Arrivals and New Students

"Harry? Harry!" Hermione snapped her fingers in front of his face, shocking Harry out of his reverie. He cringed, running a finger over his scar, then grimaced in anticipation of Hermione's scolding.

"Honestly, Harry." She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back in her seat. "It doesn't still hurt, does it? Because if it does – "

"No, Hermione, for the last time, it doesn't hurt." He sighed, running a hand through raven black hair and staring out the compartment window. Ron, who had fallen asleep, shifted underneath his blanket, and Harry quirked an eyebrow at his friend.

"Does he always do that?" Hermione asked. "Snore, I mean." Harry shrugged, unable to hide the hint of a smile.

"Sometimes. Depends, really, but he's usually rather quiet."

"How would you know if you're always asleep when he is?" Hermione asked, attempting an exasperated look but allowing the corners of her mouth to turn up ever so slightly. Harry shrugged again, as if the gesture itself answered his friend's question.

"How long until the Prefects have to meet?"

Hermione glanced furtively at her watch, a motion she'd been repeating every few seconds since they'd taken their seats on the Hogwarts Express.

"Three minutes."

"Should probably wake Ron up, then."

Harry sighed, leaning over and prodding the blanket under which the sleeping Ron lay. "Ron. Ron! Ron, come on, wake up, you lazy arse!" Ron snorted and stirred; Hermione, frustrated, jabbed the tip of her wand into the mass of blanket.

"OW! Bloody hell, what was that?" A head of red hair followed by a pair of sleepy-looking eyes appeared from underneath the well-stitched wool, and the youngest Weasley boy's eyebrows were contorted into a frown.

"Don't look at me," Harry said as Ron glanced at him. "Hermione's the one who's got her wand out."

"What were you trying to do, Mione, poke out my eye?"

"Yes, Ronald, that's exactly what I was trying to do." Hermione growled, standing up and storming out through the compartment door. Ron gave Harry a look of confusion.

"What? What did I do?" Harry rolled his eyes.

"Oh, just get to the Prefect's compartment, go on, then," Harry said, shooing his friend out. Ron stumbled as he stood, nearly walking into the doorframe before slipping out into the hallway.

Faced with the boredom of an empty compartment, Harry decided he might as well take a walk around the train – what was the point of sitting alone? Although he was sure there would be plenty of people ready to hex him for his "ridiculous" theories about the Dark Lord's return, he was sure the risk of meeting someone unpleasant was worth the chance of finding something remotely interesting to do.

Really, it wasn't Harry's boredom that drove him from wanting to be alone; it was his hatred of his own mind. Not only had he been having dreams – frightening and confusing dreams that always ended with a closed door – but he'd been doing far too much thinking, too much brooding, too much introspection. He'd come to the terrifying realization that Lord Voldemort was indeed back, and although he'd known it from the beginning, the prospect in itself, so real and daunting, made shivers run up his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

More relevant, perhaps, was his anger; why he was angry was debatable, though Harry could pinpoint a number of causes. He hadn't been informed about the Order of the Phoenix when the others had. Dumbledore hadn't spoken to him all summer. He'd been forced to go to a hearing for defending himself with magic, something that was completely within his rights. His best friends had both been made Prefects, while he had not; his parents were dead, he'd watched Cedric Diggory die, and he couldn't be with Cho because she couldn't forget about Cedric. Top that with the fact that Lord Voldemort was trying to kill him, and Harry did in fact have justifiable reason for being angry.

The question was… was it right? Was it right for him to be so peeved at the world, was it okay for him to hate Dumbledore for not speaking to him, was it justifiable that he was angry as hell that no one believed his story? If he were in their position, would he have believed claims of seeing the Dark Lord return? He couldn't be too sure.

All he knew was that too much thinking would be bad for him… he should keep his mind on things of the moment, remove the temptation to fear what the future might hold.

As he crossed down the carpeted hallway, Harry failed to notice another compartment door sliding open, and as a group of girls filed out chattering in French, Harry nearly ran into them, but ground to a halt just in time. One of the girls turned around – she couldn't have been any older than he was, though she seemed too young to be in fifth year.

"Oh, err, sorry," the brunette said. "Allons, depechez vous, laisse le passer!" The other girls turned, noticing Harry, and made room for him to pass. "We'll just, err, get out of your way, then."

"Thanks," Harry said, edging past them toward the end of the train car. He heard a few of the girls murmuring behind him, "C'etait Harry Potter, n'est-ce pas?" Rolling his eyes, he walked faster to get out of earshot. Why had he decided to go on a walk again? He probably would've been much better off staying in his compartment.

Forty-five minutes later, after wandering the length of the train and purchasing enough candy to last him until the end of the month, Harry made his way back to the compartment, taking Ron's abandoned seat and lying down. Of course, there was nothing to do but sleep. He could only hope that he wouldn't be disturbed by the troubling dreams he'd been having over the summer.

Before he could even manage to close his eyes, the compartment door burst open, and Fred and George peered in. "Hi Harry," they said in unison. Groaning, Harry sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"Hey," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "What's up?"

"You wouldn't have happened to see those French girls running by here, would you?" George asked.

"You see, we're playing a little game of cats and mice," Fred added.

"It's going rather well – " George began.

"But they seem to have evaded us," Fred cut in.

"And you know how much damage our egos would suffer if we didn't find them."

"Err… no, haven't seen them," Harry replied groggily, lying back down in disinterest. The twins shrugged.

"All right. See you later, Harry!" The compartment door closed, and Harry thought vaguely that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley must get annoyed with the whole talking in unison thing… And finally, with this thought, Harry drifted off into the first dreamless sleep he'd had in weeks.

"Harry. Harry, wake up! You need to get into your robes." Harry awoke to Hermione shaking him gently from his sleep. Letting out a yawn, he stretched, sitting up and rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

"How much longer do we have?" he asked through another yawn.

"Ten minutes," Hermione replied, her eyes trained on Ron as he removed his trunk from the overhead compartment. "Ron, would you mind getting mine as well?" The redhead nodded, pulling on Hermione's trunk and setting it down on the compartment floor. "Thank you," Hermione said with a smile.

"Right. I'm going to go get changed. Back in a bit." Harry reached into his trunk and grabbed his robes, stalking out of the compartment and toward the restroom. After changing, he looked himself over in the mirror. He looked tired; more tired than he'd looked in a long time. He supposed it was all of the stress of the past few weeks taking its toll on him. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, and his eyelids drooped lazily, as if they hadn't wanted to open that morning or any other morning.

Trying to tidy his hair – to no avail – he made his way back to the compartment. It was then that the train came slowly to a halt, and he, Ron, and Hermione disembarked and boarded the carriages in silence.

"Did you hear?"

"Have you seen Malfoy?"

"They say he tripped on his way off the train."

"I heard he was drop kicked in the face!"

"Don't be ridiculous, someone must have hexed him."

"Look at his nose! It's purple!"

The buzz surrounding Draco Malfoy and his severely blackened nose did nothing if not escalate as Harry, Ron, and Hermione descended from the carriages and made their way up to the castle.

"What happened to him?" Harry asked, glancing at Malfoy as they ascended the stone steps into the Great Hall.

"Did you not hear? One of the French exchange students punched him and broke his nose," Hermione replied, shaking the rain off of her black coat. "I could've sworn we told you."

"It was bloody brilliant, mate! He just turned around and then POW!" Ron imitated the motion, punching the air with his fist as if Malfoy's head had suddenly appeared there.

"Ronald, it isn't funny! Besides, I already had to give her detention, even though I'm sure it was provoked…" Hermione sighed, shaking her head and brushing a bushy lock behind her ear.

"You gave her detention?" Harry asked incredulously. "After you did it in third year, you give an exchange student detention for it? How is that fair?"

"Oh, Harry, I couldn't just let her get away with breaking his nose! Besides, it's only a day, and I'm sure the new D.A.D.A teacher won't be too hard on her – "

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Harry replied darkly, shaking his head. Hermione frowned, but before she could ask him to continue, Dumbledore stood, motioning for those present to take their seats.

"Before the sorting begins," Dumbledore began, "I would first like to welcome our lovely exchange students from Beauxbatons. If you would please stand?" Blue eyes twinkled as he scanned the crowd, and a group of girls seated at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table stood – of course, Harry spotted Fred and George on either side of them – followed by a group of girls at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. The ones at the Slytherin table stood for only a moment, as if it were an inconvenience just to be acknowledged. Way not to encourage prejudice, Harry thought.

"Thank you very much; you may take your seats." Dumbledore nodded, and the girls sat down; Fred and George's whispers carried all the way to Harry's ears, although he was making a valiant attempt, for the first time in his life, to pay attention to Dumbledore's announcements. "These lovely ladies were invited by Professor McGonagall and myself; if you would like to tutor or guide one of these students, Prefects will make space on the bulletin boards by tomorrow in order for you to sign up. And now, for the sorting ceremony; Professor McGonagall, if you please."

What followed was possibly the longest sorting ceremony in Harry's Hogwarts career; instead of paying attention, he found himself continually distracted either by Ron and Hermione and their bickering or by the whispers of the Weasley twins further down the table. Several of the girls were giggling, though Harry noticed two watching the ceremony in rapt attention. If only Harry himself could be so enthralled. Unfortunately, his thoughts were occupied with other things, and other people… such as a charming Ravenclaw across the room.

Even if he didn't think he had a chance with Cho, he still had feelings for her; it was unfortunate, but inevitable. Eyebrows raised, he glanced at the Ravenclaw table hopefully, biting his lip like a lovesick schoolgirl. When he finally managed to catch her eye, she offered him a small smile. Nerves boiled in his stomach, and he turned his head awkwardly when Cho finally looked away. Maybe he'd get a chance to talk to her afterward… though he doubted he'd find time if he were going to evade the mob of students making their way back to the dorms.

After the feast – and Dolores Umbridge's riveting speech – Harry made his way up to the common room alone, as it was Ron and Hermione's job to lead the first years. "Bezoar Stone," he muttered to the Fat Lady. The portrait swung open, and he made his way inside, flopping down onto the couch and burying his face in his hands.

It was surprising that the common room was so deserted; then again, most people would be visiting with their friends from other houses, trying to catch up on all they had missed during the summer. Harry had no one to catch up with. Most of his friends thought he was crazy thanks to the Daily Prophet. Even without Rita Skeeter, the stupid paper managed to make him and Dumbledore look bad… Harry hated to think that some of the Headmaster's unreliability in the wizarding community was his own fault.

And what had Umbridge's speech been about? Preserve what must be preserved? Hermione had claimed that the Ministry was interfering at Hogwarts; but what did that mean, really? How far was the Ministry going to go to keep its control within the school? And how was Dolores Umbridge really going to teach them? Harry hoped she wasn't as bad as she seemed. He suddenly felt bad for the exchange student stuck with detention with Umbridge that weekend.

"My father is the editor in chief of the Quibbler… have you heard of it?" Harry heard a light, airy voice ask as a group of girls traipsed into the room as noisily as possible (at least, that's what it felt like).

"Oui, I've heard of it a few times. You support Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore, right?"

For a French girl, she had a remarkably good English accent. Harry wondered when she'd become so proficient in a language that wasn't her native one.

"Yes. My father and I both believe that the Prophet is just feeding everyone lies." The voice lowered to a whisper. "Truth is, there are probably spies on the inside trying to discredit Dumbledore."

Oh, that's why it was familiar! Loony- err, Luna Lovegood. Hermione had introduced her on the carriage ride. Quite an odd duck… but if she believed both him and Dumbledore, there must've been something genuine about her.

"I wouldn't doubt it," the French girl replied, though it was painfully evident she was only trying to humor Luna. Still, the gesture was kind enough.

"Right, well. I'm off to bed; want to get plenty of rest before classes start. Any of you coming?"

"Hayden? On veut rester un peu ici, trouver Fred et George, peut-être?" Oh, so this girl was like a translator for the others? No wonder her English was so good.

"Err, the girls would like to wait just a bit and see if Fred and George are going to come up any time soon. Thank you so much for being our guide, Luna."

"My pleasure," Luna replied, wide blue eyes misting over as she turned and made her way up to her dormitory. Harry figured now was as good a time as any to make a hasty escape, and as he stood –

"Ah, c'est Harry Potter!"

Crap.

"Um… hi," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as the group of girls huddled around him.

"Oi, arretez, ne faites pas ça! Laisse-le respirer!" A girl appeared through the thick of the mob, pushing a few of her friends back. "So sorry about that," she said, brushing her fringe out of her face.

"Don't worry about it," Harry said, shrugging and shoving his hands into his pockets.

"No, really, we're not normally this… well, they're not normally… Err… I mean, it's not every day that Harry Potter is in our midst. But there's a time and a place, and this isn't it. Sorry for taking up your time." She nodded her head apologetically, muttering something to the girls in French and sending them trudging toward the door.

"Hey, wait!" The girl stopped in her tracks a few inches from the portrait hole.

"Yeah?"

"What's your name?" She paused for a moment, looking at him quizzically.

"Hayden," she said. "I'm Hayden."

"Nice to meet you, Hayden," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, and… thanks." She paused, then smiled, nodding her head.

"You're welcome." With that, she disappeared along with the rest of the exchange students through the portrait hole.

As Harry made his way up the stairs toward his dormitory, he couldn't help but wonder how Hayden had known that he just wanted to be left alone. He probably looked a bit of a fright – tired and cranky and riddled with nightmares and fantasies he prayed never became realities. He'd probably looked like a bunch of girls babbling in French would've been too hard for him to handle. Still. He was grateful at least someone believed him – or, rather, at least someone had the decency to give him space, even when he didn't say he needed it.

It was a few hours later, after having little success in his attempts to get to sleep, that he heard the French girls return. Their voices, mingling with the laughter of the Weasley twins, echoed up to the fifth year boys' dormitory; and their laughter was the melody that eventually lulled him to sleep.