A male's nether regions are not the only thing with a mind of their own. The universe has been known to make similarly baffling decisions, at the most inopportune times. Or maybe they were just mistakes.
"Harry, are you alright?" Hermione asked, with a worried frown on her face.
"I'm fine," Harry lied, placing some more potatoes on his plate. He saw no point in worrying her about something she had no power over, and there was honestly nothing she could do about his head-aches. They were an unwanted constant, but something he had grown accustomed to.
Ron, having been engrossed in his shepherds pie, looked up at Harry, then at Hermione. "Is something wrong with Harry?" he asked.
"I'm fine, Ron," Harry said, somehow managing to keep his voice from showing the irritation he felt.
Ron and Hermione had somehow managed to get past their shyness and gotten together during the summer, and Harry felt like he had not lost only one friend but two. True, they still sat with him at meals and they had most of their classes together, but Harry just felt they did not have so much in common anymore.
Harry spied a glance at Ron, who was looking at Hermione with a goofy smile. And, it seemed that whatever braincells Ron had possessed, they had died entirely when he started dating the smarter witch.
"I need to go to the loo," Harry said, standing up.
His friends did not stop him, or maybe they just didn't notice.
Harry stared into the mirror blankly. His eyes were still green, his hair was still wild and black, he still had his blasted glasses and the scar had not gone anywhere. Why then did it feel like he was staring into the face of a stranger, someone he should know only distantly if at all? He wet his hands and splashed some cool water on his face.
And his head-ache...it was growing worse. He thought he had imagined it at first, but since several weeks back it had really been growing stronger day by day, no matter how slowly. Harry's eyebrows furrowed–could Voldermort be up to something? Was that why he felt this way? This did not feel like a madman's PMS.
For one moment it seemed as if the imagine in the mirror swirled, and Harry's gaze sharpened, but then it was already gone. His eyes scanned the even surface of the mirror wildly.
"Are you alright, dear?"
Harry startled, swirling around, until he realized it was the mirror speaking to him. His body was quivering like a leaf, and his heartbeat had sped up to a hundred and eighty.
"You scared me," he said. "Did you do that just now?"
"Do what?" the mirror asked.
Harry gestured at its surface. "That wavy, spiralish thing."
"I assure you, I only give advice and never distort the image. That would be cheating."
"But something happened to the surface. I saw it."
The mirror sounded doubtful. "Are you sure you are not just tired? Maybe you should visit the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey is an excellent mediwitch, the best we have had in a while, I assure you if there is something wrong she will find it."
"No thanks," Harry said quickly. "You're right, I'm probably just..." He squinted–did something move in the mirror again?
"Dear?" the mirror said, but he was barely aware of its voice.
The mirror twisted, and for a second Harry thought he saw something completely different than the dull tiles of the bathrooms, and then he was sucked in.