Chapter Ten
The presence of Aurors at Hogwarts did nothing to lighten the seventh years' workload. If anything, the teachers were more on edge than normal, dishing out severe punishments and lengthy homework tasks as if it could dispel their own discomfort.
"I didn't think it was possible to write five feet on Mableson's Third Law before tonight," groaned Ron. Harry glanced in pity at his friend, who was rubbing at his writing hand in an attempt to stop it seizing up. Ron was struggling even more with the work than he was.
"And it's supposed to get worse?" Harry asked in a low voice, praying that Hermione hadn't heard the comment. Her views on the matter were mainly that good organisation and hard work were all it took to keep abreast of the work, and that they were just lazy. This would have been far less annoying if she hadn't been finding the increased hours so easy to cope with.
Harry sighed, and with a surge of frustration that surprised even himself, dropped a heavy textbook on the table with more force than was strictly necessary. "Right. That's it," he exclaimed. "I need to get to get out of here. I'm going to see Hagrid – you coming?"
Ron sent a beseeching look at Hermione. "Er, sorry," he replied hurriedly, turning back to Harry with a frankly terrified expression. "I have a lot of work to do."
"I'm glad to see your attitude is improving, Ron," Hermione noted dryly. "But I'll come, Harry."
"How come he doesn't get a lecture?" An open-mouthed, clearly indignant Ron glared at the pair of them, only remaining seated when another warning glance from Hermione was shot his way.
"He has finished his homework for this evening," she retorted primly. "You, however, have not. I know for a fact that you didn't do your Potions essay last night – and don't look at me like that, I'm not stupid – because you were too caught up in Seamus' stupid quill racing game."
As Hermione turned and swept out of the common room, Harry sent Ron an apologetic look. The truth was, he'd been just as amused watching Seamus and Dean animate their quills in order to send them on an epic chase around Gryffindor Tower. He'd just spent a few sleepless early hours of the morning, following a particularly vivid dream, completing the essay.
Harry finally decided it was time to call it a night. The revelation came when his eyes closed, impossible to keep open, and his head dropped – sending his forehead straight into the table with a loud thud. He cursed, blinking away stars.
It was late, definitely. Although he wasn't the only person in the library, there were very few hardened bibliophiles remaining in there at this hour, and besides, the return of the nightmares had sapped his strength. After a full day of lessons and a few hours with Hagrid on top of all of that, he was well and truly exhausted. Apparently, Dreamless Sleep potion – which Hermione had been supplying him with during most of the previous week – could cause severe drowsiness with overuse; he'd learnt that the hard way. It was ironic that something designed to combat exhaustion could make someone so fuzzy, but that Defence lesson was still a blur of crazy half-dreams, and he didn't want a repeat of the experience.
Gathering his things with a sigh, Harry stood and left, moving hurriedly past Madam Pince in case she considered banging one's head against a table a punishable disturbance to the quiet of the library.
He was making his way towards the common room, fully intending to just curl up and sleep as much as he could, when he found himself stopping. He wasn't sure if it was the sudden sense of dread, or the sound of voices from just around the corner, that made him halt so suddenly, but it was one or the other.
It was probably the voices. They were familiar – too familiar. Harry felt an unexpected curl of terror and rage in the pit of his stomach at the recognition, and almost on instinct, his wand was in his hand. Something, however, kept him from turning the corner and just confronting the pair. Maybe it was the image of the humiliated, silver gaze that had haunted him since the last time he'd tried that stunt.
"I don't know why you find doing this so fascinating, you know. I guess, small things amuse small minds." Malfoy sounded more or less unharmed. That fact allowed a little of the iron fist in Harry's gut to unclench.
A snarl and the sound of flesh on flesh rewarded the Slytherin's biting comment, and Harry sucked in a breath. "You slimy little prick. I wonder how much Daddy had to pay to get you back in here, hmm?"
Wonderfully, stupidly, Malfoy carried on. "Probably less than your daddy paid for your whore of a mother to climb into bed with him."
"You bastard!" Two more sounds of impact, accompanied by a muffled grunt of pain, reached Harry's ears. He cringed, fists clenching in fury, but he was rooted to the spot. "Don't you dare say that, ever again!"
"Why? What you gonna do about it?" challenged Malfoy's voice.
There was a second of silence, and Harry wondered if the Slytherin had drawn his wand; maybe he would curse the vicious bully, hang the consequences. But apparently, the blonde wasn't that stupid; Smith's voice was cocky and smug when he next spoke.
"Watch it, bitch. If I tell anyone that you've hurt me, anyone at all, you'll be sitting right next to Malfoy Senior in a cosy little cell in less than 24 hours."
Apparently, the Slytherin had no reply to that.
Smith sniggered, a low, twisted sound. Harry could barely believe that the boy – who he had never believed to be worse than a slightly arrogant prick – was enjoying torturing Malfoy quite so much.
"Not so quick to backchat now, are you? Now that you know your place. In fact, Malfoy, I happen to know a spell – painful, apparently – that will give you a permanent reminder of just where you belong..."
And that was when Harry barrelled round the corner, wand outstretched. "Stop. Right now." His voice was hard, stony, and edged with a strange madness he'd never heard there before.
"Harry? What are you doing here?" Smith sounded and looked, on the surface, nonchalant. But Harry picked up on the hint of uncertainty in his expression, and the twitch of his fingers as he pushed his wand hastily into the sleeve of his robes. There was no doubt that a second earlier, he'd had that wand pointed threateningly at Malfoy – who looked surprisingly put-together, considering that he was shaking slightly and bleeding from a cut above one eyebrow.
"I could ask you the same thing, Smith." Harry raised his eyebrows.
The other boy sneered. The expression was not quite up to Malfoy's own impeccable standards, but it was nearly there. "You have no right to stop me."
"You know that doesn't matter to me. I'll stop you whether I have a right to or not."
Did he see a flicker of fear in the Hufflepuff's eyes? "I'd like to see you try."
The challenge was too much; Smith must have known that. As the imminent threat of a fight loomed, Harry dropped his voice, the grip on his wand tightening until the tendons on his forearm stood out visibly. His vicious words contrasted almost irreconcilably with his icy, polite tone. "Smith, I'm going to make you a promise, okay? If you don't back off, right now, and leave Malfoy alone – for good – then I'm going to rearrange your face to the point where your own mother will not recognise you. Am I perfectly clear?"
The look that Smith gave Harry was a blend of anger, disbelief and terror. "You cannot be serious? What is it, Potter, got some poncy crush on a Death Eater faggot now, or what –?"
Harry moved quickly – but Malfoy was quicker. Within an instant, Smith was sprawled against the nearest wall, having been hit square in the chest with a blue streak of magic and hurled against the stonework. He gasped for air, scrambling for his own wand.
"Expelliarmus," Harry said calmly, and the Hufflepuff's wand shot from his grasp. Harry caught it deftly with the skill of a Seeker as it arced past him.
Smith made a loud sound of outrage. He glared in fury at Malfoy. "You! How dare you? You're going to get dumped on your fucking arse behind bars when they find out you cursed me like that –"
"Malfoy didn't curse you," Harry frowned, his voice innocent and deliberate. "I think you must be confused. I'm afraid it was me. But you're right; you should probably tell a teacher what I've done. I'm sure I'll get in a lot of trouble," he added helpfully.
Smith paled, then staggered to his feet and thrust his face toward Harry's, spitting with anger. Apparently, he realised what was happening; maybe Malfoy's word against another student's would be easily overruled, but Harry Potter's? "You're protecting him!"
"If you like," Harry retorted icily. He stared down the Hufflepuff, knowing full well how intimidating he must look, and within seconds, Smith backed off. "Now. Since it apparently didn't get through the first time, I will repeat my earlier warning. Go anywhere near Malfoy, ever again, and I will personally make sure that you wish you'd never been born."
Smith just glared hatefully this time, beaten and wandless.
Harry snarled, and raised his arm. The boy before him cringed, lifting his hands as if to protect himself from whatever curse he imagined was coming his way. But Harry didn't cast a spell; he threw Smith's wand, as hard as he could, down the corridor, half-hoping that the wood would shatter upon impact.
No such luck. But never mind.
Harry kept his own wand levelled at Smith's chest as the other boy backed off slowly, face contorted in a way that was meant to be defiant but came out more as fearful, before snatching his wand from the ground and disappearing from view. Harry barely resisted the urge to hex his retreating back.
When it was clear that he wasn't planning on returning, Harry sighed in relief, and relaxed slightly.
"You are such an arrogant twat, you know that?" The demanding voice made him jump, and he span to see a furious Malfoy glaring at him, wand raised threateningly.
"What?" Harry gasped faintly. "You are joking, right, Malfoy? I just saved your bloody neck, again –"
"I wish you hadn't fucking bothered!" came the shouted reply.
Harry stared wordlessly in shock at the Slytherin, feeling a jolt of pure terror at what looked suspiciously like tears in the expressive grey eyes.
"Look, Potter," Malfoy forced his tone to be civil, obviously with some effort, if his tightly-clenched fists were anything to go by. "I get that you have some sort of stupid Golden Boy requirement to save everyone you meet. But I think it would be better for us both if you just left me alone, okay?"
"Malfoy –"
"I said, leave me alone." The Slytherin's voice was low, dangerously close to a hiss, and he glared at Harry for a moment. The expression was so intense that when Malfoy turned and swept away, Harry didn't even call after him.
Once he'd managed to retrieve his jaw from the floor, Harry gave a short growl of frustration. Not even Malfoy would listen to him now. How the hell was he supposed to protect the stupid bastard, if the moron had just rejected him like that?
No, Harry told himself forcefully. This was not rejection. This was... well. Definitely not rejection, and that was that.