Suddenly the year seemed to speed up all of a sudden, and Harry found himself incredibly short on time. In between the homework that teachers began piling on, his own studies, and the anti-Lockhart study-group that Hermione had taken over with a vengeance, Harry's more private goals began to pressure him.

His Pensieve access was desperately squeezed in around his other commitments, usually in bed behind drawn curtains while the dorm was asleep. It was there that Harry prepared homework ahead of time, revised his timeline, and eventually realised that his Occlumency needed significantly more work. Under Draco's increasingly petulant pressure – through letter writing, no less, and when exactly had they become pen-pals anyway? – Harry found his accidental plan to wreak vengeance on the Defence teacher developed; spellwork was practiced and cursed presents secreted about the castle in preparation for a Valentine's Day deadline.

Quidditch practice picked up again, Luna was escorted to the Gobstones Club and Fencing Club with no success. She did walk away with a rash large stab wound right through her left calf, but even Harry was sure that this time it was entirely accidental. He took her to the Hospital Wing and got her patched up straight away, while Luna seemed to feel it was all a bit of an experience.

In between it all, Harry wracked his brains for a safe and effective way to contact Rita Skeeter for a grand conclusion to the year.

That castle bustled with repressed energy and burgeoning tension as homework for junior students grew more and more weighty, and senior students began preparing for exams. Juggling his own pressures, Harry found himself stealing time from sleep to manage everything he needed.

Harry developed circles under his eyes again, and that intermittent cramp he sometimes felt in the pit of his stomach developed into a familiar companion. Sometimes in class or after dinner Harry would stiffen, one hand grabbing at the shooting pain in his stomach, but it always passed.

Of course, he pushed on – short-term suffering was nothing in the face of his long-term goals!

At their regular table in the library, Harry slogged over notes, homework, letters. While the tables around them barely rustled or whispered in the hallowed quiet of the library, his own friends murmured around him quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye, while working on an essay or doing his own research, Harry often caught his friends gaze at him worriedly. Hermione and Neville passed each other notes with concerned frowns. Ron, whose enthusiasm for research had been waning, redoubled his efforts and made copious notes at Hermione's direction. His worried hazel eyes also rested on Harry more than they had, but Harry had other things to focus on; he had goals, after all.

Harry raked his hands through dry hair and then gnawed the tip of his quill.

He worried about his goals most of all. As exams approached, Harry needed to do well for next year to succeed, for his long-term plans to work, for everyone to stay safe. He'd managed a meeting with Professor McGonagall in between everything else, and while it hadn't gone badly…From the look of her frown and the pursing of her lips, she didn't seem too willing to let him have his way. Harry was currently aiming to beat Hermione in exams, seriously this time, unlike last year when it had been an assumption. He hoped that would be enough to change the professor's mind.

The thought had occurred, a week into his most effective revision, that using his Pensieve to prepare might be cheating; he still had his morals, after all. Besides, could the test for that? Precisely what did the anti-cheating charms catch? So Harry had widened his research goals beyond just the exam; he needed to know all the second-year knowledge so no anti-cheating charms – or whatever – would pick him up.

His workload got heavier.

The Lockhart research was going well in Hermione's capable hands, but he needed to tread carefully to have Rita Skeeter where he wanted her.

This was the first blackmail that Harry had planned, to be fair. Unlike previous years, previous timelines, he couldn't just ask Hermione to sort it out with some great plan. She was much more rule-abiding now, Harry knew, and he didn't want to ruin her innocence if it could be avoided.

He sat at the table in the library while his friends rustled around him. Absent-mindedly, Harry wiped his hand across his face and noticed he'd somehow got an ink-spot on his chin.

Settling down again, Harry scrubbed the robe sleeve across his face, hopefully wiping off the ink, and refocused his mind on Skeeter. Merlin, he really didn't like the woman.

He pulled the latest piece of parchment closer to him and rested it subtly within a protective arm. Harry glanced casually at his friends; none of them seemed curious as to what he was writing.

Shuffling into a more comfortable position, Harry tapped his quill softly against the tabletop and paused.

Just what tone should he take in his letters to get Skeeter onside? Precisely what could he say outright, and what could he imply? And what not? Would simple manipulation work instead? If only the old Hermione was with him, she could solve so many of his problems.

Dear Rita, Harry wrote carefully and then scribbled out. She wasn't a pen-pal, after all. They weren't friends.

To Ms Skeeter, he tried again. I don't know what you know about Gilderoy Lockhart, but I've found out a few of his secrets.

Harry stared at the lines in frustration. Would that…were they friends? Harry suddenly wondered. Did Skeeter already know his secrets and was hiding them – possibly by dint of other gossip coming her way? He scratched out that attempt too.

This would need, Harry realised, to be a campaign. A correspondence. Building tension and hinting at secrets until Skeeter was hooked and Lockhart's crimes desperate to be revealed.

He'd have to learn to be scandalous.

Still at the desk in the library, hunched over while students studied for exams around him, Harry wrote lines and lines of draft letters, most of which he hated. When the sheets of parchment grew full of crossed-out words, Harry screwed them up tight to Vanish out of sight of other students. Intimidating Skeeter wouldn't work. Threatening her would make them enemies, and he needed this to be a partnership that lasted years. Begging her would be unwise. Blackmail would backfire.

He had to find a good balance.

As the sunbeams filtering into the library crept along the floor and slowly approached the walls, the cold bright sun of winter warming into sunset hues, Harry practiced writing mysterious and intriguing phrases.

Enigmatic. Titillating. Salacious. To catch Skeeter's attention he needed just the right tone. He crossed out yet another line.

She needed to be curious. Willing to take a risk.

The wall sconces began casting darker shadows on the walls as their flickering flames burned brighter and dusk set in.

January passed into February and Harry forced himself to keep up his pace.

With exhaustion deep in his bones and shoulders curved with determined fatigue, Harry forced himself to make full use of his every minute.

It was hard getting up in the mornings, with his tiredness and the winter cold and the warm softness of his bed. Harry forced himself on.

By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, Harry had discovered another complication in his hopes for a good night's rest. With the pressure and the panic and the busyness of his mind, Harry should really have expected to suffer from insomnia again. He got used to lying in bed, staring at the bed hangings.

Pillows and blankets seemed irritatingly rough on his skin when all Harry wanted to do was fall unconscious and ignore the world.

He woke up that morning early as usual, despite it being a rare day off from Quidditch practice. After rustling around behind his bed hangings for a couple of hours – the usual routines, nothing special – Harry's tousled head emerged from behind its fabric and he set about getting ready for the day.

Ron, Harry was surprised to notice, was working on waking up earlier in the morning too, although Harry really didn't know why. He sat on the end of his unmade bed lacing his shoes and pondered the issue; somehow, coming back in time had changed more than expected, but how could Ron waking early be a consequence of Harry?

Neville was also waking up, significantly more cheerful than Ron but less coordinated than him about it. By the time Harry had laced up his shoes and wound his Gryffindor scarf about his neck, Neville's head had unstuck itself from inside his woollen winter sweater. To Harry's mild astonishment, none of that awkward process had impeded Neville's conversation at all.

A small fluttery feeling quivered in his at Harry stepped over to join the conversation; Ron's mouth snapped shut, Neville avoided his gaze, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if he had done anything wrong as their muffled exchange ended hastily at his approached.

Stumbling, Harry checked his step – was everything alright?

But then Ron's face broke out in the same wide grin as always, and Neville made a rather rude joke about Harry's hair and the hitch in Harry's step smoothed out. They seemed happy to see him. Things were fine.

Harry let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and trotted up.

The boys quickly stumbled out of the dorm and into the common room, where Hermione was waiting for them with a book in hand, and together the group of friends crowded through the Gryffindor portrait and meandered their way towards the Great Hall.

Harry and Ron, thoughts on food and busyness, led the quartet through the cold expanse of Hogwarts' corridors, and Ron puffed in mild amusement as the chilly weather had him breathing out puffs of white breath. While Harry ribbed him, Hermione and Neville lagged behind whispering, their dark heads close together. Harry was sure he heard something about "losing weight again", but he didn't mind their concern. It felt good that people were looking out for him – strange, of course, but nice.

He hadn't been able to hide the greyness of his skin or the emergence of his knuckles and joints as his weight dropped off, so their concern was touching to him. His left hand absently ran behind his neck, massaging the tendons, working at the skin. Ron had a plan for Exploding Snap later in the afternoon if Harry had time, and his easy grin drew Harry in. He treasured this childhood innocence; he didn't want to worry them. Fortunately, he thought he'd concealed the headaches.

Harry wished he could ask for help, share the burden, but he couldn't. He had so many secrets. From Dumbledore, from Snape, Voldemort. Pettigrew. Draco. Even Hermione, Ron, Neville.

He was doing this alone. Harry forced a smile at the Weasley twins as he stepped through the doors to the Hall. Neville and Hermione caught up as they found seats near the middle of the table and Harry quickly raised his legs to step over the bench to grab a seat. Grinning at Percy, who was already at the table and reading the Prophet, Harry settled himself down and leaned in to fill his plate.

At least after today there'd be one thing less to worry about.

The Great Hall filled up early with energetic students. Even the N.E.W.T students seemed to have emerged from their pre-exam haze to make eyes at their crushes and hope for chocolates.

Waking up, Harry felt a similar excitement grow in him: eyes flitting about the room, posture straight. This was the day! It had been a while since he'd planned something so harmless and fun – like a return to his childhood, almost – and the victim was utterly deserving.

Eyes alight, Harry found himself reaching across the table to fill more of his plate. Perhaps a second slice of toast might go well today? And some mushrooms, a few more than usual, Harry thought. He needed an excuse to hang out at the table for a while, after all, and for some reason his stomach had woken up hungry.

The room began heating up with the number of people rising. Gryffindors had to begin shuffling down the long benches to make space for latecomers; cutlery clinked and plates clattered as students dragged their breakfasts down the table to make space for their friends. Percy got a couple of elbows in the ribs to make him fold the paper and put it away for another time.

Seamus was strictly instructed to stop…demonstrating…the game he was describing with pieces of toast strategically placed on the linen.

Harry thought he might as well help himself to seconds.

"The bacon's good this morning, don't you think, Harry?"

Harry nodded, cheerfully chewing. "Not bad, not bad."

Neville and Hermione exchanged glances again, but Harry was busy eyeing up the room.

The teacher table, somewhat to Harry's irritation, filled far more slowly than the student tables. First one, and then another, teacher wandered in to the Great Hall and visibly sighed at the energy in the room before making their way to their seat.

Harry was still feeling perky.

He was hoping that Lockhart opened his presents early; before breakfast would be great, maybe he could walk into the Hall not noticing whatever kind of hex he'd been put under? But Harry had higher hopes: if he could open his gifts over the breakfast table would be best.

Between the heads of other students, Harry caught the eye of Draco, who was sitting at his regular spot on the Slytherin table and keeping himself busy.

He looked jittery, and flashed Harry a surprisingly unsubtle grin as they gazes crossed.

Harry nodded back.

Any moment now. Lockhart couldn't help make a spectacle of himself. Their plan was surely flawless.

Unusually eager to eat his breakfast and see the spectacle, Harry finished his plateful and leaned over to serve up more eggs.

Then the owl post arrived.

Just as they did every morning hundreds of owls swooped in over the study body; grey owls, white owls, eagle owls, screech owls. But this morning, they were innumerable. The Great Hall itself seemed to darken in Harry's eyes as the bodies and wings of the creatures dropped in through the windows and in front of the light. A few loud hoots resounded as the first of the owls landed, proud; then students were calling: hoping for a gift, calling their owl over, exclaiming over a neighbour.

Harry's tension ratcheted up in the noise.

A few seats to his left, Katie squeaked in surprise as a small cuboid parcel dropped down before her and a large spotted bird extended its leg haughtily. Her friends gasped and gossiped; Katie went pink, but owls kept on landing.

In Hufflepuff, Cho Chang was blushing prettily with a small pile of gifts before her. Sumire Tsubaka, tentatively Harry's friend, had even more gifts and was apparently being teased by her girlfriends as the giggled in their places.

The Head Girl seemed buffeted by a small horde of owls, some of whom seemed rather pushy to be accepted first. She also seemed happy, but from the frown on her face was developing irritation with the chaos as the pecking and pushing came a little too close to home.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw girl was glancing eagerly at an older boy in Slytherin, who had also received a pile of gifts.

Harry thought he saw Percy pocket something very small with a poker-face and shifty eyes, before Harry's attention flicked elsewhere.

A number of owls landed at the teacher table, and Harry caught his breath in suspense. Surely they were Lockhart's gifts. Surely this would work.

The Great Hall was filled with a riot of colour: squeals, giggles, charmed wrapping paper that rustled and sang when unwrapped. The noise built up as students discovered their gifts and were teased and cooed over.

Surprisingly, as Harry glanced around the room, there were actually more boys than girls receiving presents. Not many juniors got much, but most of his upperclassman received something, even it was just a card.

But the situation was developing. Owls flocked around one end of the teacher's table, to Lockhart's delight, and his surprisingly deft hands were rapidly relieving the owls of their burdens at the same time he beamed at his colleagues.

Ron took advantage of Harry's distraction by sliding another piece of buttered toast onto his plate while he gazed around.

"Hey," someone said. "Hey, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Get rid of the owl, won't you?"

In a fluster, Harry shook his head and focused. Oh. He had also received some mail. It didn't seem very excited in the grand scheme of things, and Harry rapidly noticed the newspaper held in its beak.

"Uh…right," Harry mumbled, stuffing the last of his food into his mouth. Now with free hands, he beckoned to the bird of come forward. "Mhhmmhmm," he instructed, mouth full. But the bird seemed to understand and the flutter and crush in the middle of the Gryffindor table seemed to ease a little as, one by one, the crowd of birds were relieved of their burdens and flew away – Harry's as well.

It felt like quite some time later when Harry could spare a moment, and noticed that over in Slytherin, Draco's attention had been taken by an older boy a few seats up; his blond head was nodding emphatically as the older boy gesticulated. His eagerness for the next step was apparent though, as he rolled his eyes Harry's way and grinned. Then an eyebrow rose as Harry watched. Harry followed his gaze to where his eyes kept flicking up to survey the teacher table, where Lockhart finally began making his move.

The Great Hall was filled with hooted birds, the sweet, rich smell of breakfast and the slightest haze of owl dander flying.

Harry hastily swallowed the last of his pumpkin juice as the Defence teacher stood up and made his grand speech.

His golden hair was coiffed perfectly, his lavender robes obviously freshly pressed and were those…yes, Harry caught a glimpse of colour-coordinated, purple leather boots to complete Lockhart's ensemble.

"Students!" the tall wizard exclaimed, arms wide, as he strode to the front of the Hall. "Hogwarts! Be still, for I have grand news for you!"

The hubbub and chatter around Harry subsided as Lockhart began his Valentine's Day speech. A number of standing students began to find seats once more.

"It is with great honour that I wish you, all of you," he winked at a student near the front and Harry cringed, "a marvellous, most memorable Valentine's Day."

Lockhart paused while scattered applause sounded from about twelve seats in the room. It was quickly silenced.

"It fills my heart with great joy to see all your…"

Harry turned his head back to the table at the sound of ruffling feathers and saw a single grey owl clicking impatiently in front of him. It was small, surprisingly fluffy, but had a certain attitude of efficiency that reminded him of Hermione and Percy.

Harry glanced up at the front to see Lockhart still talking.

The owl hopped closer.

He leaned forward. "Hullo," Harry murmured quietly. "Are you here for me?"

With another haughty look and a tilt of the head, the owl hopped closer and delicately extended a leg.

As Lockhart's familiar voice droned on and on, Harry curiously untied the small parchment and opened the letter.

Dear Mr Potter, an unfamiliar hand wrote,

In light of fame and recent exposure in the papers, we at the Diagon Alley Owl Postal Service have made changes to your owl wards for the duration of Valentine's Day. You have in our office a number of gifts and letters, currently numbering in the hundreds, and we have put them aside for your convenience.

Please let us know how you would like them to be treated: we are happy to hold them for collection, or to deliver them to you, both for a small extra fee. We are also happy to discuss long-term rates, considering you seem to be a premium customer.

Please contact us at your discretion,

Kind regards

Reginald Regis

Owl Post Office

Oh, thought Harry, mildly surprised. He supposed he had received a couple of cards for Valentine's Day in the past. He spared a thought for young Ginny, half hoping she would still gift him something, half wishing she wouldn't. Then his mind focussed: wait, in the "hundreds"?

Clutching the parchment in both hands tightly, Harry carefully reread the letter.

Yes, that's what it said. Hundreds.

Harry sat back in silent shock. He– how, why were things so different in this timeline? Where had hundreds of admirers suddenly come from?

The sound of Lockhart's voice was interrupted by some applause, some more half-hearted than others, and Harry startled at the sound.

A small claw scratched gently at his wrist, and Harry – eyes still wide – looked dazedly at the post owl that still waited in front of him.

"Oh," Harry muttered, confused. "You, er, want some bacon?"

He grabbed a piece from the platter in the middle of table and watched in bemusement as the owl guzzled it down.

But it didn't leave.

"Uh…did you want another one?"

Hermione, to his right, nudged him with her elbow and hissed a quiet, "Shush."

That's right, the Great Hall was quiet again, all attention up the front of the room listening to the Great Lockhart's speech on whatever-it-was.

Silently, Harry offered a second piece of bacon to the bird. Instead of helping itself, the small owl reached out a claw again to tap the parchment still held in his left hand.

"Oh, wait." Harry shuffled his hands, his parchment, his cutlery. "Are you, um, waiting for me? I don't have…I'll reply later. I need to think about it."

"Shhhh!"

At Harry's response Hermione hissed once more and the small owl finally seemed satisfied. Snagging that last piece of bacon, it spread its wings and flapped enthusiastically. Harry closed his eyes as dust flew in the wind of its beats, and when he opened them again, the owl was gone.

Harry was still musing silently over the surprise of his letter, when a change in the tone of the room caught his attention. Lockhart's cheerful voice had suddenly stopped, cut off. But no one interrupted. The air felt heavy and silent.

He looked up. "What…?"

Across the table from him, Neville's expression first caught his eye. He was staring up the front of the hall, fork halfway to his mouth, lips still open.

Harry glanced at Hermione as muttering began resounding around the Hall and built up.

"Hermione, wh—"

"Shh, Harry." She sharply swatted him, all her attention clearly at the front of the room.

Then the peace and calm, the curious hubbub of muffled sound was broken by an inhuman screech.

It started soft and grew louder, but never made it to full-throated roar. Instead the noise seemed grating, forced; the sound whining, intensely pained.

Something hard scraped along the floor in a hair-raising squeal; a chair pushed back, clattering to the floor as it toppled over.

Students around Harry stopped moving suddenly. Some froze, faces agape in shock; others stood up quickly, heads craning forward to better see and then paused. Right near Harry, Neville arrested a sudden and violent flinch. At least this part of the Gryffindor table was like a frozen tableau.

Seeing their gazes fixed towards the teachers' table, towards Lockhart, Harry spared another look at Draco before he too tried to see what was happening.

They didn't know what type of curses were on his presents, after all.

But Draco's face didn't look as gleeful as Harry was expecting. His stomach sank, and that strange clenching in his gut came back. He'd eaten too much breakfast, Harry realised distantly. He wanted to throw up; he couldn't throw up.

Distracted, Harry clutched tightly at his chest as he looked towards the teachers, also frozen in the moment in a terrible tableau.

Something seemed to gurgle horribly, almost bubbling, behind the table, something the teachers were staring at in shock, something low and unearthly.

Then, "Albus, quickly!"

Minerva McGonagall stood up in a rush, her wand appearing in her hand as she pushed her own chair back.

"Poppy, here!" Professor Snape appeared to say as he too stood up. His high-backed chair toppled over with a bang, and astonishingly Snape didn't even seem to notice. With quick steps to one side of the hall – towards a suspicious gap at the teacher table – Snape strode and bent over something, black cloak billowing in his haste.

Near the focus of their attention sat a number of other professors: Babbling, Kettleburn, Sinistra, even Hagrid.

Harry felt his heart sink as they all put down their cutlery quickly and shuffled away. Making space, the logical voice in Harry's mind whispered. None of them even took anything with them, as if what was happening just out of sight was too serious for any other focus.

Kettleburn went for his wand but the stopped, hesitating, making way for Snape and McGonagall and Dumbledore. Sinistra clutched at her neckline, pale.

Both Snape and the Headmaster were chanting under their breath as McGonagall stood up. With a rapidly paling face, the transfiguration teacher stood back and began casting: a stretcher, thick blankets, tinkles of ice falling, a bucket appeared in Harry's sight.

Madam Pomphrey finally managed to scuttle into the small crowd of teachers and also began casting spells. Harry couldn't hear her voice or follow her wand movements. Then she ducked out of sight behind the heavy tablecloth.

He shot a startled look Draco's way: had this been their fault? What had they done?

Draco tore his eyes away from the front, staring back at Harry. His face paler than ever, lips white; in his wide eyes Harry found no answers.

As Madam Pomfrey seemed to take over, first Professor McGonagall and then Snape stepped back. Their wand-arms dropped to their sides and Snape's dark eyes remained fixedly on whatever was going on behind the table.

Professor McGonagall took a moment to wipe sweat – actual sweat – from her brow. In the intensity of the moment, he absurdly tried to recall if she had sweated during the Battle of Hogwarts. Surely she must have, but... the image seemed oddly wrong and incongruous in his eyes.

The professor seemed to hear his thoughts, and she looked up, seemed to meet his eyes, and Harry saw her blink as she took in the gaping focus on the entirely of the school body.

She coughed lightly, stepping around the table to address the students. "Prefects, please lead all students back to your common rooms immediately. I repeat: Prefects, please lead your housemates back to your common rooms. Leave all food behind – more will be provided to you in due time. All classes will be cancelled for the morning."

She glanced behind herself at some small noise that didn't carry to the students, and Harry noticed the pattern of teachers rearrange: some stepped forward to help, others backed away.

"Off you go," Professor McGonagall announced tiredly. "Points will be taken for any student found in the hallways while we deal with a medical emergency."

Pale and shaking, Harry allowed himself to be ferried out of the Great Hall by the prefects and towards Gryffindor Tower. The crowd was hot and nervous; Harry felt stifled in the throng, his head merely shoulder height on many of the seniors. Looking back, he craned his neck to see Draco, to seek reassurance that what-ever-this-was wasn't their fault.

But the Slytherins were rapidly exiting the hall through a distance door and Harry was also jostled by the crowd; Harry couldn't see any second years through the throng.