It struck home to them in a way that Nott's death hadn't. Perhaps because it had taken place here … within the very walls of Hogwarts itself. 

"He's the first since Moaning Myrtle," Hermione said. 

Harry instantly bridled. "What about Cedric?"

"I meant, the first to die on the Hogwarts grounds, Harry," she said. "I don't mean to devalue Cedric in any way, you know that."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Yeah," Ron said around a mouthful of kippers. "There was the basilisk, but they were only petrified, not killed."

Ginny, spreading marmalade on toast, shuddered. "Don't remind me."

None of them besides Ron really had much of an appetite, and Harry especially was only going through the motions of eating. He had refused Professor McGonagall's offer to blur the worst of the previous night's memories. As nice as it would be to forget, as glad as he would have been to never have to think about the way Crabbe had looked, bobbing there in the simmering soup of his own blood, he knew that amnesia was a luxury in which he couldn't indulge. 

He thought that McGonagall was, in a strange way, prouder of him for refusing. Or maybe she simply knew that his head was already so full of horrible memories that another one wasn't going to make much difference. 

Across the table, Colin Creevey was the unwilling center of attention. "I didn't get a very good look," he said for at least the tenth time since the tables had produced their bounty of eggs, sausage, toast, and pancakes. "As soon as I realized what I was seeing, I went quick as a flash to get Harry."

When asked, Harry too demurred and said he hadn't gotten a very good look. He edited the story to make it seem that Filch and Snape had arrived practically on his heels, and had shooed him and Colin out straight away.

The matter of the magazines was brought up, and by the time people were pushing away their plates – many of them untouched – the consensus seemed to be that Crabbe had taken his inspiration from Nott. That he must have been thinking about it for a long time, wracked with the shame of having his father exposed and then arrested, but, being Crabbe, hadn't known what to do about it until Nott provided him a solution by example. 

Over at their table on the far side of the Great Hall, the majority of the Slytherins were silent and pale. Many of them wore looks of disbelief, as if they expected to wake at any moment and find that it had all only been a dream. Draco Malfoy looked stunned speechless. Beside him, Goyle looked so lost and forlorn that Harry was amazed to find himself actually feeling sorry for the big lug. He wondered what accommodations in their dormitory had been like last night … had Nott's bed been there, an empty glaring reminder? Or had it already been removed, the furniture rearranged to make the gap less obvious? Which would be worse, anyway? 

The teachers, too, clearly weren't sure how to address this latest catastrophe. Harry saw several meaningful glances exchanged. They all gave the impression of waiting for someone else to speak up. 

Only Firenze and Hagrid seemed unconcerned. The centaur, his bare human torso rising from a muscular palomino horse body, did not sit at the faculty table but stood at the end of it, near Hagrid's seat. Between the two of them, they ate enough for ten normal people, though where Hagrid gorged on great sloppy helpings of scrambled eggs mixed with bacon and cheese, Firenze had an immense bowl of oatmeal sweetened with a dab of honey and cream, and a platter of fresh fruit.

Dumbledore was not present; nor was Snape. Early that morning, Crabbe's mother and uncle had arrived and they were presumably seeing to the arrangements. 

"What's first today?" Ron asked. 

Harry consulted his class schedule. "Charms with the Hufflepuffs, then double Potions."

"Potions?" Ron and Hermione said together. Ron added, "Thought we were quit of Potions!" and hurriedly dug out his own schedule.

"I thought so, too," Harry said, "but McGonagall signed me up. I told her last year during my career advice session that I wanted to be an Auror, and she promised to see to it that I had every chance. Which means more Potions."

"But Professor Snape said he only takes students who get –" Hermione began.

"I did." Harry quirked a bitter smile. "It's unbelievable, what a difference it makes having the exam given by someone else. I didn't get top marks, but I did well enough that he had to take me."

"Me, too," Neville admitted. 

"You signed up for more Potions?" Ron asked. "You, Neville?"

"Well, I want to be an Auror, don't I?" Neville shot back. His face was pink, but he held Ron's gaze defiantly. 

No one said anything, but Harry was sure they were all thinking what he was. Of course Neville wanted to become an Auror. His parents had both been Aurors, among the best in the business according to Mad-Eye Moody. They had fallen in the line of duty, and now more than ever, after his confrontation with the Death-Eaters and most of all his own taste of the Cruciatus Curse at the hands of the same woman who had taken Frank and Alice Longbottom away from their son, Neville was bound and determined to follow in their footsteps. 

Whether Neville could become an Auror, that was another matter. His grades in Potions had been abysmal, worse than Harry's, though he too had performed admirably well during their O.W.L.s. It was the teacher more than the subject that caused Neville's traditional poor performance; Snape scared him witless and could reduce Neville to a quivering pudding with a single arched eyebrow. He did better in his other classes, and had made great strides as a member of the D.A., but if Harry was pessimistic about his own chances …

"You're the only ones taking Potions, then," Hermione said. "Of our year and our House, anyway. Lavender and Parvati didn't sign up, and I don't think that Dean and Seamus did, either."

"Didn't you?" Harry asked. 

She shook her head. "I did well enough, but thought I could stand to concentrate on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. It's nice to have more electives, isn't it? And you must be glad to have given up Divination."

With their O.W.L.s behind them, the sixth-years had had their course schedules arranged by their various heads of House. The idea behind this, Harry knew, was to tailor each student's classes to better prepare them for their chosen careers, which they'd each discussed last term. 

The only classes still required of all students were what Fred and George Weasley had called "the Big Three," these being Charms, Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts. By now, they were expected to have a broad knowledge of subjects such as Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, History of Magic and other such basics, and only those wishing to pursue careers requiring them would continue to study them. 

Additionally, a host of new subjects were now open to them. Professor Firenze's Philosophy and Non-Human Relations classes were only a few. Beginning Alchemy, Introduction to Healing, Magical Portraiture, International Wizarding Studies, Home Enchantments, and a number of non-magical things such as foreign languages, literature, music and art were among the available choices. 

"Have you decided then what you're going to do?" Ron asked Hermione. "After Hogwarts, I mean."

"Well …" She took a deep breath. "You have to promise not to laugh. I mean it. Cross your heart."

"Sure, okay," Ron said. "Cross my heart. Why? It's not spew, is it?"

"You promised, Ron!"

"Is it? Blimey, Hermione! Tell me you're joking!"

"I happen to think it's important! And Professor Dumbledore agrees with me. That's why he switched Firenze from Divination to Non-Human Relations. It's high time that wizards started working with members of other species. Care of Magical Creatures is all well and good when we're talking about creatures, but there's never been any mention of how best to deal with other people."

"Muggles," Dean said, having been drawn in by her elevated voice and animated gestures. "I'm thinking of trying to get into the Department of Muggle Relations, myself."

"Not Muggles," she said exasperatedly. "People who aren't human. Look at what we've seen poor Hagrid go through, or Professor Lupin. Go on and tell me they're not people, I dare you!"

"All right, Hermione," Harry said. "You don't need to convince us."

"But I do!" She slapped the table, making her silverware jingle. "You've never taken S.P.E.W. seriously, any of you. Haven't you seen for yourself the damage it can do when we go on treating other people like … like sub-human things? You all just go on your merry way, letting house-elves cook for you and do your laundry and clean up after you, and when I try to help them, you all act like it's a joke!"

Ron's face underwent a series of bizarre contortions that made him look like he was chewing off his own lips from the inside. 

"We don't think it's a joke," Ginny said. By now, even the group who'd been clustering around Colin were staring at Hermione. 

"You do, you do! All last year … do you have any idea how many hats and pairs of socks I knitted?" She held out her hands, and for the first time, Harry noticed hard red calluses on her fingers where her knitting needles must have pressed. "But as soon as my back was turned, you all went and … and … threw them out, or something."

"Hermione …" Harry said. 

"Laughing about it, too, I'm sure!" she went on heatedly. "Because I found out! Did you think I wouldn't? Last night after supper, I went down to the kitchens and do you know what? None of the elves had been freed! Not one!"

"Hermione!" he said, louder. 

"What, Harry?"

"Dobby took them all. I … I meant to tell you and I never … quite got around to it. Dobby took all your bobble hats and socks. He gave some to Winky, but he kept the rest." He started talking faster, seeing fury well up in Hermione with such energy that her bushy brown hair almost crackled with it, like electricity. "Because the other house-elves wouldn't even come to Gryffindor tower anymore, Hermione, Dobby told me. They were insulted."

Her mouth fell open in a wounded gasp. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have said something a long time ago. But did you ask them? Did you ever ask them? They don't want clothes. They like what they do. They don't want to be free."

"They … they just … that's just because they … they don't know any better!" she said in a fierce whisper. "If they knew …" 

"Face it, Hermione," Ron said. "They're happy the way they are."

She shot to her feet. "They're slaves! And you're hopeless, every single one of you, if you can't see that it's wrong to take thinking, feeling beings and turn them into slaves!"

Angrily, she snatched up her book bag and slung it on her shoulder, nearly clocking a Hufflepuff boy who had the bad luck to be walking behind her at that moment. She stormed out. 

Ron turned to Harry. "She's gone and decided to pursue this, hasn't she? Non-Human Relations, and she's going to try and make a career of it. Lobbying for elf-rights and all that rubbish."

"She doesn't think it's rubbish, Ron," Ginny said. "And evidently, neither does Professor Dumbledore."

"Don't get me wrong," Ron said. "I mean, I agree, it's not very nice the way people are about werewolves, half-giants or centaurs. But she's got a right bee in her bonnet about house-elves, you know she does."

"Well," Parvati Patil said, checking her reflection in a small gold-plated compact, "she can go on about house-elves if she likes, but that's not why I'm taking his class."

"We know," Ron said, as if he'd just tasted something sour. His voice climbed an octave and he clasped his hands and fluttered his eyelids. "Ooh, Professor Firenze! He's so dreeeeeeamy!" Dropping his voice to its normal register, he scoffed. "It's bloody Lockhart all over again."

"I don't expect it's that kind of Non-Human Relations," Ginny said, smiling. 

"And even if it isn't," Parvati said, "someone should tell Hermione Granger to get off her soapbox. She may be all worked up about elves, but I certainly recall her saying some very bigoted things about Firenze. She called him a horse, remember, Lavender?"

Lavender Brown nodded vehemently. 

Harry, listening to all of this and the other chatter that had sprung up around the room as everyone prepared to leave for their first classes of the day, thought about what a bizarre but wonderful thing routine was. Not two hours ago, the entire Great Hall had been nearly paralyzed with the horror of what had happened to Crabbe. And yet, already, normality was reasserting itself. Habits were coming back. Inner doors were closing to everything except what they believed mattered – lessons and teachers, House points, homework, Quidditch. 

And just like that, in a spur-of-the-moment flash, he knew that he was going to resume his place on the Quidditch team. 

Yes, it was stupid. Yes, no one in the outside world gave two shakes whether Gryffindor won the silver Quidditch Cup for the nth year running, keeping it securely in its accustomed spot in McGonagall's office. Yes, there were bigger and more important matters that he should be worrying about. 

But, damn it, Quidditch was one of the few things that made him truly, honestly happy. When he was flying, his other cares and concerns, whatever they were, all diminished. Why should he give up one of his few genuine pleasures just because everything else was going to hell all around him? Harry Potter being Seeker for another year wasn't going to stop Voldemort's plans … wasn't going to interfere with any Death Eaters … and so what? 

Wasn't that what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him at the end of last term? That he, Harry, already took on too much? Had too much to worry about, burdens that no one so young should have to deal with? Wasn't that one of Dumbledore's reasons for keeping Harry in the dark? To let him still salvage something of the childhood that had been wrested from him by circumstances beyond his control?

Really, wasn't it arrogant of him to expect that he'd be the only one who could stop what was going on? Just because it had been that way every previous year since he came to Hogwarts … let someone else deal with it for a change. The Ministry knew the truth now. Dumbledore knew the truth. Older and wiser wizards than him were supposedly on the case. 

As he got up, gathering his books, Harry wryly admitted to himself that the trouble was, he didn't much trust those so-called older and wiser wizards. He had no faith whatsoever in Cornelius Fudge, who had been revealed to be a petty, vindictive fool whose insecurities and willful head-in-the-sand stubbornness had allowed all this to spiral so far out of control. 

What about Dumbledore, he wondered? Do you still have faith in him?

Ah … that was a tricky question. Harry knew that he did, as far as Dumbledore's capabilities. He had seen Dumbledore in action, had seen him go up against Voldemort in a dazzling display of magical strength. The problem wasn't that. The problem was a deep personal rift between them. 

Rather than narrow that rift, Dumbledore's explanations following the events in the Department of Mysteries had only widened it. Harry understood better why Dumbledore had acted the way that he had … but understanding didn't change the way he felt. All those rationalizations and excuses had boiled down to one basic, insurmountable fact – Dumbledore didn't trust him. 

He was halfway to Professor Flitwick's classroom, absently mumbling responses to whatever Ron was saying, when someone gave him a sharp poke in the side. Harry turned and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy, whose grey eyes were tight slits of suspicion. 

Harry's hand went automatically to his wand but he didn't draw it. "Malfoy," he said. 

Ron did draw, but Harry pushed Ron's hand down. Goyle loomed behind Malfoy, but Goyle's usual air of menace was gone. He only stood there, his face slack, his eyes hazy, like a big ugly waxwork. 

"I want to know what happened last night, Potter," Malfoy said. 

"Why ask me? Why not ask Snape?"

"I did, and that's how I know that the version you've been spreading around isn't the whole one."

Harry bent close. "What do you want from me, Malfoy? Details? You want to know how he looked? You want to know what it was like in there, the whole bathroom steamy with his blood? I thought he was your friend."

Goyle made a low, strangled noise. Malfoy hissed through clenched teeth. Ron gaped at Harry like he'd never seen him before. 

"If you had something to do with it, I will find out," Malfoy said. 

"I didn't," Harry said. "Give me Veritaserum and I'd tell you the same thing."

"Vince wouldn't kill himself," Goyle said in a slow, thick voice. "And never like that. He hated baths. Everyone knew it."

Ron started to mutter something, caught himself, and closed his mouth. Harry was glad. This was no time for snide remarks. Whatever else, no matter how much they'd been at odds since the start of their very first years here, a boy was dead. 

"I didn't like him," Harry said bluntly. "I don't like you or Goyle, either. I think we're all clear on that, just like we're all clear on your opinions of me."

"We certainly are," said Malfoy coldly. 

"But that doesn't mean I had anything to do with his death. You're forgetting, Malfoy. It's your father's friends who kill people."

Malfoy bared his teeth but didn't – maybe couldn't – say anything. 

"So if you're looking for someone to blame," Harry finished, "I'd suggest you start a little closer to home. Come on, Ron."

A ring of open space had magically formed around the four of them, a ring composed of solemn, watchful students. As Harry continued on, towing Ron by the arm, this gap melted away and, slowly, a normal level of hallway conversation resumed. 

"Bloody hell," Ron said in a low tone. "I never thought I'd be saying this about Malfoy, but don't you reckon you were a bit hard on him?"

"What if I was?" Harry said. "All I need is to have that whole Heir of Slytherin nonsense start up again, people scurrying out of my way because they think I'm some mad killer. And, what, I'm supposed to spare Malfoy's feelings? I like how everyone seems to overlook how my godfather was murdered. We all could have been, you know. It was a near thing."

"I try not to think about that," Ron said. 

"Good for you. I can't stop thinking about it." Harry pushed the classroom door open and went inside. 

Hard on Malfoy, indeed!

He told himself that he was probably being a bit hard on Ron, too … after all, Ron had been none too steady after one of the Death Eaters had hit him with a spell that left him reeling about like a drunkard. And the brain … the pulsing white-green brain with its clasping tentacles … Ron had summoned it out of its tank and it had attacked him, and Harry never had found out just what those brains had been, or what they'd done to Ron. 

Hermione was already there, seated off to one side with her nose buried in a thick book titled Clever Uses of Everyday Charms. Professor Flitwick greeted the class warmly as they all filed in and took their places. He told them that given how grueling their last year had been, what with preparing for their O.W.L.s, he thought they'd take the first term of this year easy and concentrate on simple entertainment spells. 

They spent the rest of the session casting Voice-Altering Charms on each other, seeing who could come up with the funniest or most outlandish voice. After a while, this even brought a smile to Hermione's face, especially after Neville, slyly, cast one on Lavender that made her sound wispy and ethereal like Professor Trelawney. Lavender took offense, and tried to upbraid Neville, but in the middle of her scolding, Hannah Abbott of Hufflepuff cast one that gave her Hagrid's voice, and the entire class erupted in laughter. 

It was only after Charms, in the hall, that Harry realized for the first time since coming to Hogwarts he was going to have a class without Ron. Aside from Quidditch practices, they had never been doing separate things during the term. He felt a pang as Ron and the others headed for their respective classes, while Harry and Neville made their way to the dungeons where Snape's Potions lessons were held. 

"Remind me again why I did this to myself," Neville said as they went down the gloomy, dark staircase.

"Because you want to be an Auror," Harry said. 

"Right." Neville didn't sound reassured. 

Harry wasn't feeling all that reassured himself, but he tried not to let it show as they joined the small group of sixth-years outside of the Potions classroom. The faces were all familiar, but he'd never seen them all in one class at the same time before. A couple of Hufflepuffs, a few Ravenclaws, a bunch of Slytherins including Malfoy and Goyle, and two Gryffindors, him and Neville. 

Malfoy had, for the time being, apparently decided to adopt Snape's new method of dealing with Harry, which was to frostily ignore him. All in all, it made Potions much easier to endure. 

Though the listed on the blackboard was one of the most complex Harry had ever seen, he followed the instructions slowly and carefully. By the time Snape announced, "Five more minutes," his cauldron was brimming with the golden-black sparkling smoke that indicated a perfectly-blended Fireproofing Potion. 

Neville hadn't been quite so lucky; his smoke was a dense black that didn't so much rise from the cauldron as it seeped over the sides, ran across the table, and spilled onto the floor in cool, gritty drifts. But his was still far better than Goyle's, which had first foamed up out of the cauldron and then flash-frozen around it in a blob of what looked like spongy, dirty ice. 

"Time," Snape said. He flicked his wand at a deep fireplace built into the dungeon wall, and flames roared with sudden heat. "Line up. Each of you will, in turn, dip your hand into your Fireproofing Potion, and then thrust that same hand into the fire."

Several students, Neville among them, gulped audibly. Pansy Parkinson took another look at her potion, which was seething with sparks more red than gold. Goyle thumped experimentally on the dirty grey blob of ice, a doubtful frown crawling across his face. 

When it was Harry's turn, he nonchalantly dunked his hand and then extended it, gloved in sparkling golden-black, into the flames. He could see the fire burning all around his hand, but only felt it as a tickle, like many teasing feathers playing against his skin. 

Snape made no comment, though Harry could sense annoyance coming off him in waves. He knew better than to press his luck by making some remark of his own, and simply went first to the sink to rinse off his hand, then to his cauldron to clean up. 

"That wasn't too horrible," Neville said a while later, as they climbed the stairs toward the entrance hall. He held his right hand stiffly out and away from his body as he went. "I'm only blistered in three places."

At lunch, Ron was in high spirits. "I was down for a while," he admitted. "After McGonagall talked me out of wanting to be an Auror last year –"

"She never!" cried Hermione. 

"Well, all right, she didn't talk me out of it, but she told me what kind of marks they'd look for, and I got thinking how if even Tonks barely scraped by, what kind of a chance did I have, I'd just be better off going for something else." He threw a truculent look around the table as if daring any of them to contradict what he said next. "And I thought I'd like to go into something that makes a spot of money, all right?"

"Nothing wrong with that, mate," Dean said, and everyone else nodded. "I'd love to be an artist, but after Magical Portraiture this morning, well, Professor Leonardo spent half the time telling us how important it was to have something else to fall back on if we want to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads."

"Anyway," Ron went on, "it's the next big thing, that's what they're saying. Forget the Daily Prophet … imagine having the news come right into your house, with people talking about it and everything. Sports, too. Remember when we went to the Quidditch World Cup, and there were a hundred thousand wizards there? Well, what about the ones who couldn't make the trip, maybe couldn't afford tickets? What if they could have watched from home?"

Harry did his best not to grin. "That'd be something, Ron."

"The Crystal Ball Network?" Hermione frowned. "It sounds to me like tele –" She broke off as, under the table, Harry kicked her ankle. Dean, who was Muggle-born too, gave her a significant look and mimed turning a key at his lips. "Like quite a good idea," she finished. "I'm sure there's a market for it."

The rest took turns describing how their mornings had gone. Lavender, putting on airs like she was already a full-fledged Healer after only a single class, clucked over Neville's blisters, smeared them with salve, and wrapped him in a bandage that went most of the way to his elbow. Parvati and Seamus had been at an International Wizarding Studies class. Hermione bored them with another long-winded gushing rave about how wonderful Arithmancy was, how she was still fascinated by it and learning loads. 

A clear chime brought all the talk in the Great Hall to an end, and heads turned toward the staff table. Professor Dumbledore stood there, in twilight-blue robes trimmed in pure white. He held his wand in one hand and a tall goblet in the other, having tapped the rim of the glass to make that piercing chime. 

"If I might interrupt your lunch for just a moment," he said, with a gentle smile to assure them it wasn't more bad news. "Afternoon lessons are about to begin, but if the sixth-years will kindly remain behind for a few moments? Thank you."

"It's about Crabbe and Nott, I bet it is," Ron said as the seventh-years and younger students finished eating. 

When the Great Hall had emptied except for the sixth-years and Dumbledore, he gave a theatrical wave of his wand and the long House tables and benches flew to the side walls, making a terrific clatter as they stacked themselves. A second wave of his wand produced a semicircle of folding chairs, one for everybody while Dumbledore himself stood at the center of the semi-circle. 

"Please, everyone have a seat," Dumbledore said. 

They did so, many swapping uncertain looks as if not quite sure what to expect. Harry noticed that everyone sat by House, with Parvati Patil and her twin sister Padma forming the boundary between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Lisa Turpin was at the end of the Ravenclaw line, holding hands with Justin Finch-Fletchley of Hufflepuff. Susan Bones, a member of the D.A., sat straight and aloof beside Blaise Zabini of Slytherin, neither of them acknowledging the other. 

Blaise was a strange one … Harry had never, in six years of attendance at Hogwarts, been able to figure out if Blaise was a boy or a girl. The professors were no help; while they invariably addressed everyone else as "Mr. Potter" or "Miss Granger," he had never heard one of them utter either a "Mr." or a "Miss" in front of "Zabini." Blaise was not tall and not short, with curiously androgynous features and a slim, lithe body that gave no hint as to its shape beneath the flowing black school robes. 

Harry couldn't remember seeing Blaise at the Yule Ball – he had been so petrified of having to dance in front of everyone, so emotionally wrenched by Cho dating Cedric and so generally frazzled by the whole Triwizard Tournament that he'd barely recognized Hermione. 

He could ask Jane, he thought, and grasped this idea with great relief. Jane would know. 

"I'm sure that you have all been affected by the loss of two of your classmates," Dumbledore said, yanking Harry's attention to the here and now. 

A ripple of agreement went around the semicircle, oddly seeming to lose strength as it passed from the Slytherins, who were affected, through the sensitive Hufflepuffs and losing strength as it reached the more intellectual Ravenclaws. By the time it got around to the Gryffindors, it was mere lip-service sympathy. 

"I would like you all to know," Dumbledore continued, "that a memorial will be held this weekend in the school chapel. Should you wish to express your condolences to the families, please let me know and I will tell you how to direct your owls. The entire staff is at your disposal, if you have the need to talk."

A chill ran down Harry's spine. Dumbledore's mention of a memorial and condolences had done what seeing the bodies hadn't … it brought home to him the irrevocable fact that Theodore Nott and Vincent Crabbe were dead. Really and truly dead. Not missing, not in the hospital wing, not expelled … dead. 

"That, however, is not why I asked you to stay behind," Dumbledore said. "As you've already become aware, your class schedules are somewhat different this year, to reflect your individual paths. Additionally, we are implementing a new program at Hogwarts to provide our excellent teachers with extra assistance as well as provide some of you with a valuable learning opportunity."

Hermione and the Ravenclaws perked up first, raising their heads, eyes alight with keen interest.

Dumbledore produced a scroll from the voluminous sleeve of his twilight-blue robes. "I have here a list of all the professors, as well as certain key staff persons. After much deliberation, each of them has been assigned a Student Apprentice, who will be working closely with that person throughout the year."

He unrolled the scroll, as the sixth-years looked around at one another nervously. 

"Professor?" Hermione's hand shot into the air. 

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Um … Professor, there are more of us than there are faculty and staff," she said. "Won't some people be left over?"

"Astute as ever, Miss Granger," he said. "But fear not … none of you are getting off that easily!"

A few people chuckled, but most were busily whispering to one another, speculating about possible assignments. 
Harry felt like a cold fist was clenching in his stomach. He knew there wasn't a chance in a million that he would wind up stuck with Snape, but thought it was likely he might end up being made Dumbledore's own Student Apprentice. And that, given his recent feelings, might be almost as bad.

"It's like the Sorting," Neville said, sounding as nervous as Harry felt.

Parvati's hand shot up. "Don't we have any say?"

"What happens to the people left over?" Ernie Macmillan called out.

"It is true that not all of you will be Apprenticed," Dumbledore said after waving for quiet. "This in no way reflects on anyone's abilities, merit, or temperament. In cases where there was a conflict, I took it upon myself to match you up in ways that I deemed most suitable."

He rattled the scroll, which appeared to have a long list of names inscribed on it in shining gold ink. Starting with Abbott, Hannah, he began to read. 

**

Continued in Chapter Thirteen -- Student Apprentice.