There were only two secrets of any importance Harry Potter ever kept from his two best friends. One was the undestroyed Time-Turner. The other was the fact that he was a Horcrux. The rest of his secrets he scattered at various intervals during the school year, and one in particular he found hardest to explain away, for Hermione was at her most suspicious.

'Extra lessons with Snape? I'd sooner jump off the Astronomy Tower,' said Ron, looking appalled. 'What're they for, anyway?'

'You know how my scar kept hurting in first year?' said Harry. Both Ron and Hermione nodded. 'During the summer, I had a dream about Voldemort – yes, I said the name, get over it – and when I woke up, my scar was aching. Dumbledore thinks that he might try and come back, and he wants me to be able to protect my mind if he does. That's what this Occlumency business is – shielding my mind so he can't attack me that way.'

It was a jumble of ambiguous pronouns and half-truths, but Ron and Hermione seemed convinced, which satisfied Harry. They didn't need to know what he wasn't ready to tell them. Meanwhile, he tried to ignore Hermione's worried glances his way, pretend he didn't notice his best friends whispering behind his back about him. He didn't need more items added to the list of things he'd rather do without.

'The Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin,' he said casually, one night when it was just the three of them around the common-room fire.

Hermione looked puzzled.

'But it did put you in Slytherin – in the past, I mean …'

'I'm talking about my very first Sorting,' said Harry. He avoided looking at either of them, and instead stared without seeing at the crackling fire, wishing Sirius were in it.

'Yeah, but it went back on it,' said Ron reasonably. 'Its very first mistake, it said. Anyway, you pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of it, didn't you? Dumbledore said –'

'– only a true Gryffindor could have done it, I know,' said Harry. He didn't know what to think. Had the hat only considered Slytherin because he carried a piece of Voldemort's soul? Or had there been another reason?

'But you chose to be a Gryffindor, Harry, and that's what matters,' said Hermione. 'It's our choices that show who we truly are, like Dumbledore …'

He tuned her out, feeling ready to scream, 'I know!' in their faces to see how they would react. Why did they keep bringing up Dumbledore, as if he hadn't heard enough about Dumbledore yet? Dumbledore wasn't a saint. He'd already messed up Harry's life; he didn't need to do any more damage.

'Harry, are you OK?'

'… Huh?' He blinked. Hermione's face came into focus.

'Did you just ignore everything I just said?'

'Er …' he said stupidly. 'Er … I … er … I'm tired, I'll go to bed, I think …' And that was all for that night.

He told them about the prophecy, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to tell them that he was a Horcrux. The looks of mingled fear and pity on their faces when they heard him recite the prophecy were almost too much to bear.

But as much as he had felt empowered at the end of last year, he now felt weighed down by knowledge and responsibility. The words beat a tattoo in his head – Time-Turner … prophecy … Horcrux … Time-Turner … prophecy … Horcrux – until he could bear it no longer, and resorted to other ways to let his frustration out. Combined with his unwanted status as the fourth Triwizard champion, he found it much harder to stand the whispers and mutterings than he otherwise would have done. His temper shortened and his moods increased, causing unpopularity among his classmates when he lost points for Gryffindor.

He finally went too far when he cracked in Transfiguration and yelled something rude across the room at Professor McGonagall, causing the whole room to go deathly quiet. He avoided her eyes.

'I don't particularly care what words you use outside this school, Mr Potter, but that display was completely unacceptable,' said Professor McGonagall coldly. 'Twenty points from Gryffindor, and see me after class for your detention.'

A shocked silence prevailed for the rest of that lesson.

'Harry, what got into you?' hissed Hermione, as they left for their next class. 'That was an awful thing to say!'

'It – it just slipped out,' Harry muttered. He felt badgered, belittled … what was wrong with him? Furious with himself, he waited for the sentence. It was not long in coming.

'Tonight, eight o'clock, my office, Potter,' Professor McGonagall said shortly. 'And I strongly advise you to think about your behaviour this year in the meantime.'

That evening, Harry reluctantly refused a third game of Exploding Snap with Ron (played under Hermione's disapproving gaze – she believed in homework done sooner rather than later) and paid a visit to Professor McGonagall's office.

He knocked.

'Come in,' came a harried voice, and Harry inched inside nervously, having never been in his Head of House's office before.

Professor McGonagall was writing something. She looked up as he came in, and pointed her wand at the chair in front of her desk.

'Sit down, Potter,' she said brusquely. Taken aback, Harry did as he was told. Putting her quill back in an inkwell, Professor McGonagall spoke again. This time, however, her tone was quite different.

'Potter, is there anything bothering you? Anything I should know about?'

He shook his head. She wouldn't understand anyway, said the voice in his head, even though he felt disgusted with himself for wallowing in self-pity.

'You may not have Hermione Granger's skills or determination, but you are usually quite capable in my subject, Potter. Right now, your marks are abysmal, and you are barely scraping a pass. I spoke to your other teachers, and your results have similarly dropped in Charms, Astronomy, Potions and Herbology. I am your Head of House as well as your teacher, Potter: it is my responsibility to be concerned about the welfare of my students.'

He couldn't think of anything to say to this, so he just said, 'Yes, Professor,' while keeping his eyes on the floor.

Professor McGonagall looked concerned.

'Are you having trouble keeping up with the workload? Do you need to take remedial classes?'

'No, Professor.'

'Have there been any problems with your fellow students?'

'No, Professor.'

'What about at home?'

'No,' he repeated, but he hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Professor McGonagall pounced on it.

'Are you absolutely certain, Potter?'

'Yes, Professor.'

She sighed.

'Potter, I cannot speak for the other teachers, but I believe it is ridiculous to allow a fourth-year to compete in the Tournament, regardless of whether or not you entered your own name. It is against the rules to assist you, as you know, but if you find yourself needing help outside of class, or perhaps simply somebody to talk to in private – not as a teacher, but as your Head of House …'

Finding his throat suddenly constricted, Harry nodded.

Professor McGonagall leaned closer, frowning.

'Would you like to speak to Professor Dumbledore?'

He shook his head. Dumbledore was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.

'Well, if you're sure, Potter …' She took a piece of parchment, wrote some words on it and handed it to him. 'Take your quill, copy this out two hundred times, and then you may go.'

He dragged a quill and inkwell out of his bag, delaying the process. Professor McGonagall ignored the rattling and busied herself with marking what looked like a stack of Transfiguration essays. Harry dipped his quill in the inkwell and began to write, the letters becoming words and the words writing themselves as he let his mind wander.

I must not use foul language towards my teacher.
I must not use foul language towards my teacher.
I must not use foul language towards my teacher.
I must not use foul language towards my teacher.

He thought of Dumbledore – serene, pleasant, never unfair Dumbledore. What would happen if he used 'foul language' towards him? Would Dumbledore take points? Give him detention? Expel him? Or just look at him in that sad and terrible way that Harry hated because he could not stand? His fists clenched. Unbeknownst to him, the table began to shake. Professor McGonagall was saying something, but he couldn't make it out. There was a roaring in his ears, as if he were deep underwater, then a snap and a pain in his hand. He looked down. His quill had broken in half, and the sharp edges were cutting his skin.

'Potter!'

Blood spattered the parchment. Slightly bewildered, he turned away to see Professor McGonagall staring at him.

'Potter, what on earth is the matter with you?'

Her voice seemed to be coming from far away. The room was tipping about, and he grasped the desk for support. He wanted to answer, but couldn't seem to find the breath to speak. Professor McGonagall had come around her desk and was peering into his face worriedly.

'Potter, are you feeling all right?'

'Er … I need to go to the hospital wing, I think …'

She let an impatient noise out through her nose. 'Very well, Potter. You need not return here afterwards.'

He grabbed his bag and stumbled out of her office, barely aware of where he was going. But it wasn't to the hospital wing, that was for sure. Stuffing his bleeding hand into his sleeve, he wandered aimlessly, wanting to go somewhere, anywhere but Gryffindor Tower. It would be pointless to go to the Astronomy Tower, even if it were the most secluded place in Hogwarts – Professor Sinistra taught classes there late at night. Instead, he made his way to the seventh floor and the Room of Requirement. So what if he was breaking curfew? He didn't care.

The room created an enormous canopied four-poster for him. He stretched out on it and fell asleep at once, not realising that his hand was staining the covers with blood.