Shelter From the Storm
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Part One: The Dementors of Azkaban
Chapter Two: The Dream Team
Rose leaves the infirmary with a clean bill of health and plans to enjoy a restful, unremarkable Sunday in the comfort of Gryffindor Tower. SHe's completed all of her homework, she's ahead in her assessment tasks, and despite Madam Pomfrey's best efforts, she's still a bit down from losing the game against Hufflepuff, from her encounter with the dementors, and from the nightmares of her parents' deaths they'd subsequently inspired. As such, all she wants is some time to herself, to gather her bearings and regain her equilibrium, and it is therefore a relief to reach the entrance to Gryffindor Tower without incident.
Sir Cadogan grants Rose entry into the common room with an accompanying soliloquy about his courage and daring and fierce defence of all those under his care, and Rose rolls her eyes as she slips through the portrait hole, unamused, impatient, and no longer surprised about Sir Cadogan's absence from the non-magical legends of King Arthur, Merlin, and the Knights of the Round Table.
In fact, Rose thinks uncharitably, it's more a wonder that as annoying as the loquacious knight is, Sir Cadogan hasn't been removed from the annals of history completely.
"Look at what the cat dragged in," Fred Weasley greets her, sprawled out across a settee near the fireplace. True to form, George isn't far, hunched over a spread of journals, scrolls, and reference books in a nearby study nook, and Lee Jordan is close by, as well, snoozing in one of the armchairs.
A post-breakfast nap, presumably, and Rose is tempted to follow her older friend's lead. Her porridge - with blueberries, raspberries, and a generous helping of brown sugar - sits heavy in her belly, and that fact notwithstanding, Rose's night had been hardly restful.
Not even Honeyduke's Finest hot chocolate could stop her nightmares.
"Good morning to you, too."
"You're looking alive, Posy."
"Definitely less corpse-like than yesterday," George agrees. There's a splatter of neon purple ink across one of his cheekbones that clashes rather violently with his hair, and Rose opts not to point it out. "Though I'm surprised Madam Pomfrey let you free so soon."
Rose shrugs. "There isn't much she can do about dementor exposure. I'm sorry about the game, though."
Fred rolls his eyes. "Who cares about the game?"
"We're just glad you're all right," George adds, earnest.
"I'm fine," Rose assures them, touched by their sincerity. It's rare to see the twins like this - far removed from their jovial nature and high spirits - but she appreciates the acknowledgement that they care.
Sometimes, it's easy to forget that she's no longer that lonely orphan on Privet Drive, perpetually striving to meet her guardians' impossible expectations. She has friends now, a family she's built for herself, and she'll never be alone again.
Rose makes herself comfortable in an empty armchair, and queries, "How are you two? And everyone else?"
They chat for a little while, about the dementors and how the twins had handled their exposure to them, how the rest of the team had coped, about the varying responses to the entire debacle throughout Hogwarts. Oliver's devastation isn't a surprise, and neither is the revelation that Dumbledore had been ultimately unsuccessful in his attempt to have the dementors removed. As per usual, Draco Malfoy had been spouting off at the mouth about Rose's capability as a witch, how the taint of her mudblood mother had ruined the House of Potter, so forth and so forth, but the loudmouthed twat had been none-too-gently silenced by a trio of enraged, terrified chasers, and the faculty - even Snape, by some unfathomable miracle - had turned a blind eye to their handiwork.
Lee wakes up at some point, contributes his insights from the commentator's box into how the teachers' had initially responded - anger and fear, primarily, but productively so - and in time, they're joined by the rest of the team, who fret over Rose, offer up their own observations, and listen intently as the discussion continues.
"We'll have to make sure something like yesterday doesn't happen again. Regardless of what Fudge and Dumbledore say, I don't trust that the dementors will keep their distance."
"What did you have in mind?" Alicia queries.
"I'm going to learn the Patronus Charm."
It is something Rose has been contemplating for some time, but her increased workload, the difficulty of the spell, Rose's uncertainty that she has an appropriate memory to power it has stayed her hand.
The quidditch game, however, has changed all of that. It's given Rose the impetus she needs to learn, to succeed, and she's not about to let her own misgivings hold her back.
Oliver is the only one of her companions who recognises the spell, and he looks dubious. "You know most adult wizards can't cast that, right?"
"Yes, well, most adult wizards are lazy," Rose answers, dismissive, "Besides, I'm very good at defying expectations."
"She's got you there, Wood," Angelina contributes, "But for the ignorant among us: What's the Patronus Charm?"
Oliver, in the lecturing tone they've all grown accustomed to over the years, takes on the explanation.
Rose listens, fills in the gaps in Oliver's knowledge - she's done her research - and makes plans to pick Professor Lupin's brain for some tips before she starts practising. Maybe Professor Flitwickk's, as well. The others are interested in learning the Patronus Charm - it's written all over their faces - and she'd like to have something more substantial to offer them than just the incantation, wand motions, and her interpretation of the assorted treatises she's found in the library.
At the end of Oliver's explanation, Fred and George share a speaking glance between themselves, and simultaneously declare, "Count us in."
The others are quick to follow suit, Lee and Katie, Angelina and Alicia, and Oliver is a given - "Someone's got to make sure none of you kill yourselves," - and it's easy to set aside an hour following their evening training sessions for the task of practising together.
"Well, it's been fun, friends, but now that that's sorted, I'm off. Places to go, things to do, people to see."
With nonchalant waves and nods and promises to meet up after supper, Rose retreats up to her dormitory, gathers up her toiletries, a towel, and a change of clothes, and meanders into one of the communal bathrooms for a much needed - and much welcomed - shower. She washes her hair, scrubs herself clean, and once she's dressed, she takes her time in front of the sinks - exfoliating, cleansing, moisturising, brushing her teeth, combing her knotted curls - and by the time she returns to her dorm room, her dorm mates are long gone, their locations unknown.
"What do you think, Crookshanks?" Rose addresses Hermione's beastly cat, sprawled out in the window seat between Lavender and Parvati's beds, "Should I go look for them?"
Crookshanks offers Rose an impassive flick of his tail, closes his eyes, and returns to his morning nap.
Evidently, he couldn't care less about what Rose does with her day.
She leaves Crookshanks to his nap, instead retrieves her sketchbook and pencils, and wanders her way passed the upper year dorm rooms, towards the top floor of Gryffindor Tower. There, Rose is met with a panoramic view of the rooftops and grounds of Hogwarts Castle. It's an open-planned common area, full of quiet study alcoves, cozy armchairs, couches, beanbags. It's a silent space though - where Gryffindor students go for some peace and quiet - far removed from the chaos below, and it has become one of Rose's favourite places in the castle.
At this time of day, the quiet space is empty, and Rose is pleased to find it so. She curls up in her usual armchair, spares a moment to appreciate the view, and finds that - despite the emotional turmoil the day before had incited in her - she feels oddly disinclined to draw.
Rather, her mind returns to her visit from Cedric Diggory the day prior, and she ruminates over it, over their conversation, his mannerisms, the things he'd said and the things he hadn't.
Without fail, Rose dwells on his grim pronouncement that Draco Malfoy isn't the worst of them - that is, wankers - and she wonders what he could have meant by it, by his very obvious reluctance to speak of the issue further, by bringing the matter up at all. It's abundantly obvious that whatever the mystery is, it isn't anything good, and Rose is unsettled by her lack of information.
Unsurprisingly, however, thoughts of Diggory leads to thoughts of their ill-fated quidditch game, of the dementors, of the long-forgotten memory the guards of Azkaban had drawn to the forefront of Rose's mind. Her parents have become more than pictures now - they are voices too, flashes of colour, the scent of cloves, of jasmine, of ozone - and it is beautiful and horrifying and tragic that she remembers that night, of all the nights she'd had with them.
Rose simultaneously loves and hates it, like nothing she has ever loved and hated in her life. It overwhelms her all over again - like on her broom, a hundred feet in the air, like in the hospital wing, in the dead of night - and Rose wants to scream, to rage, to destroy Voldemort with her bear hands until he is so much dust again, and again, and again.
She swipes roughly at the tears her thoughts bring forth, wrathful, and despondent, and furious with herself for crying. She has had 12 years to come to terms with the loss of her parents, and to the gaping absence in her life that they've left behind, and her waterworks are therefore unwarranted, unnecessary, and entirely unwanted.
No matter how much Rose berates herself with all of those things, however, her tears continue to fall, and it takes a long time for them to cease.
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Rose's plans for a restful, unremarkable Sunday don't survive lunch time. The meal itself is pleasant enough - creamy pumpkin soup, with croutons, shredded cheese, and a side of spinach salad - but Hermione spends the whole time fretting over Rose's wellbeing, and the experience isn't restful at all.
"Give us a break, Hermione," Neville sighs, long-suffering. He's seated across from them, has had a front row seat to Hermione's fussing and Rose's growing irritation, and knows better than to let things continue as they are. "If Rose was still unwell, Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have let her leave the hospital wing."
"Excuse me for being worried," Hermione sniffs, but nonetheless relents, and picks moodily at her sandwich instead.
Rose leaves the other girl to her sulk, content to make conversation with Neville about what they'd each done that morning, what they have planned for the afternoon,, idle chit-chat about the food, the weather, the novels they'd recently read. The latter lures Hermione into what becomes a rather animated discussion - and into better spirits - and the remainder of their lunch passes quickly. It is by no means restful, but it's enjoyable all the same, and Rose's own spirits are improved by the time spent with two of her dearest friends, by the few pieces of chocolate she treats herself to once she's finished her meal, by the smile Cedric Diggory offers her as she passes by him in order to exit the Great Hall.
"What was that?" Hermione asks, gaze narrowed in suspicion. She doesn't miss a thing.
"What was what?" Rose asks, guileless.
"What was that?" Hermione repeats, and clarifies, "Just then, between you and Diggory?"
"Really?" Neville scrunches up his face, disgruntles by the turn in their conversation. He grumbles to himself about how much he needs some more - preferably male - friends, and his complaints go ignored.
"It was nothing."
"It didn't look like nothing."
Rose rolls her eyes. "He was just being polite."
"I'm surprised he didn't avoid you like the Plague. After yesterday, I mean."
Neville sighs, exasperated and dramatic, and excuses himself from the conversation. He's quite had his fill of girl talk over the last couple of years, and that aside, he does have an essay for Potions to complete.
Hermione waves him off absently, Rose wishes him luck, and she regrets that Hermione isn't distracted by the prospect of an afternoon visit to the library.
"Well?" Hermione presses.
Hermione is one of Rose's best friends. They've known each other since the Hogwarts Express, wherein they'd bonded over lonely childhoods, their overachieving tendencies, and the surprise they'd both experienced upon learning about the existence of magic. As such, Rose knows Hermione - brilliant, tenacious, endlessly curious Hermione - almost as well as she knows herself.
Rose therefore realises that Hermione isn't about to drop the matter. The brunette is like a dog with a bone in that respect - or, as witches and wizards say, a goblin with a galleon - and let it never be said that Rose doesn't know when to pick her battles.
With that in mind, she sighs, resigned, and tells all.
-!- -#-
Rewrite: March 21st - 25th 2020.
-!- -#-
Author's Note: I had quite a hard time with the last scene of this chapter, but I felt I needed to introduce Hermione and Neville as Rose's close friends. This chapter doesn't exist in the original, and since I wasn't working off a template, it took a bit more time than Chapter 1 and Chapter 3 (which is already written, though in need of editing). I'm quite happy with how Chapter 2 has turned out. Thoughts?
Until next time, -t.