Author's Notes: The Slytherins are highly protective of Harry. He still has difficulty wrapping his head around his importance.
For the next few days, the school talked of nothing but Sirius Black. The theories had gotten wilder and wilder, but thankfully Neville had kept his mouth shut or else there'd be a theory about Black being an Animagus too. Maybe the Gryffindor had learned his lesson after blabbing about Harry fainting on the train.
After much thought, Harry decided that the sleeping arrangements in the Great Hall made sense if he was the one that needed to be in the most defensible position in the deepest pocket of students. Harry's observations of Snape around Professor Lupin led to the deduction that the Death Eater had a complicated relationship with the DADA professor; at times, Snape didn't seem to trust Lupin to protect Harry and yet Snape had shoved Harry into the same compartment with Professor Lupin on the train ride to school. With the essay on werewolves, Harry's suspicions motivated him to pull out a Lunar calendar. He discovered that the times of Snape's distrust happened around the time of the Full Moon. The matter of why Snape thought that Professor Lupin was helping Sirius Black into the school was another story—there were only two appointments that the headmaster had made that year, and Snape wasn't showing the same level of distrust towards the Care of Magical Creatures professor. Finally, why the headmaster and the Head of Slytherin would even hold that conversation near the Slytherins seemed fishy to Harry. Were they trying to pass information along? If they were, it seemed like a smart way to go about it.
Ever since Black's break-in, teachers found excuses to walk with Harry, and Harry was never left alone by his Slytherin year-mates. By Tuesday, Harry had managed to get the two rolls of parchment about werewolves done, but when he turned them in he was told to sit down. Harry wondered if he might be in trouble for skipping detention November First.
"Potter, I have voiced my concern to Flint and Montague about your position as Seeker. With Black on the loose—"
"Sir, we have our first match Saturday and I'm the best Seeker you've got." Harry's fists clenched and unclenched. "Do you want to break our winning streak?"
Snape considered him. "If anything untoward happens during this match, you will be benched for the rest of the season. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"To reduce your exposure to attack, you will abstain from Quidditch practice this week."
"What?!"
"It wouldn't do to have our… best… Seeker catch a cold, hm?" Snape's eyes had no friendliness to them.
"Madam Hooch could watch me!"
"Rolanda has better things to do with her time than to look after you in the freezing rain. Instead, you will serve out the three detentions you owe me this week."
Harry let out a noise of disgust and stood. "Yes, sir." He walked out without waiting to be dismissed. He was too angry.
At least, he'd be able to play in the first match of the season.
The day before the match, the stormy winds reached a howling point outside and the rain fell so thick it looked perpetually blurry grey outside the windows. It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit. Harry still had seen nothing of the Lionsnakes; however, he slipped on his Bewitched Watch to confirm what he was already certain about.
With Theodore and the others around him, Harry walked into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. They took their seats and pulled out their completed homework.
The door opened and then slammed shut behind them. Harry rose from his chair, hopeful.
Black robes billowing around him, Snape swung his wand at the windows as he passed each one; The pairs of shutters slammed shut. At the front of the room, he yanked a chain and faced them as the screen rolled down behind him. The Potions Master stared at Harry, waiting. After about fifteen seconds, the professor let out an annoyed scoff, "Potter, sit down."
Harry didn't move. "Where's Professor Lupin?"
"That's not really your concern," Snape said each word slowly as if turning a spit of meat over a fire. "I believe I told you to sit down?"
But Harry stayed where he was.
A smile twisted on the Potions Master's face, and his black eyes glittered. "Turn to page three hundred fifteen," he said, enunciating each word.
Theodore grabbed Harry's robe sleeve. "Sit!" His friend hissed.
"Nothing life-threatening is currently causing your professor's absence," Snape said, though it was obvious that he wished it were. "Suffice it to say he finds himself incapable of teaching at the present time… Detention, Potter. If I have to ask you to follow directions again, you will be assigned Independent Potions Study for the next month."
Harry allowed Theodore to tug him down to his seat.
Snape looked around the class. "Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far—"
"Boggarts, red caps, kappas, and grindylows," Harry shot off in rapid succession.
"I did not ask for information, Potter," Snape said coldly. "I would expect first years to be able to deal with red caps and grindylows. Today we shall discuss…"
Harry blanched, having finally flipped his page to the three hundred fifteen. Snape was baiting him.
The greasy-haired bastard tapped the projector. "—dementors."
Everyone sat in motionless silence as the image of a cloaked being with scabby hands was projected on the screen.
"Besides Nott, who can tell me what nourishes a dementor?"
Happiness, Harry's brain supplied.
"Memories that contain warm feelings, such as hope, joy, love, will to live, and pleasure," Sally-Anne supplied.
"Very good, ten points to Slytherin." Snape paced around the room; the projector's slide changed to a dementor clutching a man's face. "Potter, what action does this illustration show a dementor performing?"
Harry muttered, "A Dementor's Kiss."
"Speak up, Potter. We can't hear you," Snape said.
"A Dementor's Kiss. The illustration shows a dementor about to suck the soul out of a person," Harry said more strongly.
"Ten points to Slytherin. And how does one protect oneself against a dementor?" Snape looked at the others, the ones who hadn't been in the compartment with Harry when he'd been attacked.
"A Patronus Charm," Draco drawled.
"Ten points to Slytherin. Today, we will practice summoning a Patronus," Snape said, pacing to the back of the classroom. "Nott, explain to your classmates what that is, why it works, and how to summon it."
"A Patronus is a kind of positive force, a sort of anti-dementor being that acts as a shield between you and the dementor. The dementor feeds upon it instead of you." Theodore took a breath. "There's no wand movement you need to memorize. You hold your wand straight out and say, Expecto Patronum. The catch is that the Patronus Charm will only work if you singularly focus on the happiest memory you have, which is a mite difficult to do with a dementor bearing down on you."
"Thirty points to Slytherin. Everyone is to move to the back of the room." Once they had done as he asked, with a swish of Snape's wand, the desks slid across the floor to the sides of the room. "Stand in a row where I may see you. Think of your chosen memory and say the incantation."
Wand in hand, Harry stood there. He flipped through the memories he had, but none of them seemed very happy… and the happiness he'd felt living with Snape was tainted with resentment and bitter anger.
On either side of him, Bulstrode and Theodore were casting. Theodore's wand let out a substantial burst of white light in the shape of a fountain, where Bulstrode's wand had the barest trace of a silvery wisp.
"Concentrate!" Snape said, "Until that memory is all that you know."
Harry closed his eyes and thought of the first time he flew his broom, having nothing better to use. He imagined the feel of the wind through his hair, the exhilaration of being in complete control of himself, the joy singing through him as he pushed higher and higher into the air. "Expecto Patronum!" he cried out. Barely anything came out.
"Try a different memory," Theodore suggested, "A stronger one."
Shoving down his anxiety when Bulstrode's wisps turned into a bright, white shield, Harry tried to think of something else. Harry decided to try the time he'd heard that he would no longer be returning to the Dursleys, ever again. His happiness of being rid of them, glee and excitement at not being bullied by the people who were in charge of him, his deep hope that someone would come to love him as a son… "Expecto Patronum!" Harry knew the moment the incantation left his lips that that memory wouldn't work. It was tarnished by Snape. Nothing flew out of his wand.
Harry looked down at his wand, feeling let down. At the sense of movement around him, his eyes traveled upward; his year-mates were standing around him with sad, pitying looks. "You all managed something right?"
"Naturally," Draco said with his usual arrogant tone, though his expression looked thoughtful.
"Ten points to each person who successfully summoned a proto-Patronus." Daphne and Crabbe stepped aside to let Snape into their circle. "Potter, you cannot possibly be so pathetic as to be incapable of producing the ectoplasm of a Patronus."
Loathing filled Harry at the sight of the adult. It was his fault he couldn't. "I guess I am. I don't have any happy memories."
"That's not quite right, Harry," Theodore murmured beside him, "You summoned a little of something the first time. What were you thinking about?"
Having ten pairs of eyes solely on a person can make them unnerved, and Harry jealously wanted to keep the memory his. He swallowed his greed, surprised by how difficult it was to share it with them. "The first time I rode a broom."
"What about the first time you caught a Snitch?" Sally-Anne's voice cut through the silence.
"Caught it? He nearly swallowed it!" Theodore laughed. "You remember the Potter Ploy?"
Harry's year-mates chuckled in memory. Harry couldn't seem to help but grin wanly.
"Or the time you beat out Malfoy as main Seeker?" Goyle suggested gruffly.
"And him on a better broom," Crabbe added with a snigger.
"I still think he'd make a decent Broom Dancer," Draco said offhandedly, inspecting his nails, "But no one listens to me."
Harry huffed at the thought of being a Broom Dancer.
"And tomorrow you'll be playing!" Daphne exclaimed, cheerfully. "Aren't you excited about that?"
"The weather's trodding awful," the usually silent Bulstrode murmured, "You'd have to be crazy to think it was fun to be on a broom in it."
Harry was warmed by their words. He didn't feel so… alone and cold.
"Why don't you try again, Harry?" Pansy said. "Close your eyes and imagine the wind slapping through your hair and robes…"
"The thundering of your heart as you search out the Snitch," Tracey added.
"The smell of the fresh air and woods beyond the pitch," Theodore said.
"The way the broom handles, obeying your every movement, precisely as you wanted." Draco's voice was reverent.
Harry lifted his wand imagining all his friends around him, imagining their faces every time he pushed his Nimbus Two Thousand to its limits, imagining their jubilant cheers when he finally caught the Snitch after being chased by a Rogue Bludger last year. And then, Harry remembered best of all, how they protected him when Lockhart came to 'help' him. "Expecto… Patronum!" In a burst of light, something more than a shield of light formed. Cloven-hoofed with a head full of antlers, the transparent animal kicked its head back, pawing the ground. It looked around and then pranced to the other side of the room in one bound.
The moment Harry stopped concentrating on the spell to think about what he was looking at was when the apparition vanished, dissolving into nothing.
Cheers exploded from his year-mates. "You did it!"
All of them congratulated him.
"Can you believe it? A distinct Patronus on your third try!" Theodore said, beaming ear to ear.
"Ten points to Slytherin, for the demonstration of an incorporeal Patronus," Snape's voice was neutral, like he was extremely bored. "I wonder if it will retain its shape against a boggart." He cast a Canceling Spell, and the illusion over the wardrobe against the wall fell away. There was a bang from it, but nobody jumped. The wardrobe must have been Silenced and Disillusioned before Snape canceled the spells.
"Sir, you can't expect a third year to—"
"Mr. Nott, I am teaching this lesson, not you."
"As you say, sir." Theodore closed his mouth, sending a worried look to Harry.
"Step forward, Potter."
Harry did as he was told, wand at the ready.
"Concentrating on your… happy… memory?" Snape said every word like a knife chopping on a block.
Trying to hold the happiness and not the anger he got whenever he saw or heard the greasy-haired bastard, Harry forced his thoughts back to his friends.
The wardrobe knob turned, and the door opened. Instantly the Bewitched Watch went cold against Harry's arm. A dementor slowly turned its hooded head at him, one glistening scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps in the classroom flickered and went out. Instead of screaming towards him like it had last time, it started to sweep silently towards Harry, drawing in a deep rattling breath. Cold was piercing through the warmth in Harry's chest—
"Expecto Patronum!" Harry shouted, but the light stuttered out the end of his wand and went out.
Someone was screaming, screaming inside of his head… a woman, his mother…
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
"Stand aside, you silly girl… Stand aside, now…"
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"
Numbness was filling Harry, sapping his strength… He needed to help her… She was going to die… She was going to be murdered…
"Not Harry! Please… have mercy! Have mercy!"
A shrill voice was laughing, and the woman was screaming, and Harry knew no more.
When Harry woke up, it didn't seem much later in the day. It was a bit of a shock that Tom Riddle hadn't lied about Harry's mother; she had pleaded with Voldemort and he'd told her to stand aside… It hadn't been a nightmare; it was a memory that had been haunting him.
Harry picked up his glasses and put them on. He saw Sally-Anne sitting next to him. They were in the infirmary. She smiled at him. "Hey, Harry. It's almost lunch time. Are you hungry?"
"That wasn't a boggart."
Sally-Anne's expression had a strange twist to it. "After you passed out, Professor Snape used the Ludicrous Charm on it and stuffed it back into the wardrobe. It was definitely a boggart."
Harry felt the warm blush of humiliation. Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but Harry hadn't heard of anyone else collapsing whenever they were near, traumatized or not. His fingers and toes were ice despite the layers of blankets on top of him.
"Don't fret if you need to rest more; Professor Sprout already received permission to borrow you during one of the detentions Snape assigned you so you can make up your work," she told him, "Here's some chocolate."
Harry carefully took the proffered piece and gnawed on it, until he'd eaten most of it. Some of the warmth returned. Still, he didn't feel very well.
"Did you hear the screaming again, like you did on the train?" Sally-Anne asked carefully.
Nodding, Harry bit off half of what was left. "My mother… begging Voldemort to spare my life. Begging him to kill her in my stead."
Her face contorted into anguish. "Oh… Harry…"
"I don't know what she expected, him being an evil wizard murdering people left and right," Harry continued nonchalantly, "She did that and then died and left me with my horrible aunt and her horrible husband and their bullying son..." Inside he was numb and hollow, like there was no happiness in the world, or if there was Harry was not privy to it.
"Desperation and love drive people into senseless or futile action. Your mother loved you. She didn't abandon you; in her way, she was trying to protect you."
"Voldemort murdered her… right in front of me." Harry's voice was soft. The cold ache was creeping back inside of him, threatening to stay if he didn't do something soon. Harry finished the bar of chocolate with one last bite.
Sally-Anne leaned forward and hugged him, pressing her face against his and causing the Glaxxes to go crooked. "Don't let your heart harden. You're strong, Harry. I know it's tough, but you need to let yourself feel."
Taking in a deep shuddering breath, Harry finally felt warmth flow into him. "I wish… that I didn't want to hear my mother's voice so badly. It's horrid… hearing her scream," his voice croaked out. "I want to know how she sounded when she was just herself. Was it kind? Gentle? Teasing? And… I don't even know what my father's voice was like…" Unbidden, tears came into Harry's eyes. Snape had been his legal guardian in name only; anything else had been a lie. "I feel alone."
"I'm right here." Sally-Anne held him around his shoulders tightly, and it helped some. The cold was receding.
Over her shoulder, Harry saw a prefect. The tall, dark-haired Mervyn Wynch gazed calmly back. Harry hurriedly wiped his eyes and pulled away from Sally-Anne. She let him, her warm brown eyes gentle behind her glasses.
"You also have the rest of your Slytherin family," the prefect said quietly. "We won't abandon you, and we certainly don't hate you."
Wary, Harry looked away from the prefect he hardly knew and thought of his cupboard. He'd never before voiced any of those fears. It was extremely unnerving.
"Prefect Wynch is right. We adore you."
Wynch agreed. "We Slytherins aren't like the romantic Hufflepuffs, or the possessive Gryffindors, or the theatrical Ravenclaws… We neither need flowery or selfish pronouncements nor scorecards to put our veneration on display."
"I know we don't show it, well the third years and up don't… and I know the way we relate to one another seems harsh and uncaring." Sally-Anne chuckled. "Well, the younger ones idolize you, of course… But for the most part we love one another without needing words."
"How would you know then whether someone loved you?" Harry was glad to be warm again and feeling utterly drained.
Sally-Anne squeezed her hand over the top of his. "Like this." She raised her free hand to her chest, closing her eyes. "You listen to your heart, first. And eventually, you'll be able to recognize its pleas. If you get versed enough at hearing your own, you'll start to hear others' hearts. Then you'll know when someone loves you."
"I think… I might try it later. Not now." Harry's voice was rough with fatigue.
"Drink this, then," Prefect Wynch said, handing a vial to Sally-Anne who uncorked it for Harry and offered it to him. "Madam Pomfrey said that if you expect to play tomorrow it is of utmost importance that you get a full night's rest."
Harry took the uncorked vial and downed it.
"Sleep well, Harry," Sally-Anne said gently.
The moment his eyes closed, he'd fallen asleep.
Harry woke up extremely early the next morning, so early that it was still dark. Or was it because there was a storm raging outside with the wind roaring and the rain pounding? Harry sat up carefully, always mindful of his back. He wondered if the muscles and sinew would pull for the rest of his life.
Fumbling for his Glaxxes, Harry looked around once he'd put them on.
"Good morning," Prefect Gilbert said, his back to Harry and his head illuminated by the dim oil-lamp on the table.
Ravenous, Harry rolled out of bed. He went to check his working Muggle watch and discovered that it had stopped working. He pulled out his wand and cast a Repair charm on it; the second hand still didn't move. Harry wondered if the battery needed to be changed. "What time is it?"
Gilbert whispered, "Tempus." A colorful display of light floated in the air revealing that it was four minutes past four in the morning.
Harry walked over to the window; a flash of lightning lit the blurry grounds for a moment. A loud crack and rumble of thunder clapped over, vibrating the window pane. He knew better than to think the match would be canceled; Quidditch matches weren't called off for trifles like thunderstorms.
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, but breakfast won't be served for another four hours," Harry said to the window, which steamed up from his warm breath.
"We can go down to the kitchens and get something, if you want."
"Isn't it too early to be wandering about in the corridors?"
Gilbert laughed lightly, turning. There was a shadow of a beard on his tanned face. "Prefect privileges, Harry. Nobody tells me when my curfew is or where I should be at any given time."
"Then, yes. I'd like some porridge and toast."
"Come on, then." Gilbert waved his wand at his book and it shut with a thump. In three years, Gilbert had remained stubbornly short only standing as tall as Harry's midsection. His shoulders had broadened out even more and his hands had gotten meatier. They looked to be about the right size to catch a Bludger with a single hand.
Gilbert kept the wand with the active Lighting spell lowered, so as not to disturb the snoring paintings on either side of them. They made their way through Hogwarts to the opposite side nearest to the greenhouses. Turning down a dead-end corridor where a pile of barrels lay, Gilbert reached a hand to the pear in the very large painting above him and then lightly scritched it. The pear let out a light giggle and an old, steel-banded door suddenly appeared next to the painting. Squeezing the handle, the prefect waited for the latching mechanism to give before opening the door into the room with a hard shove. Behind him, Harry stepped inside the warm, massive room, looking around.
The kitchen was enormous and very warm and smelled absolutely splendid. Everywhere he looked were fireplaces where house-elves wearing non-clothing items worked; they stirred soups, baked puddings, or turned spits of meat. From the ceiling hung large cauldrons, frying skillets, and flat griddles and a myriad of dried root vegetables and herbs. The red brick walls were decorated with innumerable austere shelves of painstakingly glazed ceramic plates.
The plates suddenly reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia's collection back on Privet Drive, except that the people in these plates were partially animated and were large-headed, floppy-eared, and big-eyed. They were house-elves and the scenes on them seemed to be commemorating special events like anniversaries, weddings, and funerals. He walked along the wall and saw a column of plates with wizards and witches on them, blinking at them curiously. Each one had a name, a title, and a date.
Harry stopped short when he saw a plate with his own green eyes unblinkingly behind black-framed, round glasses staring out. When his plate portrait noticed him, it gave a tentative smile with surprisingly straight teeth. Beneath his unsettling portrait was written, Harry James Potter. And beneath that was a scrolling text that read, Boy-Who-Twice-Defeated-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-And-Lived. And beneath that was October 31st, 1981 and June 10th, 1992. Well, Harry now understood why Dobby had known who he was and what he'd done when he was just a toddler and as a first year…
"Come. Sit, Harry. The Hogwarts Elves will serve us shortly." Gilbert had taken a place on a stubby flat bench at a long rough-hewn oak table. Harry suddenly noticed there were four of them in exactly the same layout that they occupied in the Great Hall. The prefect re-opened his book and began to read once more.
The moment Harry sat down a house-elf squeaked, "Porridge and toast, Master Potter?"—startling Harry so soundly that he almost fell off the bench. Knuckles white as he grasped the edge of the table, Harry caught his breath. "Er. Yes, and some fried eggs. And pumpkin juice."
The house-elf nodded and disappeared with a crack.
"Okay, there, Harry?"
"Could've warned me," Harry muttered.
"I did," Gilbert said, turning a page.
Harry sighed. "I didn't realize there were house-elves cooking our food..."
"Did you think the food transfigured itself?" Gilbert said, laughingly.
Shooting a dark look at the prefect, Harry shrugged.
"That was a joke, Harry. You can't transfigure food. It's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration."
"Oh. When was Professor McGonagall going to tell us that?" When Harry looked down again, there was a gold goblet, plate, and silverware.
"Next year or fifth year. Depends on the level of ability in your year. Eat up; you look a little like death warmed over."
By the time Harry had finished, he'd had five helpings.
"Finally finished?" Gilbert teased.
Harry snorted, stood up, and headed to the exit, which looked like a normal door from the inside. With that same amused expression, Gilbert closed his book and followed.
Opening the door, Harry stepped out into the chilly corridor. Another clap of thunder boomed down the empty passageway. Knowing precisely where to go, Harry led them back to the infirmary, which had every sconce lit with cheery fire. Outside, Madam Pomfrey stood with her hands propped on her hips.
"Prefect Tellwyenth! I would have expected this from a first year, not from you!"
"I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey. Harry was hungry, and I decided he might like to stretch his legs for a bit," Gilbert said politely. He withstood Madam Pomfrey's glare with a calmly contrite expression.
"Alright. Tell the other ones that if they intend to take Harry out for a walk that they require express permission from me," the Healer said.
"As you wish, Madam Pomfrey," Gilbert responded.
Harry's eyebrows rose, half-amused and half-appalled. They acted as if he were a family pet who needed regular walks.
Madam Pomfrey affixed her stern look upon Harry. "May I check your scar, dear? It won't take long, and if I deem you're alright then you can head along to your dormitory."
Harry nodded, and the Healer's cool hands touched his face, pushing the fringe back. She peered into his eyes, and then his ears. Her hands expertly checked his pulse at his neck and then her fingers lightly massaged the glands near his throat. "I have forbid Professor Snape from unleashing a boggart on you again. I can't imagine what he was thinking, expecting a third year to summon a fully corporeal Patronus when it's well advanced beyond O.W.L. level," she murmured.
"What does O.W.L. stand for?" Harry asked curiously, as she continued to feel down his left arm with a frown on her face.
"Ordinary Wizarding Level. You only know it as an exam for fifth years, right?" Gilbert said, reading his thick book while he stood. "It determines which Advanced classes you can get into your sixth year."
Madam Pomfrey had moved behind him now and was prodding Harry's left shoulder blade. When she hit a particularly tender spot, Harry winced, "Ow!"
She let out a low sigh. "Nasty sharp talons, indeed," she muttered to herself. "You need kinesiological treatment." With a stern look Madam Pomfrey met Harry's eyes. "Why haven't you told anyone it still hurt?"
Harry massaged his shoulder blade carefully. "I thought it was as healed up as it was going to be."
"You didn't want anyone to fuss, you mean," Gilbert said, without lifting his head from the book, and missed the scowl Harry directed at him.
Madam Pomfrey tsked, shaking her head. "What are we going to do with you, Harry?" She said sadly. "There's no need for you to be in pain when your magic's still young and vibrant."
Hearing the storm rage on behind him, Harry shrugged his right shoulder lightly.
"Then let's make a deal. That is what Slytherins understand best, isn't it?" Harry nodded. "I'll notify Severus after the game about your shoulder, if and only if you promise not to hide any injuries or pain from me ever again."
Harry frowned.
"You see, if Severus were aware of your lingering injury, he would not let you play this morning, and I know how much you love Quidditch," Madam Pomfrey said kindly. "Normally, I would not endorse this sort of thing, but since you've been flying a broom without any of us being wiser of your difficulties I believe a single Quidditch match shouldn't make a difference."
"Okay, I'll tell you," Harry said softly.
"Good. Then I will officially discharge you." She clapped her hands together. "Do be careful on the pitch today."
"Yes, Madam Pomfrey." He left with Gilbert to the dungeons.
