around; they have arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light are the fire and one guttering candle, which illuminates the remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher is disappearing through the door to the hall, looking back at them malevolently as he hitches up his loincloth; Sirius is hurrying toward them all, looking anxious. He is unshaven and still in his day clothes; there is also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.

    "What's going on?" he stretches out a hand to help Miranda up. "Phineas Nigellus said Arthur's been badly injured —"

    "Ask Harry," says Fred. "Or Miranda."
     "Yeah, I want to hear this for myself," says George.
The twins and Ginny are staring at them both. Kreacher's footsteps have stopped on the stairs outside.

     "It was —" Harry begins, eyeing Miranda carefully. "I had a — a kind of — vision. . . ."

    "We both did," Miranda adds, her head pounding at the memory.

    Together, her and Harry tell them what they had witnessed, though Miranda notices that Harry fails to mention that he had been the snake in the vision, who had attacked Mr. Weasley. She doesn't say anything about it though, nor does Ron. She can't blame him really. She doesn't talk about hearing voices in her head, thoughts that did not belong to her mind.

    "Is Mum here?" Fred turns to Sirius, once Harry and Miranda finish.

    "She probably doesn't even know what's happened yet," Sirius replies.     "The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore's letting Molly know now."

    "We've got to go to St. Mungo's," says Ginny urgently. She looks around at her brothers; they are of course still in their pajamas. "Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything — ?"

    "Hang on, you can't go tearing off to St. Mungo's!" said Sirius.

    " 'Course we can go to St. Mungo's if we want," Fred protests, with a mulish expression, "he's our dad!"

    Sirius's voice was one of determined calm, "I know it's hard, but we've all got to act as though we don't know anything yet. We've got to stay put, at least until we hear from your mother, all right?"

    Fred and George still look mutinous. Ginny, however, takes a few steps over to the nearest chair and sinks into it. Miranda promptly sits next to her, holding out her hand to the girl to offer any sort of support. Harry looks at Ron, who makes a funny movement somewhere between a nod and shrug, and they sit down too. The twins glare at Sirius for another minute, then take seats on either side of Ginny. Miranda feels awful, almost like she caused this mess. She can't imagine how Harry feels. To think, just hours ago her biggest problem had been if he had been about to kiss her or not. Not that that isn't still in the back of her mind...

    "That's right," Sirius encourages, "come on, let's all . . . let's all have a drink while we're waiting. Accio Butterbeer!" He raises his wand as he speaks and half a dozen bottles come flying toward them out of the pantry, skid along the table, scattering the debris of Sirius's meal, and stop neatly in front of the six of them. They all drink, and for a while the only sounds are those of the crackling of the kitchen fire and the soft thud of their bottles on the table.

    Then a burst of fire in midair illuminates the dirty plates in front of them and as they give cries of shock, a scroll of parchment falls with a thud onto the table, accompanied by a single golden phoenix tail feather.

    "Fawkes!" Sirius snatches up the parchment. "That's not Dumbledore's writing — it must be a message from your mother — here —"

    He thrusts the letter into George's hand, who rips it open and reads aloud, "Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St. Mungo's now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum." George looks around the table. "Still alive . . ." he repeats slowly. "But that makes it sound . . ."
He does not need to finish the sentence. It sounds to Miranda too as though Mr. Weasley is hovering somewhere between life and death. The Weasley siblings grow exponentially paler, and Miranda feels guilt bubble in her abdomen. She dares a glance at Harry, and wishes she hadn't. The boy is staring blankly at his empty butterbeer bottle, clenching it so tightly his knuckles are white. If he feels half as bad as he looks— Miranda has never experienced a night as long as this one. They mostly sit in silence around the table, watching the candle wick sink lower and lower into liquid wax, speaking only to check the time, to wonder aloud what is happening, and to reassure one another that if there is bad news, they will know straightaway, for Mrs. Weasley must long since have arrived at St. Mungo's.

    And then, at ten past five in the morning by Ron's watch, the kitchen door swings open and two figures enter the kitchen.

    Miranda leaps up from her chair, "Mom!" Juniper wraps her daughter in a tight, quick hug, briefly kissing her on the forehead before helping Mrs. Weasley to a chair.

    Mrs. Weasley is extremely pale, but she gives a wan smile, "He's going to be all right." Her voice is weak with tiredness. "He's sleeping. We can all go see him later. Bill's with him now, he's going to take the morning off work."

    Fred falls back into his chair with his hands over his face. George and Ginny get up, walk swiftly over to their mother, and hug her. Ron gives a very shaky laugh and downs the rest of his butterbeer in one.

    Miranda murmurs a breathless, "Thank god." And hugs Harry out of relief. Once she realizes what she is doing, however, her cheeks color as she awkwardly separates herself from him. She can feel her mother's eyes on her.

    "Breakfast!" Sirius exclaims loudly and joyfully, jumping to his feet. "So it's breakfast for — let's see — seven . . . Bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, and toast —"

    "Let me help, Sirius," Juniper offers, and her daughter follows her into the kitchen. Harry also hurries over to the stove to help. Neither of them want to intrude on the Weasley's happiness. However, they have barely set the table when Mrs. Weasley pulls each of them into a hug.

    "I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for you two," she says in a muffled voice. "They might not have found Arthur for hours, and then it would have been too late, but thanks to you he's alive and Dumbledore's been able to think up a good cover story for Arthur being where he was, you've no idea what trouble he would have been in otherwise, look at poor Sturgis. . . ."

Soon she releases them to turn to Sirius and thank him for looking after her children through the night. Sirius said that he was very pleased to have been able to help, and hoped they would all stay with him as long as Mr. Weasley was in hospital.

    Everyone spends the rest of the morning sleeping. Miranda retires to the room she had shared with Hermione, feeling oddly lonely without her best friends sleeping in the bed opposite hers. She is more than a little afraid to shut her eyes, for fear another excruciating vision would consume her.

    When Miranda arises, mid afternoon, she finds that their trunks from Hogwarts have arrived. The house is busier as well, Tonks and Moody are here now, as well as Lupin. Her mother informs her that the Weasleys,  accompanied by Tonks and Moody, are heading to St. Mungo's to visit their father.

    Harry is sitting in the kitchen alone, eating a sandwich when Miranda drifts downstairs. Sirius and her mom are nowhere to be found. Earlier, she had caught them whispering in the hallway, something about a new guest or someone coming to house unexpectedly. Miranda isn't sure, she hadn't been able to make anything distinct out, and of course they wouldn't tell her anything.

    Miranda ventures into the kitchen herself, busying herself at the stove. Her stomach growls as she turns her grilled cheese over in the pan, the butter and cheese sizzling in the dense silence of the room. She is hyperconscious of every move she makes. Is Harry watching her? Does she want him to be watching her? Is it better if he is watching her or if he isn't? Never in her life has Miranda been in a more awkward situation.

    Adrenaline had fueled all of her action the previous night, the fear and panic overtaking any other emotions she had felt before. But now— now they were all back, with a vengeance.

    Silently, she sits down at the table, cutting her grilled cheese in half. At least she isn't wearing her pajamas anymore. Since her trunk was here, she'd changed into her jeans and a soft sweater. She's also taken shower, rinsing her hair of any vomit that may have gotten on it last night.

    After a few more minutes of agonizing silence, in which Harry and Miranda glance up at each other intermittently, each looking away when the other notices, Miranda cannot take it any longer. She clears her throat, "Hey."

    "Hi," says Harry, blinking very fast. His demeanor is cautious. "Erm— how— how are you after...everything?"

    "Alright," Miranda responds quietly, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "A little confused, but other than that—"

    "It's really never happened to you before?" Harry gets up from she seat, and moves  over to the chair next to her.

    Miranda lifts a shoulder, "Never. It's happened to you before?"

    "Well," he rubs a hand over his jaw tiredly, "yeah, but never— never like that. I used to think they were just nightmares, but now..."

    "How often do you get them?"

    Harry shrugs, "It depends. They've been happening more often lately, since he's stronger. My scar hurts like hell and—"

    "Oh my god," something important dawns on Miranda then, a lightbulb going off in her head.

    "What?"

    "My headaches," Miranda covers her mouth with her hand in disbelief. "Of course, how did I not see it? Every time you had a dream or your scar hurt, I had a headache. I can't believe I didn't realize that before." She closes her eyes, "I must be more connected to Voldemort than I thought."

    Harry looks as thought he is in deep in thought. "So you took my hand, and it just happened?" he questions, brow furrowed.

    "I guess," she says.

    Harry's mouth downturns, "I'm sorry."

    "What for?" Miranda frowns, puzzled. Why on earth was he apologizing to her for that? It wasn't as if he had any control over Voldemort.

    Dejectedly, Harry explains, "It only happened when you touched me-"

    She heaves a great sigh, heavily resisting the urge to roll her eyes. He was so stupid sometimes. With that horrendous savior complex. "Seriously, Potter," she tells him. "You have to cease blaming yourself for things that are absolutely not your fault." Miranda gives him a small smirk, "Frankly, it's a little self-centered." In spite of himself Harry lets out a laugh, and Miranda is surprised to find that she is pleased to see him smiling. To hear his laugh. It feels like ages since she's seen that light in his green eyes.

    There is a beat, and Miranda hops up to put her dish in the sink. Harry follows, watching her closely, leaning back against the counter. "Miranda—" he murmurs, "are you still...?"

    Miranda shakes her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. Her eyes are soft. "No, Harry." And she was telling the truth. To be honest, she'd forgiven him a long time ago. Her own stubbornness just got in the way. And after last night...these days, there was no sense in staying mad at someone when you could lose them in a blink of an eye.

    "Really?" Harry beams at her, tousling his already messy hair.

    She nods, "Really." Her heart beats faster as Harry nears closer to her, inching his way along the counter towards her. His forearms are flexed as he raises a mischievous eyebrow at her.

    He grins, "That hard to stay mad at, am I?"

    "Shut up," Miranda breathes, biting her bottom lip. Have his eyelashes always been this pretty? Up close she can see the gold flecks in his irises. "You're so full of it, Potter."

    "You love it," Harry teases, poking her shoulder. His fingers linger on her arm, his gaze intense. Miranda breathes faster, is this it? Is this what was going to happen in the Room of Requirement? Is he finally going to—

    "Excuse me," A deep, oddly irritated voice says from behind her. The moment is broken, and Miranda whirls around, flushed. Harry heavily resists the urge to slam his fist into the nearest wall.

    A tall boy with dark brown hair, steel grey eyes, and a sharp jawline is standing in the doorway, his expression a mixture of disgruntlement and mild disgust. Miranda wonders who he is. A member of the Order perhaps? He looks awfully young, and Miranda could have sworn she's met all of the Order members. She tries to remember his name, but she fails to recognize him.

    "Hello," she sticks out her hand, straightening herself. She had been caught in a rather compromising position. For the second time in two days. "I'm Miranda McGonagall, are you new to the Order?"

    Something flashes across the boy's face when she says her name, recognition, or surprise, but quickly disappears as he shakes her hand, replying, "Not new, exactly..." His response is vague. "My name's Mateo."

    Miranda smiles at him welcomingly, "Nice to meet you." Harry, still upset over the interruption, has not said anything yet. Miranda elbows him pointedly.

    Harry gives a small nod, "Oh— right— I'm Harry. Harry—"

    "Harry Potter," Mateo states flatly. "I know who you are."

    Miranda tilts her head. There is something so oddly familiar about this boy. "If you don't mind me saying, you look awfully young to be in the order. Do you go to Hogwarts? Durmstrang?" He didn't seem the Durmstrang type, but she can't say she's seen him around Hogwarts.

    "Oh— I don't go to Hogwarts," he replies. "I've been homeschooled pretty much my whole life."

    "My bad, it's just— you don't look much older than me," Miranda puzzles.

    Mateo chuckles at a joke only he seems to understand, "That's probably because I'm really not that much older than you. Barely anything, in fact."

What an odd way to phrase it. Miranda has only grown more confused about this boy's presence throughout the conversation. "How old are you then?"

    "16," says Mateo, "same as you."

Miranda is astounded, why is he allowed in the Order and not her or Ron or Hermione or Harry? This Mateo certainly was a curious character, and he reminded her of someone, yet—she could not place her finger on who exactly.

Her thoughts are interrupted when Harry speaks suspiciously, "How did you know she was sixteen?

    Mateo ignores Harry's question, staring him down harshly, "Even though this is a house, it's also a workplace. Other people are around, so I'd be mindful of what you're doing." He raises his eyebrows, "Keep it professional." And with that, he departs the kitchen.

    "Well, that was weird." Harry notes, frowning. "Do you know him?"

    "No, I just met him too," says Miranda, tying her hair up into a ponytail.

    "He was looking at you funny," Harry mulls to himself sourly, arms crossed over his chest.

    "Jealous much, Potter?" Miranda smirks, lips curving coyly.

    "No," Harry blusters, reddening. Then he grins, a devilish glint in his  eye that is reminiscent of his father,  "Why? You want me to be?" Miranda promptly elbows him in the ribs. "Ow!"

    "That's what you get."

    Sirius is delighted at having the house full once more, and after the Weasley's return from a hopeful visit to St. Mungo's, reporting back cheerfully that all is well with Arthur, Sirius tramps through the house singing "God Rest Ye Merry, HippoMatts" at the top of his voice. Sirius's mood is infectious. . He is no longer their sullen host of the summer; now he seems determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more, than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he works tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by the time they all go to bed on Christmas Eve the house is barely recognizable. The tarnished chandeliers are no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glitters in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view; and even the stuffed elf heads on the hall wall wear Father Christmas hats and beards.

    Miranda is wrapping presents in her room when she is startled by a knock on the door. She opens the door, expecting it to be Harry and Ron, or Ginny and the twins, maybe her mom, or very possibly Mateo, who seems to be lurking around every corner these days. Much to Harry's chagrin. But she is greeted by another face. "Hermione!" Miranda squeals, flying to the girl. "What are you doing here?" Miranda asks her, pulling open the door. "I thought you were skiing with your parents."

    "Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing," says Hermione ruefully. "So I've come for Christmas." There is snow in her hair and her face is pink with cold. "But don't tell Ron that, I told him it's really good because he kept laughing so much. Anyway, Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I've told them that everyone who's serious about the exams is staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do well, they'll understand. Anyway," she says briskly, "let's go to the boys' room. I haven't seen Harry yet."

Miranda takes Hermione's arm, warning her, "He's not in there. He's holed up with Buckbeak. None of us have seen him in days. He's been in a mood lately." Harry has not been coming down for meals lately. He's been sullen and withdrawn practically of all holiday, really.   

"He's so irrational sometimes," Hermione rolls her eyes, rapping insistently on the door to Buckbeak's room, "I know you're in there," calls Hermione. "Will you please come out? I want to talk to you."   

"Harry, come on," Miranda adds, tapping her foot impatiently. "Let's go to your room, Mrs. Weasley's lit a fire in there it's nice and warm."

Harry opens the door a smidge, and Hermione grabs him by the sleeve, dragging him down the hall.                            "How did you get here?" Harry asks, as they head into his bedroom, Ron is waiting for them, sitting on his bed.

"I came on the Knight Bus," Hermione pulls off her jacket airily. "Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo's, and he'd given you all permission to visit. So . . ." She sits down next to Miranda, the two girls and Ron looking up at Harry.

    "How're you feeling?" asks Hermione.
     "Fine," Harry replies stiffly.
     "Oh, don't lie, Harry," she huffs impatiently. "Ron and Miranda say you've been hiding from everyone since you got here."

"They do, do they?" Harry glares at Ron and Miranda. Ron stares down at his feet but Miranda is quite unabashed.

"Well, you have!" Miranda cries indignantly. "You won't look at us!"         "It's you lot who won't look at me!" Harry defends angrily.

"Maybe you're taking it in turns to look and keep missing each other," suggests Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Very funny," snaps Harry, turning away.

     "Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood," Hermione retorts sharply.

Miranda pacifies calmly, "Harry, we know you feel responsible because of well you know, but—"

"All been talking about me behind my back have you?" Harry snipes.   

"Well, we wanted to talk to you, Harry," says Miranda pointedly, "but seeing as you've been avoiding all of us—"   

"I didn't want to talk to anyone," he protests hotly. "It's not as if any of you can understand."

"Right, because I definitely didn't have a vision too," Miranda fires back. "You're such an idiot sometimes. You didn't do anything Harry, I was there. You weren't the snake. You never left Hogwarts."   

"It's impossible, actually,"     Hermione pipes up. "You cannot apparate inside Hogwarts."   

"Nobody blames you, mate," Ron implores. "You're the reason Dad's alive. You and McGonagall both."   

Miranda awakes on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of her bed. Quickly, she shakes Hermione awake as well, and they both head into the boys' room to find Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.

"Good haul this year," he informs them through a cloud of paper. "Thanks for the Broom Compass, it's excellent, beats Hermione's — she's got me a homework planner —"

"You need it," Hermione mutters under her breath, glowering at him.        Miranda sorts through her presents and finds one with Hermione's handwriting on it. It is a pretty gold bracelet, and she puts it on instantly, proud not to have received a homework planner like the boys. Her mom had given her a Weird Sisters record, and Sirius and Remus had given her a curious purple pendant. It was worn with use. There is a book on jinxes from Harry, and Every Flavour Beans from Ron. The twins and Ginny give her a set of FIlibuster's fireworks. A silvery, expensive looking quill with a slip of parchment attached to it that read only: I'm sorry.

Miranda assumes that one is from Draco. An unlabeled present too, a charm in the shape of a rabbit. The funniest present of the day, however, belongs to Harry. Dobby had painted him a rather hideous portrait of himself.

"Thanks for the book, Harry!" Hermione says happily. "I loved the quill and ink set, Miranda, I've been eyeing it at Scrivenshaft's for ages. And that perfume is really unusual, Ron."

"No problem," says Ron, and Miranda stifles a laugh. She had smelled it when Hermione had opened it. It was sort of a cross between treacle and manure. And not something Hermione would wear in a million years.

They get up and dressed; they can hear various inhabitants of the house calling "Happy Christmas" to each other. Christmas dinner is a merry affair, and one of the happiest days that Miranda can remember having in a long while. Her mother is joyful, and Mr. Weasley is finally home from the hospital, all bandaged up of course, but Mrs. Weasley is in much better spirits. Even Remus is upbeat, him and Sirius cracking jokes the entire day, one tale so funny that Ron sprays butterbeer from his nose.

    Miranda goes into her room to put her presents in her Hogwarts trunk, but his surprised to find Mateo in there already. "What are you doing in here?"

Mateo holds up the stuffed bunny he's been looking at by way of response. "Why do you have Grimm?"

    "Grimm?" Mateo repeats

    "My rabbit," she indicates the toy in his hands. "He was my older sister's." It is the only thing she has left of the sister she does not remember.

    "I know," says Mateo, and then looks like he immediately regrets it.

    "What?"

    "I mean—" Mateo's eyes dart around the room anxiously. "I figured he had to have some sentimental value, since you're sixteen and sleeping with a stuffed animal."

    "Right..." Miranda says slowly, snatching him protectively out of Mateo's hands. Maybe it was silly that she still slept with it. She didn't care.

    "Hey sweetie, come downstairs for— oh Mateo, I— didn't see you there," Juniper appears at the door, eyes wide like a cornered animal.

    "You two know each other?" Miranda asks, her gaze narrowing. This is the first she's heard of this.

    "We met very briefly." Her mom smiles tightly. "Now go on sweetie, your friends are waiting."

    "Fine," Miranda goes out the door, realizing her mother is not going to be telling her anything anytime soon. She starts down the stairs, in a huff, when she remembers she's still holding Grimm. She heads back to put him in her room, but her door is closed and she can hear muffled shouting coming from it.

    "She's getting suspicious I told you to be careful!" Her mother's voice.

    "I am being careful," Mateo's voice, this time, low and frantic. "I understand the consequences but—"

    "There are no buts Mateo," Juniper hisses. "She can't know yet, that was our agreement."

    "She's going to figure it out sooner or later. I want to tell her."

    "I want to tell her too," her mother again, insistent and emotional. "You think I like doing this? This is the way it has to be." The shouting abruptly stops, almost as if they can tell Miranda is listening to them. Quickly, she runs back down the stairs before they can catch her.

    "What's wrong?" Hermione asks worriedly, as she sits down.

    "Not now." Miranda mutters, her mom and Mateo sitting down at the table like nothing had happened. They were hiding something from her, and she was going to find out what.                                    Later that night, plagued by all of her questions, Miranda is unable to fall asleep. Something that is occurring more and more frequently. So, careful not to wake either Hermione or Ginny, she wanders out into the hall, carefully avoiding a muttering Kreacher.

"Miss me that much, McGonagall?"   

Miranda nearly screams as she spins around to find Harry, also awake. She punches him in the arm, "You scared me!"   

"You and the hitting, Miranda," Harry rubs his shoulder reproachfully, pouting. "I know I make you nervous, but there's really no justification for—" Miranda hits him a second time. "Ow! Again?!"

"Give it a rest with the nervous thing."   

"Never."   

Miranda eyes him, pursing her lips, "Done being sulky, are we?" She nudges him, "Moved on to being cheeky?"   

"I'm always cheeky for you," he whispers mischievously, winking at her in an uncharacteristically attractive manner that turns her insides to mush. Somewhere in their conversation, they have migrated to a wall, her back pressed up against it. His mouth is close to her ear, and she can feel his breath.   

"See you really heeded my advice," a stern voice says. Mateo, a stony expression on his face, arches an eyebrow, "Very professional."

    "What is your problem?" Harry bursts out lowly. Who was this prick who kept cutting in at the most inopportune moments?

Mateo just glares at him, rather menacingly, "I think you better get to bed." His stare is unyielding.   

"Mate, where do you get off telling—" Harry starts hotly.            Something instinctual tells Miranda that Harry should just listen to Mateo. No matter how strangely threatening the request.

"Harry— just go, just— I'll see you in the morning." She squeezes his arm comfortingly, and he grumbles, but listens, returning to his room.                        Miranda stands in the hallway, waiting for Mateo to say something, to offer an explanation for his surly behavior. She barely knows the guy.             "

He likes you," Mateo says after a moment, scowling deeply.   

"I'm sorry—" Miranda is caught off guard by his sudden statement. "How is that even relevant? And no, he—we're friends. Harry doesn't—"   

"Yes, he does," Mateo cuts her off, grimacing. "He practically salivates at the sight of you. Like a rabid dog. It's revolting."

"Why do you care so much?"   

Mateo's jaw clenches, "You could do better. Boys aren't worth shit, I can't fathom why you'd even waste the time dating one."   

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Miranda replies harshly, bewildered by his attitude. Who was he to judge?   

"I don't like him," says Mateo. "That's all."   

"Well, I don't think he's all that fond you either," Miranda sniffs haughtily, turning up her chin. She spins on her heel and retreats back to her room, left confused and slightly annoyed.

For the first time in Miranda's life, she is not looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. Going back to school will mean placing herself once again under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge, who has no doubt managed to force through another dozen decrees in their absence. Then there is every likelihood that their burden of homework will increase as the exams draw even nearer. Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something happens that makes Miranda  positively dread their return to school.                 "Miranda, sweetie," Juniper pokes her head into her and Hermione's bedroom, "could you come down to the kitchen? Severus would like a word with you."

Miranda does not immediately register what her mother has said. "Snape?" says Miranda blankly.

    "Professor Snape, Miranda" her mother beckons impatiently. "Now come on, quickly, he says he can't stay long."

    Confused, and mildly concerned, Miranda bids an equally shocked Hermione goodbye and follows her mother down the two flights of stairs. On her way down, she passes Harry, who muster darkly to her, "Good luck."

    Miranda pauses on the step, unnerved "What did he want with you?"

    "Tell you later," Harry says in a hushed voice. "Maybe it won't be so bad if we get to do it together, though."

    She pushes open the kitchen door a minute or two later to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The silence between them is heavy with mutual dislike. A letter lies open on the table in front of Sirius.

    "Um," says  Miranda to announce her presence.

    Snape peers at her, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair, "Sit down, Miss McGonagall."

    "You know," Sirius bellows loudly, leaning back on his rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, "I think I'd prefer it if you didn't give orders here, Snape. It's my house, you see." An ugly flush suffuses Snape's pallid face, and Miranda conceals a small smile.

    "I was supposed to see you alone, Miss McGonagall," Snape informs her, the familiar sneer curling his mouth, "both you and Potter, but Black —"

    "I'm his godfather," replies Sirius, louder than ever.

    "You aren't hers," Snape points out, mouth flat and thin. He had a point, Miranda thinks to herself silently. Why is Sirius taking such an interest in her? Though she appreciates the support, it isn't as if she needs the protection. She does have a mother.

    "I'm as good as," Sirius retorts, volume rising, "you know as well as I do that if she—" Sirius breaks off, perhaps having revealed too much. Miranda frowns.

    "I am here on Dumbledore's orders," states Snape, whose voice, by contrast, is becoming more and more quietly waspish, "but by all means stay, Black, I know you like to feel . . . involved."

    "What's that supposed to mean? Sirius lets his chair fall back onto all four legs with a loud bang.

    "Merely that I am sure you must feel — ah — frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful," Snape lays a delicate stress on the word, "for the Order." It is Sirius's turn to flush. Snape's lip curls in triumph as he turns to Miranda. "The headmaster has sent me to tell you,  that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term."

    "Why?" Miranda's brow knit together. She's heard of the practice before, but what she doesn't understand is why she has to do it.
     "Because the headmaster thinks it a good idea," says Snape smoothly. "You will receive private lessons once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You understand?"

    "Yes," Miranda nods. "Who's going to be teaching me?"
     Snape raises an eyebrow. "I am," he tells her, rather smugly.

    "Am I to be taking them with Harry?" Miranda asks, her insides already twisting at the thought.

    Snape sneers again, "No. The headmaster was quite clear about that. Sorry to disappoint." Snape did not sound very sorry at all. He turns to leave, his black traveling cloak billowing behind him.

    "Wait a moment," starts Sirius, sitting up straighter in his chair. Snape turns back to face them, sneering. He is rather taller than Snape who, Miranda notices,  has balled his fist in the pocket of his cloak over what she is  sure  is the handle of his wand. "If I hear you're using these Occlumency lessons to give either of them a hard time, you'll have me to answer to."

    "How touching," Snape says coldly. "But surely you have noticed that Potter is very like his father?"

    "Yes, I have," says Sirius proudly.

    "And the girl I'm assuming reminds you of her?" Snape arches a cruel eyebrow. "The arrogance of those two always astounded me."

    "Don't talk about her," Sirius pushes his chair roughly aside and strides around the table toward Snape, pulling out his wand as he goes; Snape whips out his own. They are squaring up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape calculating, his eyes darting from Sirius's wand tip to his face. Who on earth are they talking about? Whoever it is seems to be a charged subject. But why? And most importantly, who?

    "Sirius!" says Miranda loudly, but Sirius appears not to hear her.

    "I've warned you, Snivellus," Sirius's face is  barely a foot from Snape's, "I don't care if Dumbledore thinks you've reformed, I know better —"

    "Oh, but why don't you tell him so?" whispers Snape. "Or are you afraid he might not take the advice of a man who has been hiding inside his mother's house for six months very seriously?"

    "Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he's delighted his lapdog's working at Hogwarts, isn't he?"

    "Speaking of dogs," says Snape softly, "did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognized you last time you risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform . . . gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in future, didn't it?"

Sirius raises his wand.

    "NO!" Miranda yells, vaulting over the table and trying to get in between them, "Sirius, don't —" She looks wildly around the room for her own wand, but finds she has forgotten it upstairs. Her call, fortunately, has alerted other members of the household to the premonition of an altercation.

    "Are you calling me a coward?" roars Sirius, trying to push Miranda out of the way, but she will not budge.

    "Why, yes, I suppose I am," says Snape.

    Sirius snarls, teeth bared. "Miranda— " Sirius struggles to get her out of the way, "just— leave it— don't— you'll get yourself hurt. You're just like—"         The kitchen door bursts open, and Juniper, flanked by Lupin, Harry, Hermione and Ron came inside. They freeze on the threshold, gazing at the scene in front of them, both Sirius and Snape looking toward the door with their wands pointing into each other's faces and Miranda immobile between them, a hand stretched out to each of them, trying to force them apart.  Juniper puts her hands on her hips,  "What is going on here?"

    "Sirius," is all Remus says, in a low, quiet tone. After a long moment, both men  lower their wands. Miranda looks from one to the other. Each wear an expression of utmost contempt, yet the unexpected entrance of so many witnesses seems to have brought them to their senses. Snape pockets his wand and glides back across the kitchen, passing the newcomers without comment. He is gone. Sirius glares after him, his wand at his side.
     "Care to tell me what just happened, Sirius?" asks Miranda's mother again.
     "Nothing, Junie," Sirius brushes the woman off, He's breathing heavily as though he has just run a long distance. "Just a friendly little chat between two old school friends. . . ." With what looks like enormous effort, he flashes them all a good natured smile. Remus snorts.

    Juniper makes a noise in the back of her throat that suggests she does not believe Sirius in any way, "I'm sure."

    Miranda tries not to dwell on the conversation she just experienced as she sidles up to Ron, Harry, and Hermione, eager to escape the animosity left in the kitchen. Dwelling on it only brings her more resentment. Resentment for all the secrets. There were too many secrets being kept from her under the guise of trying to "protect her" She was sick of it. And she is sure Harry must be as well. No wonder he's so prone to mood swings. It is enough to drive anyone mad. Still, it lingers in the back of her mind as she tells Ron, Harry, and Hermione under her breath about having to take Occlumency lessons.

    "You too?" Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. "That's not so bad then, if we're—"

    "We're not," Miranda says morosely. "I asked. It's separate."

    "Damn it," Harry curses, face darkening. "Well then what is the point of even doing them?"

    "Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams about Voldemort," consoles Hermione at once.

    Harry pulls a badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book out of his pocket, "Sirius gave me this just in case. He wouldn't let me open it." Harry explains, "But he says it's a way of letting him know if Snape's giving me a hard time." He stows the package away in the inside pocket of his jacket. Miranda knows he won't use it. Harry would die before putting Sirius in any danger, despite anything Snape may do. He is always such a bloody hero. Miranda hates it as much as she loves it. And that realization is more scary than anything that has happened over holiday thus far. Oh no, she thinks to herself, rather fearfully.

    I'm falling for Harry Potter.