Miranda and Hermione meet Mateo, Harry, and Ron in the common room before breakfast the next morning. Hoping for some support for his theory, Harry loses no time in telling Hermione  and Miranda what he had overheard Malfoy saying on the Hogwarts Express.

"But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn't he?" interjects Ron quickly, before Hermione can say anything.

"Well," Miranda says uncertainly, "I don't know. . . . It would be like D—Malfoy to make himself seem more important than he is . . . but that's a big lie to tell. . . ." She knows they'll take her opinion into account, being that she knows probably better than anyone, so she has to choose words carefully. Miranda desperately doesn't want to believe that Draco could be a Death Eater. There's no way. She can't conceive it. She hates talking about him. It brings up too many memories.

"Exactly," says Mateo, evidently on Harry's side in the matter. But he could not press the point, because so many people are trying to listen in to their conversation, not to mention staring at Harry and whispering behind their hands.

"It's rude to point," Ron snaps at a particularly minuscule first-year boy as they join the queue to climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turns scarlet and topples out of the hole in alarm. Ron sniggers. "I love being a sixth year. And we're going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit up here and relax."

"We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!" says Hermione, as they set off down the corridor.

"Yeah, but not today," says Ron. "Today's going to be a real doss, I reckon."

"Hold it!" says Hermione, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth year, who is attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his hand. "Fanged Frisbees are banned, hand it over," she told him sternly. The scowling boy hands over the snarling Frisbee, ducks under her arm, and takes off after his friends.

Ron waits for him to vanish, then tugs the Frisbee from Hermione's grip. "Excellent, I've always wanted one of these."

Hermione's reprimand is drowned by a loud giggle; Lavender Brown has apparently found Ron's remark highly amusing. She continues to laugh as she passes them, glancing back at Ron over her shoulder. Ron looks rather pleased with himself, while Hermione looks downright murderous

The ceiling of the Great Hall is serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. While they tuck into their porridge, bacon, and eggs, Miranda starts to notice a gaggle of tittering fourth and fifth year girls, lingering closer and closer to where they are eating. Halfway through her bowl of porridge, Miranda realizes their intent. They're chasing after Harry. Her Harry. Miranda is beginning to wonder whether she has a possessiveness issue.

Led by the striking Romilda Vane, the lovestruck fan club fawns over Harry from afar. Batting their eyelashes and twirling their hair. Miranda would quite like to vomit all of the breakfast she's just eaten up. Finally, once they are close enough that Miranda can hear their whispers, she decides she's had enough.

She pushes back from her seat at the table. "Some of us are trying to eat breakfast, you know," says Miranda loudly. Mateo and Ron simultaneously choke on their pumpkin juice, Hermione and Ginny looking pointedly away, hiding smiles. Harry looks nervous, rightfully so. Miranda has a temper on her, and the right hook to match.

Romilda Vane eyes her as though she is a small bug she'd like to step on her with shoe. All of her attention is on Harry. "You don't have to sit with them, if you don't want to," she says conspiratorially. "You can come sit with us, we don't mind."

Miranda is so outraged that she instinctively reaches a hand to her robes, about to draw her wand, before she feels Harry's hand close around her wrist. Soft, but firm. Harry straightens, staring Romilda down witheringly, "I'm just fine where I am thanks."

"Bye," Miranda flutters her fingers sweetly, shooting Romilda and her cronies a scathing glare.

"Feeling territorial this morning, love?" asks Harry, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Shut up, Harry," she mumbles, her cheeks flooding pink.

Harry only grins at her, "You're very cute when you're jealous. D'you know that?"

"I wasn't jealous," insists Miranda haughtily, not wanting to give Harry the satisfaction.

"Looked jealous to me," Ron snorts, and Miranda promptly kicks him in the shin under the table. "Bloody— Ow!"

After they have eaten, they remain in their places, awaiting Professor McGonagall's descent from the staff table. The distribution of class schedules is more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needs first to confirm that everybody has achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s.

When Miranda and Mateo reach the from tof the line, McGonagall clears them for their necessary subjects, then holds them back for a moment, softening, "I'm so sorry to hear about your mother, she was a fantastic witch, and I loved her very dearly."

"Thank you Auntie," Miranda replies, biting down on her lip. She will not cry. Not today.

"And little Mateo, god you look just like Matthias, but you have Junie's hair." McGonagall pinches his cheeks, "You grew up so much, the last time I saw you you were just a tiny baby." She smiles at them both a second longer, before briskly clearing her throat, "I'm very pleased with your Transfiguration marks, I must say. I see you've chosen the path necessary to become an Auror."

"Yes, Professor," Miranda nods, the warmth of her aunt's praise flooding through her.

"Now, I hope you can explain to me why Potter has not signed up for Potions," McGonagall huffs, tapping her list. " I thought it was his ambition to become an Auror as well."

"He said he didn't have a good enough O.W.L.," Miranda lifts a shoulder, for she too had been wondering the same thing.

"Nonsense," McGonagall tuts, snapping her fingers. "Potter."

Quickly, Harry hastens over, mildly confused.  "Er— Professor?"

"Professor Slughorn is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T students with 'Exceeds Expectations' at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with Potions?"

"Yes," says Harry, "but I didn't buy the books or any ingredients or anything —"

"I'm sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you some," says Professor McGonagall.

"One more thing, you two," McGonagall calls in parting. "Please take Weasley along. He looks far too happy over there."

Hermione is immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shoots off to a first- period Ancient Runes class with Griff at her heels without further ado. Ron is cleared to do the same subjects as Harry and Miranda, and the three of them leave the table together.

"Look," says Ron delightedly, gazing at his schedule, "we've got a free period now . . . and a free period after break . . . and after lunch . . . excellent!"

An hour later they reluctantly leave the sunlit common room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione and Griff are already queuing outside, carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon.

"We got so much homework for Runes," she says anxiously, when Harry and Ron joined her.

Mateo nods dejectedly, continuing, "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and we've got to read these by Wednesday!"

"Shame," yawns Ron.
"You wait," Hermione says resentfully. "I bet Snape gives us loads." The classroom door opens as she speaks, and Snape steps

into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence falls over the queue immediately.

"Inside," he says, bowing his head cordially as Mateo passes.

Snape begins his lesson by telling them that he is astounded that so many of them received an O.W.L. in the subject, given their variety of teachers. He talks of how the Dark Arts are ever changing, and how they need to adapt to them, speaking about dark magic with a sort of love and respect that makes Harry tense beside Miranda, who puts a calming hand on his knee.

He then has them pair off and attempt nonverbal magic, something that none of them has done before. Mateo succeeds first, repelling Neville's jinx nonverbally, earning him a look of approval from Snape. He is closely followed by Miranda and Hermione, each repelling the other's hexes non verbally.

Ron who is attempting to nonverbally shield himself from Harry's offense is till struggling. When Snape notices, he pushes him aside, and advances on Harry.

Miranda watches with bated breath, knowing this can't end well.

"Pathetic, Weasley," says Snape, after a while. "Here — let me show you —"

He turns his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacts instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells forgotten, he yells, "Protego!" His Shield Charm is so strong Snape is knocked off-balance and hits a desk. The whole class has looked around as Snape rights himself, scowling. Miranda can't bear to watch.

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?"

"Yes," says Harry stiffly.
"Yes, sir."
"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor," the words have escaped him before he knows what he is saying. Miranda palms her forehead. Several people gasp, including Hermione. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grin appreciatively.

"Detention, Saturday night, my office," says Snape. "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter . . . not even 'the Chosen One.' "

"That was brilliant, Harry!" chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.

"You really shouldn't have says it," says Hermione, frowning at Ron. "What made you?"

"He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!" fumed Harry. "I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff —"

"Well," says Hermione, "I thought he sounded a bit like you."

"Like me?" Harry sounds a thought he's never been more offended in his entire life. "Absolutely not." He is still muttering to himself as they are their way to Potions, "It's like he has some sort of vendetta against me or something.

Miranda squeezes his shoulder soothingly, trying to ease his tension, "I know."

"He's hated me ever since I stepped foot in here. He had it out for me from the beginning." Then Harry looks up, having an idea. "Say Mateo, you lived with the bat, did he ever mention why he disliked me so much?"

"No." Mateo shakes his head, shrugging. "Sorry mate."

You're lying

I am not

You so are, I can tell

You know why Snape hates Harry so much

Hate is a strong word

You saw what happened in there. I've never liked Snape, but mom always seemed to trust him. You have to admit he treats Harry differently.

Well...

Well what? You totally know why.

I do not.

Merlin's balls Mateo, I can read your mind, I know when you're lying

I'll never tell

Mentally, Miranda pictures flipping Mateo off.

Well that was uncalled for.

When they arrive in the corridor they see that there are only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle have evidently failed to achieve the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins have made it through, including Malfoy and Blaise Zabini. Four Ravenclaws are there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, who Miranda remembers from D.A. last year.

"Harry," Ernie says portentously, holding out his hand they approach, "didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags . . . And how are you, Ron — Miranda—Hermione?"

Before they can say more than "fine," the dungeon door opens and Slughorn's belly precedes him out of the door. As they file into the room, his great walrus mustache curves above his beaming mouth, and he greets Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.

The dungeon is, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells.

"Now then, now then, now then," says Slughorn, whose massive outline is quivering through the many shimmering vapors. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making. . . ."

"Sir?" says Harry, raising his hand.
"Harry, m'boy?"
"I haven't got a book or scales or anything — nor's Ron — we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see —"

"Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention . . . not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts. . . ."

Slughorn strides over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerges with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gives to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.

"Now then," says Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threaten to burst off, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?"

He indicates the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table with what looks like plain water boiling away inside it.

Hermione's well-practiced hand hits the air before anybody else's; Slughorn points at her, "Yes Miss...?"

"Granger, sir, Hermione Granger. That's Veritaserum. A colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," says Hermione. 

"Right you are Miss Granger ...did you say?" Hermione nods. "What about this one?" Slughorn moves on to the next cauldron, which is emitting swirls of pink and purple steam. Miranda sniffs interestedly, smelling fresh snow and toast and a very specific earthy scent that she has come to associate with Harry's skin.

Hermione raises her hand yet again, beating everyone to the punch.

"Miss Granger."

"Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world," Hermione identifies reverently as the girls in the class lean in slowly. "It smells different for everyone, and it is said that what you smell corresponds with your one true love." She inhales deeply, "For example I smell new parchment, freshly cut grass, and..." Hermione trails off, blushing, when she notices everyone staring.

"Right again Miss Granger." Then Slughorn lets out a little chuckle of realization, wagging his finger at Harry knowingly. "Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," says Harry.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," says Slughorn genially.

Hermione turns to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, "Did you really tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!"

"Well, what's so impressive about that?" whispers Ron, who for some reason looks annoyed. "You are the best in the year — I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!"

Hermione smiles but makes a "shhing" gesture, so that they can hear what Slughorn is saying. Ron looks slightly disgruntled.

"Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a power ful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room — oh yes," he says, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Zabini both of whom were smirking skeptically. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love. . . . "

Slughorn moves on, "And finally who can tell me about this potion?"

Miranda raises her hand along with Hermione.

"Yes, Miss...?" he points to Miranda, snow-white eyebrows raised.

"McGonagall sir, and that's Polyjuice Potion. It can change your appearance." Ron, Hermione, and Harry share a look.

"McGonagall?" Slughorn chortles delightedly, his eyes lighting up at the prospect. "Any relation to Minerva?"

"She's my aunt, professor," Miranda tells him.

"Good lord," Slughorn breathes, peering down at her. "Are you Matthias and Juniper's daughter? I taught both of them back in the day you know. Brilliant the lot of them. Juniper was especially good at Potions, she was always one of my favorites." He stops, musing sadly, "I was—so sorry to hear about your mother. What a great loss. She was an excellent student."

Miranda shifts awkwardly, "Thank you."

"I look forward to seeing if your mother's talents live on in you," Slughorn winks. "And now," says Slughorn, "it is time for us to start work."

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," says Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within is splashing about merrily; it is the color of molten gold, and large drops are leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle has spilled.

"Oho," says Slughorn again. Miranda is sure that Slughorn has not forgotten the potion at all, but has waited to be asked for dramatic effect. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion. Does anyone know what it is?" Two hands shoot up.

"Yes, you boy, Mr...?"

"McGonagall professor," Mateo answers, pleased to be called on, and Miranda's heart swells with pride.

"Fantastic," Slughorn rubs his hands together with glee, "I do love a good set of twins."

"It's Felix Felicis sir," says Mateo.

"Indeed it is Mr. McGonagall, also known as—?"

"Liquid luck," Hermione breathes, almost reverently.

"Precisely Miss Granger." The whole class seems to sit up a little straighter.  "Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," says Slughorn. "Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed . . . at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" says Terry Boot eagerly.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," says Slughorn. "Too much of a good thing, you know . . . highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally . . ."

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" asks Michael Corner with great interest.

"Twice in my life," says Slughorn. "Once when I was twenty- four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days." He gazes dreamily into the distance. Whether he is playacting or not, the effect is good. "And that," says Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

There is silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seems magnified tenfold. "One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," says Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt." From across the room, Miranda spies Draco paying full attention, more alert Han she's ever seen him. Harry sees it too.

"So," says Slughorn, suddenly brisk, "how are you to win my fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion- Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

There is a scraping as everyone draws their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people begin adding weights to their scales, but nobody speaks. The concentration within the room is almost tangible. Everyone keeps glancing around at what the rest of the class is doing; this is both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it is hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place is full of bluish steam. On the other side of the room, Zabini's cauldron explodes, drenching both him and Draco in a viscous brown sludge. Draco shouts angrily, and Miranda catches his eye briefly, but he turns away. Hermione's hair has expanded to twice its size as she stirs her potion feverishly.

The sopophorous bean is proving very difficult to cut up., and even Miranda who considers Potions one of her great strengths, is struggling with it. Mateo is scowling at his own cauldron with evident frustration, despite the fact that his and Hermione aren't even that bad.

"Can I borrow your silver knife?" Harry asks her.

She nods impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which is still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.

Harry crushes his bean with the flat side of the dagger, immediately exuding a bounty of juice. When he stopped it into his cauldron, the potion instantly turns exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook. Miranda watches out of the corner of her eye as he stirs it, the potion turning a pale pink. Hers is still firmly stuck between deep purple and lilac.

"How are you doing that?" demands Hermione, who is redfaced and whose hair is growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion is still resolutely purple.

"Add a clockwise stir —"
"No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" she snaps.

Across the table, Ron is cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looks like liquid licorice.

"And time's . . . up!" calls Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!"

Slughorn moves slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He makes no comment, but occasionally gives the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reaches their table. He smiles ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. He gives Herione's an approving nod, "Good effort Miss Granger. Truly, you are very close."

Then he moves on to Miranda's and Mateo's, "Well I'd expect nothing less from McGonagalls, a job well done from both of you, a little more time and they'd be perfect."

Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spreads over his face. "The clear winner!" he cries to the dungeon. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are — one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"

Harry slips the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, winking. Hermione, Ron, and Miranda stare at him, dumbfounded.

"How did you do that?"  Ron whispers to Harry as they left the dungeon.

"Got lucky, I suppose," says Harry. Miranda assumes because Malfoy is within earshot.

Once they are securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, he finally tells them about his mysterious Potion's book. Hermione's face becomes stonier with every word he uttered.

"I s'pose you think I cheated?" he finished, aggravated by her expression.

"Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?" she says stiffly.

Ron laughs, "Hermione's just upset she's not the top of class anymore."

Hermione replies defensively, "That is not why! I'm concerned for Harry. We don't know whose book it is."

"Yeah, right." Ron scoffs.

Harry says, "I do know who's book it is. It says it right here." He taps the inside cover insistently, "Property of the Half Blood Prince."

"What a ridiculous name!" Hermione and Harry continue to argue, but Miranda notices the change in Mateo's expression when Harry mentioned the name.

What was that?

What was what?

You know something.

I don't-

You know something about the Half- Blood Prince.

No I don't.

You do! Now that's two things you're hiding from me.

I swear—

I can feel you trying to conceal your thoughts!

Stop looking in my brain!

You know something and I'm going to find out what it is.