In the following days, West noticed the unmistakable glare of every Slytherin he passed. But just as clear was the defensive posture of every member of the other three houses as they tended to cluster about him more tightly when a group of Snakes got to near. In its own way, it was comforting but he'd have as soon dispensed with the whole thing and gotten on with his work.

Totally unexplainable was the change in Professor Quirrell's behavior toward him. While the nervous little fellow had been polite since they first met at the castle during the tour he was now outright solicitous. Every time they met in class he would stutter, "M, M, Mr. Westtttt-tinghouse. S, s, so good to s, s, see you. H, h , how are y, y, you dooo-ing?"

Anytime West glanced up to the faculty table Quirrell was staring at him with a critical eye. Often in the hallways, West would catch him looking at him as if the boy were some strange and new sort of bug on a microscope. West hadn't had time to learn just what the loyalties were among the cliques of teachers here, but this fellow didn't seem to fit in either the pro or the anti Snape factions.

The nightly dancing was a comfort to the West and Hermione. The crystal box proved to have a wide range. A few nights after his release as he held her in his arms, he gave a start. "West, what is it?"

"I, I don't know. It's just that... those words... they seem to...." He could say no more, so they just went on dancing. But the words kept running through his mind.*

Two weeks after end of break, the young lovers visited Hagrid at his hut. "West, Hermione, come in, come in. I just finished backing some rock cakes. Sit down and have a few." The pastries were beyond even a Texan's dental powers but soon proved edible after a soak in the strong, sweet tea.

"West, I want yer to know that I think this entire trial business is a load of codswallup. Why, you could no more murder someone than Dumbledore could."

The boy smiled grimly, "I appreciate your confidence, Hagrid. I only wish I felt it myself. It's as if someone took a knife and cut out the memory of that night." As he sipped his tea, his own words echoed in his mind, Cut out the memory.

Days passed and things got back to more or less normal. The case faded into the back of West's awareness. His thoughts were taken up the usual concerns of high school students plus the special difficulties of the muggle born adapting to the wizarding world. Convinced that there is in fact one truth he tried to see the differences as different names for the same things. One such difference came up in Professor Sinistra's astronomy class. "Mr. Westinghouse, where is the center of the universe?"

The question made no sense to the boy. If like Newton you thought the universe was infinite you could continue forever and never find the edge. If like Einstein you thought it doubled back on its self, like going around the surface of the earth and coming back to your starting point, again it had no edge. And if the center of a thing is the same distance from all points of the edge and there was no edge then there was no center.

But Sinistra wanted an answer. West looked over to Hermione in the seat next to him. "The center of the universe, sir, is immediately to my right."

Morningstar called West to the office made available for him early one Saturday morning. "Well, things look no better. But then again they look no worse. In fact the more I dig into it the murkier it gets. Snape had a history of favoring his own house to the point of out right malfeasance, but he was actually giving you points and improving your chance to pass. Some of the upper-class men, boys and girls who've been with him more than six years say he treated you better than they. If motive counts for anything you should get off clear.

His face looked down right sad now. "But on the other hand your wand definitely cast a ball lightning spell just before you were found and the charred remains tell me that's exactly what killed the old, err, fellow. Plus certain tests I've access to that Flitwick seems not to know about tell me you were holding the wand at the time. If you just had some memory of the time. That in itself is the strangest part in light of your phenomenal recall."

West could only shake his head. "I don't even know how to go about casting ball lightning."

"Whatever's blocking your memory of the event must have wiped your recollection of the spell as well." Joe looked deadly earnest. "West, just how far do you trust me?"

"With my life, literally. I mean, do I have a choice?"

"I'd like to have Quirrell do a deep mind probe on you." He held up his hand to forestall the obvious objection. "I'll be right there to prevent any tampering with your memory. At the first sign that he's trying to implant false memories I'll jump in and break the trance. Besides he seems genuinely concerned for your welfare. And with the possible exception of Dumbledore he's the best choice we have. Mind defense is crucial to DADA."

West stared unbelievingly into his counsel's eyes. This was the most dangerous thing he's ever heard anybody propose. Even if Quirrell didn't try anything shady it was still dangerous. West could be brain damaged for life. But what choice did he have? The only other option was life with the dementors. And even if he didn't die for many years he would still never see Hermione again.

He found strength in desperation. "Let's do it."

Getting on to midnight West sat in a chair in the middle of a huge pentagram carved into the stone floor of a round room up high in one of the many towers of the castle. A brazier full of glowing charcoal near his feet gave off odors, sometimes sweet, sometimes repugnant. Thick yellow candles stood burning at the five points of the star.

Quirrell stood in front of him looking deadly earnest as if already reading his very thoughts. Behind him to his left stood Morningstar looking hair trigger ready to act. But instead of the business suit he'd worn since arriving, he was in buckskins with feathers and bead work. On his forehead was a silver medallion with strange symbols and leaning against a wall was a small ceremonial shield of wood and leather with it's device turned toward the wall. Nobody else was present, not in the flesh at least. West had a definite feeling that some of the ghosts were nearby invisible. Or maybe it was just nerves, of which he had an abundance. Both men said a crowd would only complicate things.

"Well Mr. ... West. Are you ... ready?" For so critical a job he seemed to find control over his stammer with slow, measured speech.

Quirrell began making grand sweeping gestures with his wand and speaking in a deep, sonorous voice in a language West had never heard before. It wasn't Latin, Greek or even Hebrew. Somehow he felt it was older than all of them.

West's eyes began darting about as if watching the motions of people invisible to the two men. From his point of view, the scene around him wavered like underwater. The stone walls were no longer curved but straight like the class rooms. Quirrell and Joe were gone and so was the chair. He was standing in front of Snape who was talking to him about something, something he didn't understand or remember ever hearing about.

"Now now Mr. Westinghouse, you can be honest with me. I know why Dumbledore went to the trouble to bring you here. You're to help him guard the stone."

West had no idea what he was talking about. Stone? What stone? "Sir, I, I ..."

"None of your evasion, boy. You know Dumbledore trusts me. He'd want you to keep me up to date. Just what is your part in it?"

West's emotional being agreed whole heartedly. Why yes of course. Snape should know all about it. But his rational being insisted otherwise. Why doesn't Dumbledore tell him himself? I don't know anything about any stone.

"DON'T STALL ME BOY!" Snape barked. "TELL ME THIS INSTANT! How Is The Stone Guarded?"

West found his voice. "I swear to you sir. I don't know what you're talking about."

Awareness slowly dawned on Snape's face. He seemed to realize West was telling the truth and he had made a grievous error. His hand plunged into his robe.

West knew the look he was seeing. He had seen it in the gun fights of a hundred old westerns. This was the look of a man trying to get the drop on someone.

West went for his wand with the desperation of a man with his life on the line. With the same desperation his mind was grouping for some spell to protect him. This was no friendly duel with some snot nosed rich kid. This was his life.

The wands were drawn at the same time. They lined up. Snape was saying something like, "Oblivi...!"

But at the same time West was getting out a mere two syllables, from a childhood memory of a holiday poem. "BLITZEN!"

He felt the waves of Snape's spell wash through his brain even as he saw the painfully bright white ball escape his wand tip. Somewhere in the distance someone was saying, "Avada Kil ..."

There were three small explosions and West tumbled back to the present.