They return to Hogwarts the following day via the Knight Bus. Miranda has never ridden it before and it is quite a jarring experience. Literally. Miranda has spent most of the ride, avoiding looking in Harry's direction. Something Hermione has not missed. Well, that and agonizing over who the mysterious her could be, and who Mateo was. He hadn't been there to see them off this morning. He left when Snape departed, which Miranda finds quite peculiar. There is no way in hell that greasy bat procreated. Right? And there has been no mention of a woman in his life. Who could tolerate him? Besides, Mateo looks nothing like Snape. He looks— well, Miranda doesn't know who he looks like, but it's someone familiar. Not Snape.  Who doesn't seem like the type to adopt. He's no Mother Theresa.

    They are rolling through a snowy Hogsmeade. Miranda catches a glimpse of the Hog's Head down its side street, the severed boar's head sign creaking in the wintry wind. Flecks of snow hit the large window at the front of the bus. At last they roll to a halt outside the gates to Hogwarts.  The seven of them struggle up the slippery drive toward the castle, dragging their trunks. Hermione is already talking about studying for O.W.L.S. Miranda spends most of the next week dreading Thursday evening, when she will have to pay a visit to Professor Snape. Harry had come back from his own lesson on Monday, extraordinarily downtrodden and slightly angered, which did nothing to raise her own spirits. Plus, she has no idea when the next D.A. meeting is. Harry still hasn't scheduled one, despite the numerous people who stopped them in the halls to ask.

    "I'll let you know when the next one is," Harry says over and over again, like a broken record.

    On Thursday afternoon, after a rather dismal lunch, as her and Harry are heading to the library to fetch Ron and Hermione before their afternoon lessons, they are accosted by Zacharias Smith.

    "Can we do it Monday?"

    Harry sighs, "I can't do Mondays, I've got to go to — er — Remedial Potions. . . ."

    "You take Remedial Potions?" asks Zacharias Smith superciliously, having cornered them both in the entrance hall"Good Lord, you must be terrible, Snape doesn't usually give extra lessons, does he?" As Smith strides away in an annoyingly buoyant fashion, Miranda glares after him.

    "Shall I jinx him?" she says, raising her wand and taking aim between Smith's shoulder blades. Harry grabs her wrist, stopping her before she can even flick her wand. "Harry!" she whines, poking her tongue out at him. "I can still get him from here. My Reductor curse is nearly perfect."

    He stifles a snicker, shaking his head, "I know that. Trust me. No one should ever cross you." His hand is still wrapped around her wrist, and his fingers are soft on her skin. "But if Umbridge catches you she'll throw you straight in detention. I won't let her touch you again."

    "I don't need protecting," Miranda says haughtily, lifting her gaze up to match his.

    "I know that too," Harry tells her. "But I won't have you doing something stupid to defend me, and facing the consequences."

    Miranda rolls her eyes, "Harry, I've told you a thousand times that it's not your fault—"

    "Nobody touches you," Harry cuts her off firmly, his green eyes dark and intense. Miranda feels hot and tingly all over, butterflies in her stomach flapping like mad. He can't just say things like that. His voice rough, and protective, and yet so sweet. So casually. Out of the blue. It's a Thursday for fuck's sake.

    "Harry—"

    "Hi, Harry," interrupts a voice behind them. Miranda turns around and sees none other than Cho Chang. Her stomach drops, mood dragged immediately  down like a stone thrown over a bridge. You've got to be kidding me.

    "Oh," Harry tears his gaze away from Miranda, greeting the girl rather blankly. "Hi."

    "Had a good Christmas?" asks Cho, smiling up at him. Miranda resists the urge to vomit. Could the girl be any more obvious?
     "Yeah, not bad," says Harry, blinking.
     "Mine was pretty quiet," Cho replies. For some reason, she is looking rather embarrassed. She glances at Miranda meaningfully, trying to hint something to her through her eyes. Miranda gets the message, running hot for a whole other reason as she realizes what Cho's intentions are.

    She swallows tightly, not looking at Harry, her cheeks burning red, "Oh— right, I'll just— I'm gonna head to the library. Meet you there, Harry."

    "What— Miranda—" Harry's brow furrows, and he turns to her, but Miranda has already disappeared around the corner of the corridor. Her heart pounds in her ears, and she presses her forehead to the cool stone wall, attempting to calm herself. It isn;t a big deal, she reassures herself. She's probably just asking him about the next D.A. meeting like everyone else. There's nothing to worry about. Even as she says it, she catches the drifts of their conversation.

    Cho's lilting voice floats through the high ceilings, "Erm . . . there's another Hogsmeade trip next month, did you see the notice?" Miranda's mouth falls open. Oh no. Cho continues, "Well— I was wondering if you'd like to go with me. It's on Valentine's Day, you know." Miranda nearly blacks out, the only things topping her from falling to the floor is her need to hear Harry's response.

    "Erm—" Harry starts, rather confusedly. Miranda is suddenly very thankful for his oblivious tendencies. "With me?"

    Cho's confidence falters and she stammers, "Oh— it's— it's alright if you don't—" Miranda is holding her breath.

    "Oh— erm— no that sounds— sure I'll go with you, Cho," Harry finally says, and Miranda feels her chest tighten. Yes. He said yes. He was going to Hogsmeade with Cho. On a date. On Valentine's Day. Miranda does not stick around a second longer, but she is sure both parties are beaming like idiots. How could she have been so stupid? Kidding herself into believing that Harry actually liked her as anything more than a friend. Of course he liked Cho. Why wouldn't he? She was beautiful and smart, and she played Quidditch. Most of all, she was normal. She didn't have visions, and she wasn't friends with his biggest enemy. How had she let herself believe that he liked her? Because that was what she wanted to believe. Stupid. If he really liked her he would've kissed her by now.

    Tears sting her eyes, but she forces them back down as she walks briskly up to the library. Hermione will figure her out in a second if she shows up crying. She spots Hermione instantly, bent over a thick textbook at one of the cozier corner tables. Ron is seated across from her, fidgeting with a paper airplane. Miranda sidles up beside her, dropping her chin to rest on Hermione's shoulder. "Hey."

    "Hi," Hermione kisses her on the cheek, scribbling something down on a bit of parchment. "Where's Harry? I thought he was with you."

    "He was," Miranda replies shortly, not wanting to betray anything. "Now he's with Cho.

    Hermione's eyebrows shoot up like a rocket, "Cho?"

    At the same time, Ron gleefully chortles, "Cho?!"

    "Yup," Miranda sniffs, keeping her composure. "Don't know how long he'll be."

    Just then, Harry appears from behind a bookshelf, eyes very wide as he glances warily between and Hermione. Carefully avoiding looking at Miranda. He nods at Ron, who is staring at Harry with an idiotic grin on his face. "Hey."

    Ron whistles, long and low, "You bloody player."

    "What?"

    Hermione shoots a death glare at Ron, clucking her tongue impatiently, "Well, what did Cho want, Harry?"

    "Oh—" Harry is wildly caught off guard by the question. He scratches his head, looking at Miranda, "Right— erm—"

    Miranda grits her teeth, but keeps her response light and airy. Breezy. Unaffected. "Cho's asked him to Hogsmeade with her." Harry's mouth falls open just a little at her statement. She tilts her head, "Right?"

    "Erm— yeah," he mumbles. "H—How—?"

    "Sorry," Miranda apologizes lightheartedly, lifting a shoulder. "Overheard on my way out."

    "Right," says Harry, distantly, as though he's not quite sure how to process the information he's just received. "Right. Well..."

    "Well, what did you say?" Ron prompts excitedly, nudging Harry.

    Hermione is frowning at him, her arms crossed, "Don't keep us in suspense, Harry." Miranda feels a tiny surge of pride for her best friend. Hermione is on her side. Though Miranda already knows the answer, she wants to hear Harry say it. She has to hear him say it in front of her. Then it will be real.

    "I— I told her yes," Harry finally says. Then quickly  adds on, "It wasn't as if I could say no was it? I didn't want to be rude."

    "No, we wouldn't want that," says Hermione primly, her lips pursed.

    "Well, when are you going," Ron questions, very jovially.

    Harry mutters very quietly, "Valentine's Day."

    "Valentine's Day?!" Hermione and Ron cry out simultaneously , shocked.

    "I mean— I'm not busy or anything am I?" Harry responds reproachfully. "I have no reason not to." Hermione huffs at this. Harry casts a long glance at Miranda, who has remained silent throughout this whole exchange. What does he want her to say?

    She can't decide. So instead, she pastes a wide smile on her face, her eyes over bright, "Sounds great, Harry."

    Something passes over Harry's features that she can't distinguish. His expression is unreadable. "Great?"

    "Great," Miranda repeats, nodding energetically. Her voice is high. Too high. Her cheeks hurt from her fake smile.

    "Wait," Ron seemingly remembers something. Finally letting the news set in. He looks from Miranda to Harry, deep in thought. "You said yes— I thought you fancied—"

    Hermione seizes his arm at once, hissing, "Ron."

    "What?" Ron winces, Hermione's fingernails digging into his flesh. "You said he liked—" Now Hermione seizes Miranda's arm in her death grip, dragging her out of the library with impressive strength. "Now where are you going?" demands Ron.

    "We'll see you in class, boys," Hermione calls over her shoulder in an exasperated tone.

    "What's the matter with them?" Ron wonders irritably, folding his arms as he watches them walk out the door.

    Harry rubs his jaw tiredly, "Who knows."

    "Women," Ron mutters to himself more than anyone. "I'll never understand them." Harry grunts in evident agreement.

    Meanwhile, Miranda is being pulled through the corridors of Hogwarts at a pace akin to someone running away from a kidnapper. "Her-mione!" Miranda says indignantly. "What—?"

    "Cho Chang asked Harry out," Hermione states, once they've made it to a secluded alcove.

    "I know."

    "And he said yes."

    Miranda tenses, but keeps her expression even, "I know that too."

    "And you have nothing to say about it?" Hermione retorts, eyes narrowing. Miranda squirms under her gaze uncomfortable. She can never hide anything from Hermione Granger. One day she's going to get her back of all this. And she's sincerely regretting telling her about their almost kisses over holiday right about now. Which, looking back, maybe she was just making up in her head given the current circumstances. She was such a fool.

    "Harry can go out with whoever he likes," she replies, drawing her shoulders back. "I don't care."

    "You don't care?" Hermione raises disbelieving eyebrow

    "Yup," Miranda insists resolutely, popping the 'p'. Maybe if she said it enough times, it would be true.

    "Miranda—"

    "Hermione." Miranda says softly, an imploring plea. She is hoping her friend gets the message that she doesn't want to discuss this matter anymore because if she does then it might start to affect her emotional state.

    Hermione sighs, "Alright, but if you ever want to—"

    "I know."

    Night arrives with far too much haste. Miranda pauses outside Snape's door when she reaches it, wishing she is most anywhere else, then, taking a deep breath, knocks, and enters. It is a shadowy room lined with shelves bearing hundreds of glass jars in which float slimy bits of animals and plants, suspended in variously colored potions. In a corner stands the cupboard full of ingredients. Miranda's attention is drawn toward the desk, however, where a shallow stone basin engraved with runes and symbols lie in a pool of candlelight.  Miranda recognizes it at once — Dumbledore's Pensieve. Wondering what on earth it is doing here, she jumps when Snape's cold voice comes out of the corner.

    "Shut the door behind you, Miss McGonagall." Miranda does as she is told with the horrible feeling that she is imprisoning herself as she did so. When she turns back to face the room Snape has moved into the light and is pointing silently at the chair opposite his desk. Miranda sits down and so does Snape, his cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon her, dislike etched in every line of his face. "Well, you know why you are here," he says

    "And why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it again?" Miranda stares directly into Snape's dark, cold eyes and wonders whether he would answer.

    "The Dark Lord is highly skilled at Legilimency — the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person's mind," Snape explains curtly. "Those who have mastered Legilimency are able, under certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and memories that contradict the lie, and so utter falsehoods in his presence without detection."

    Miranda does not like the sound of this at all. And with the adde knowledge that she has been hearing thoughts of late, it only makes her more anxious. "So he could know what we're thinking right now?"

    "The Dark Lord is at a considerable distance and the walls and grounds of Hogwarts are guarded by many ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and mental safety of those who dwell within them," says Snape. "Time and space matter in magic. Eye contact is often essential to Legilimency."

    "Well then, why do Harry and I have to learn Occlumency?"

    Snape eyes Miranda, tracing his mouth with one long, thin finger as he does so. "The usual rules do not seem to apply with you, Miss McGonagall. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have forged some kind of connection between you and the Dark Lord. The evidence suggests that at times, you may be able to hear his thoughts. The headmaster believes that this means he may be abele to hear your own, and therefore use it against you in the foreseeable future. He has asked me to teach you how to defend yourself against this. Though—" Snape pauses, breaking off.

    "Though what?"

    "Nothing," Snape snaps quickly. "With the information we have at this time, this is our best course of action."

    "Isn't it a good thing?" Miranda frowns. None of this is adding up. "If I can hear what Voldemort is thinking, then—"

    "Do not say the Dark Lord's name!" spits Snape. There is a nasty silence. They glare at each other across the Pensieve.

    "Professor Dumbledore says his name," says Harry quietly. "And my mother. So does Harry."

    Snape sneers, "You must know that I do not view anything Potter does as intelligent."

    "Why do you hate him so much?" Miranda asks defiantly. "He's never done anything to you."

    "I wouldn't waste your breath defending your little boyfriend," Snape snipes lowly.

    Miranda runs red hot, "He's not my boyfriend. And I'd really appreciate it if people would stop insinuating he is."

    "Interesting," says Snape, tapping his chin. "I suppose I was misinformed."

    "Misinformed?"

    "No matter." Snape pulls out his wand from an inside pocket of his robe, raising  it to his temple and placed its tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he withdraws it, some silvery substance comes away, stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer strand, which breaks as he pulls the wand away from it and falls Mirandafully into the Pensieve, where it swirls silvery white, neither gas nor liquid. Twice more Snape raises the wand to his temple and deposits the silvery substance into the stone basin, then, without offering any explanation of his behavior, he picks up the Pensieve carefully, removes it to a shelf out of their way and returns to face Miranda with his wand held at the ready.

    "Stand up and take out your wand." Miranda gets to his feet feeling nervous. They face each other with the desk between them. What proceeded next was the most excruciating two hours of Miranda's life. She discovers that she is pretty shit at Occlumency. Snape has seen her embarrassing first kiss with Darren Maverickson in her third year at Ilvermorny. He's seen the day she got accepted to Hogwarts, and how she cried when she had to tell her two best friends. He's seen one of her fights with Draco, and when she got stung by a jellyfish at the beach she used to live on. It was awful. Miranda feels awful.

    "I want you back here same time next week," Snape dusts his hands once he is finally finished,  "and we will continue work then."

    "Fine," says Miranda. She is desperate to get out of Snape's office and find Ron, Harry and Hermione.

    "You are to speak none of this to Potter, you understand?"

    "Yes," nods Miranda, who is barely listening.

    "And be warned . . . I shall know if you have not practiced . . ."

    "Right," Miranda mumbles. She picks up her schoolbag, swings it over his shoulder, and hurries toward the office door. Miranda finds Ron, Harry,  and Hermione in the common room, where they are working on Umbridge's most recent ream of homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth years, sit at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky outside the mullioned windows grows steadily blacker. Miranda settles onto the armchair next to hermione, lying to rest her head on her shoulder. Her head is aching horribly, and she feels almost faint, like she hasn't eaten in several days.

    "How did it go?" Harry asks in a hushed voice, looking at her across the table. Then, he takes in her appearance, concerned, "Are you all right, Miranda?"

    "Yeah . . . fine . . . I dunno,"  Miranda replies, brushing his concern off. He didn't get to look at her like that. All caring and worried. He was going to Hogsmeade with Cho Chang. "Went about as well as yours, I suspect."

    Hermione wraps an arm around her consolingly, "Harry was just telling us what he figured out during his lesson."

    "I found out what I've been dreaming about all those nights," Harry leans in, thoughtful. "The door is in the Department of Mysteries."

    "Are you saying," whispers Miranda, not wanting anyone in the crowded common room to overhear them, "that the weapon — the thing everyone's after — is in the Ministry of Magic?"

    "It's got to be," Harry whispers back "I saw that door when Ron's dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it's definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him."

    Miranda massages her temples, her head has begun to throb again, more intensely this time. Hermione peers down at her, "Are you sure you're alright, Miranda?"

    "Fine," Miranda manages a tight, wan smile. Her stomach is feeling queasy, perhaps it would help to go lay down in the dorm room for a moment. She is probably just tired from that damn Occlumency lesson. She notices Harry fidgeting with his scar, his pallor a nasty greenish color. Oh no. Her realization comes a moment too late as her head sears with a blinding pain, and she hears the words as if they have been whispered in her ear. Well done, well done. An image of a dark, stormy prison conjures itself in her mind, unbidden. She opens her eyes, which she doesn't remember closing, to find Harry writhing on the rug, clutching his scar, and laughing, Laughing maniacally.

    "Harry? HARRY!" Ron, at a loss, decides to hit him around the face.

    "Ron!" Both girls cry out immediately, as Harry seems to awaken from his trance. Miranda is doing her best not to vomit.

    "What?" Ron gestures at Harry emphatically, "It worked didn't it?"

    They all bend over him, anxious. "What happened?"

    Harry coughs, staring at the ceiling. He looks as though he'd like to vomit too, and that thought comforts Miranda just a little. "I . . . dunno . . ." Harry gasps hoarsely, sitting up again. "He's really happy . . . really happy . . ."

    "You-Know-Who is?" Ron's mouth downturns, his voice nervous.

    "Something good's happened," mumbles Harry. He is shaking as badly as he had done after seeing the snake attack Mr. Weasley. "Something he's been hoping for."

    "He's right," Miranda shudders. "I heard— he's proud. Happy. I think— I think it has to do with Azkaban."

    Their question is answered the very next morning. When Hermione's Daily Prophet arrives she smooths it out, gazes for a moment at the front page, and then gives a yelp that causes everyone in the vicinity to stare at her.

    "What?" said Harry and Ron together, while Miranda reads the articles over her shoulder.

    For an answer she spreads the newspaper on the table in front of them and points at ten black-and-white photographs that fill the whole of the front page, nine showing wizards' faces and the tenth, a witch's. Some of the people in the photographs are silently jeering; others are tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture is captioned with a name and the crime for which the person had been sent to Azkaban.

    Miranda's hand rises to her mouth in astonishment. Azkaban. Her vision had been correct. This can mean nothing good. She is right. Reading through the front page with dread, they learn that several former Death Eaters have escaped in a mass breakout from the supposedly impenetrable prison.

    "There you are," says Ron, looking awestruck. "That's why he was happy last night. . . ."

    "I don't believe this," snarls Harry, "Fudge is blaming the breakout on Sirius?"

    "What other options does he have?" Miranda notes bitterly. "He can hardly say, 'Sorry everyone, Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort' — stop whimpering, Weasley— 'and now Voldemort's worst supporters have broken out too.' I mean, he's spent a good six months telling everyone you and Dumbledore are liars, hasn't he?"

    Harry  glowers into his plate of eggs, "I need to schedule the next D.A meeting as soon as possible..."