FOUR.

Water lapped at Harry's sides. He lay suspended in the folds of an endless sea, no horizon in either direction, fish nipping at his ankles. The waves pushed him this way and that, but only gently, as though rocking him to sleep. Magic seeped into his body through every point of contact, through every bit of exposed skin, and it lit a furnace in him that he did not think could ever be extinguished. Above him, he saw a sky white with light.

Then, he felt the solid mattress under him, and the smell of the sea intensified, and he heard a scream—

Harry sat up in bed, blinking away the afterimages of the dream. The mattress under him squelched.

'Water!' someone screamed again. It took Harry a moment to recognize the high-pitched voice as Ron's. 'Harry, there's water!'

There certainly was. The whole of the dormitory had flooded, water rising just above the level of their beds. Ron could not have been the first to notice: Dean and Seamus had already climbed onto wooden bedframes, clinging to bed posts as though they feared falling from a height. Neville, his toad clutched in the hand he'd lifted high above his head, sat half-soaked in bed, afraid to move.

'I can't swim,' he was saying. 'I can't swim!'

'Ugh, do you think that's sewage water?' Dean asked. 'It looks clean enough.'

It did. Tentatively, Harry lifted a finger to his lips and licked it. He tasted salt.

'It's from my dream,' he said dumbly. 'The water's come from my dream.'

'What?'

'I was dreaming of the sea. I felt the natural magic thing—I must have somehow spelled it here. It's salty.'

Reassured now that he knew the water wasn't sewage, Ron chanced a jump from his bedside table onto Harry's bed, spraying water in a glittery cascade. 'Mad, this natural magic thing,' he decided.

'Well, spell it away again, Potter!' Seamus yelled. 'There's water all over my bloody Transfiguration essay—'

'I don't know how!'

'I can't swim, Harry!' shrieked Neville again.

'There can't be more than five feet of water in here, mate,' Ron cut him off. 'And frogs can swim. You know that, right?'

'She's a toad!' Neville wailed. 'She's too fat to swim!'

'Oh, shit, where's Scabbers?' Ron remembered. 'Can rats swim, do you think?'

'Ron—there!'

Ron's rat was making his way across the pond, his little legs kicking rhythmically beneath the surface. Through the door left ajar into the bathroom, he swam up to the cracked tile in the wall by the sinks and slipped inside.

'He'll probably come back when he gets hungry,' offered Harry weakly.

'What a dickhead.' Ron shook his head. 'Percy had him ten years and never lost him—he's going to have a field day about this.'

'They can't give us trouble over missing homework, can they?' Dean had rolled up his pyjama bottoms and come down to sit on the edge of his bed, legs kicking in the water. 'Not if we tell them we were nearly drowned in our sleep?'

Harry stared at his lap. He had done this: the homework, Scabbers, the chaos. Barely a month of term had passed and he had already wrought destruction onto the dormitory. Even if he could get rid of the water somehow, news would soon spread—and then what would everyone say?

In the corner of his eye, he saw Ron throw him a look. 'The water's five-foot deep, asshole,' he snapped at Dean. 'No one was ever going to drown in that.'

Dean kicked. Water splashed on Harry's bed, dousing Ron and Harry both.

'Alright,' Ron said darkly. 'Fine.'

He dove off the bed. Half-swimming, half-walking he made his way toward Dean, who struggled back up his bed. Seamus whooped.

A moment later, they were all three of them in the water, shoving and cursing. Harry jumped across to Ron's bed, then to Neville's, so that they could sit and spectate together.

'Harry, are you going to help?' Ron sputtered. His hair lay wet and sticky over his eyes. He'd just been dunked under the surface by Seamus. 'Or are you going to sit there and watch them kill me?'

Harry threw him Neville's soggy pillow to use as a weapon.

By the time one of the prefects had heard the shouting and come to investigate, and McGonagall had arrived to fix the dormitory, and they had dried and changed, they were very late for Potions. McGonagall told them it was their own fault for mucking about in the water instead of coming for her immediately, but she took pity and wrote them a note to pass onto Snape.

They hesitated in front of the classroom door, note changing sweaty hands. It was eventually decided they stood the best chance of avoiding Snape's wrath if Harry gave it to him, which Harry thought was overly optimistic.

The class was silent when they entered. They kept their heads down as they made their way to the front of the room, where those who had arrived on time had wisely left empty rows. Ron gave Harry a little push forward.

'Well?' Snape drawled. 'Explain yourselves.'

Harry gave him the note. Snape tore it from his hand, then immediately pocketed it with looking.

'I asked you a question, Mr Potter.'

'It's all in the note, sir.'

'As you appear to be the appointed leader of this little troupe of truants, I am certain you are capable enough of speaking for yourself, Potter.'

Harry said nothing, rage boiling in him.

'You will remain after class and present your full explanation,' Snape decided. 'If that makes you late for your next class as well, I believe that is only fair since you have interrupted my own. Five points each. Sit down.'

Harry sat down. He could hardly refuse to do as much. But this was where he decided his compliance would end. He did not touch his cauldron, his ingredients, his book. He sat staring sullenly at the blackened wood around the burner and drew shapes in the Asphodel root powder Ron had spilled. If he'd been normal, none of this would have happened, he mused bitterly. He wouldn't have flooded the dorm and he wouldn't have been appointed group leader. It was all deeply unfair.

After class had ended, Ron and the rest of the boys clapped him on his back and told him they'd make his excuses with Lupin. Harry thought rather sourly that no one had offered to make excuses for him with Snape, which was when he'd actually needed them.

'You realise if you want to achieve anything other than a zero, you have to at least put a flame under your cauldron,' Snape told him, indicating a seat in the front row that he wanted Harry to take. Harry didn't move.

'Are you going to read the note or not?'

Snape measured him with a long look. 'No,' he said. 'I would rather hear the story from your own mouth.'

'Yeah, like you'd believe me.'

That was unfair. Even saying it, Harry recognised that.

'When have I ever doubted what you told me to be true?' Snape snapped. 'What is the matter with you recently? Your behaviour has been atrocious—'

'Maybe I don't want the whole world to know every single detail about my life!'

'And that is precisely why I have given you a chance to explain yourself in private—'

'After yelling at me first! It wasn't even my fault!'

'It wasn't your fault that you came into my class and proceeded to do nothing except disrespect my authority?'

Harry felt suddenly like he was going to cry. He shoved the feeling aside best he could, clamping his teeth down on his tongue.

'Go,' Snape said after a beat of silence. 'You'll be late for class. I will read your note and we will discuss this tonight.'

'We were supposed to practise Expecto Patronum tonight.'

'If you're better behaved by then, we will.'

It was the final blow to Harry's dignity. But what did he expect? That Snape would hold his tongue? That he would recognise when to stay quiet for once?

'How come you can do whatever you want, and I have to match some arbitrary standard to get you to do what you promised?' he shouted. 'How is that fair?'

Snape massaged his temple like Harry was some annoying background noise. Harry wished he would die. 'I'm not talking to you when you're like this, Potter. Go away. We'll discuss this tonight.'

'Is it a detention?' asked Harry, struck with inspiration.

'A detention?' No, it's not a detention—'

'Then I don't have to come, do I?'

Snape glared at him. Harry grabbed his knapsack and yanked it over one shoulder. 'And I've figured out what I want for my birthday,' he threw back at him. 'It's for you to leave me alone.'

He was late to Lupin's class, but only by a minute. He slipped into the seat next to Hermione and set to helping her complete their appointed study of the flesh-eating slug currently corroding the wooden surface of the desk. The class was abuzz with excitement and disgust, which made it easy enough to relate to her the events of the morning.

'This isn't good, Harry,' she whispered when he was done. 'I know you've always said it was difficult to control, but you weren't even trying to harness natural magic, were you? At least not on purpose—'

'Maybe it is because I haven't been trying,' Harry murmured back. 'It's like when a wizard doesn't use their magic for a long time, it can start sort of leaking out, right? I keep telling Snape, I keep telling everyone that I should just do things with it, like that I should cast the Patronus with it, forget the stupid wand, but he won't even let me try—I mean, can you imagine how powerful it would be if I cast Expecto Patronum with all the magic of the Hogwarts grounds?'

Hermione frowned. 'I think that is precisely why Professor Snape doesn't want you to try, Harry. None of the teachers know the first thing about natural magic, not one except Professor Dumbledore, and if what he told you is true, even he hasn't ever practised it properly! People refer to it as wild magic for a reason, Harry. If you're not sure you can control it, and you cast a spell as powerful as the Patronus charm—'

She had a point, Harry knew. But it was frustrating to have all the inconvenience of natural magic and none of the benefits.

'And anyway, it is not at all the same thing,' she continued, her voice taking on the tone of a lecture. 'Wizards and witches experience negative effects of spell withdrawal because they're keeping the magic inside them idle. The whole point is that you're borrowing the natural magic from without rather than drawing from within—you are essentially to natural magic as a wand would be to your own magic: a conduit. I was reading about it just the other day—Ow!'

The slug had bitten into her palm, mercifully cutting her off. At Hermione's yelp, Lupin snapped to attention and started making his way toward them, wand at the ready, but Harry pre-empted him by casting a freezing charm. The slug, frozen rock-solid, cracked off Hermione's skin when he pulled, smearing blood.

'Yuck,' said Hermione, looking very unhappy. Harry dropped the slug to the desk, then promptly wiped off his hand on his robes.

'That was some quick thinking, Harry,' Lupin praised. 'You have a knack for this.'

'Thank you,' said Harry without looking at him.

Lupin closed the cut on Hermione's palm, then sent her to the bathroom to wash off the blood and slug-saliva. As he watched her scutter away, hand extended to the side as though she wished to pretend it wasn't hers, he resumed,

'I wondered if you might like to come by my office one afternoon and discuss doing some extracurricular work. An extra challenge.'

That made Harry look up.

'I have heard a little of the ease you have with natural magic. I can't say I'm able to advise you in that area, but I do think that nurturing your other talents might help you gain a better understanding of your strengths.'

A warm glow spread over Harry's cheeks. Hermione had been right there and yet Lupin had offered to tutor him, Harry, not Hermione and not anyone else. For once, it was nice to be singled out for something normal.

'Thanks, professor,' he said. 'But my schedule's pretty packed with Quidditch and everything, and I'm already doing extra Defence work with Professor Snape.'

Lupin's eyebrow rode up his forehead. 'Professor Snape?'

'Yeah. He's teaching me how to cast the Patronus.'

'That is quite the advanced spell for a third-year, Harry.'

'Well, he thinks I can do it,' Harry said brusquely, a little offended now.

'I apologise, Harry. I did not mean that you couldn't do it, only that I know Professor Snape is an ambitious man with a—an academic interest in magical prowess. I wouldn't want him to push you beyond your capabilities.'

Harry wasn't stupid: he could read between the lines. 'He's not a Death Eater anymore,' he said quietly. 'But it looks like you are still a bully.'

Lupin looked at him with open surprise, which Harry would have found funny if not for the nasty feeling in his stomach. It wasn't the first time someone had implied that Snape only acknowledged Harry at all because Harry had nearly killed Voldemort. He really should know better by now than to let it bother him.

He didn't go to Snape's quarters in the evening. Instead, he went out flying with Ron for some extra practice before the Saturday match, thinking throughout of how angry Snape would be if he saw. It made his play that much better, even if it did spoil any appetite the physical exertion should have given him after.

As it was with most gossip, by the time Saturday rolled around the whole school had heard of Harry's bout of accidental magic. In his knapsack, Harry found one day a bucketload of pearly sand. It had got in between the pages of a couple library books, which he did not think he could ever return now unless he wanted Mrs Pince to strangle him. People chattered around and at Harry about what sort of prank he could pull next, and even made suggestions of which classrooms he should flood on which day. Draco Malfoy and his friends sucked in their cheeks every time they saw him, pretending to be fish. It should have been funny, but Harry couldn't convince himself it was anything except humiliating.

On Saturday morning, he received a letter from a large, silvery owl in which Mrs Bones informed him the whole of the committee would be in Hogwarts for the first match of the season to cheer for Harry and see how he was getting along. Harry understood this to be code for an intervention directly related to the flooding incident. It made him lose his appetite, and he dropped the scone he'd been about to bite into. He had no idea what he was supposed to say to them.

'Maybe I could break something playing Quidditch,' he said to Ron and Hermione. 'Then I can lie checked-out in the hospital wing and Dumbledore can do all the talking.'

'That might work. You're good at breaking bones,' Ron agreed, only to have Hermione smack him on the arm. 'Ow! Don't hit me, my rat's run away!'

'And I am very sorry about that,' Hermione said, 'but I'll be even more sorry if Harry breaks his neck because he takes stupid risks playing today.'

'That's probably why Scabbers has run off,' Ron muttered. 'He could tell you liked Harry better than him.'

The weather was just right for breaking necks, too. Wind knocked the players about this way and that, the rain made it impossible to tell friend from foe, and the only blinks of light that Harry could spot were the tips of wands the people on the stands had lit to warm their hands.

'Harry!' someone yelled at him. It took Harry a beat to recognise the bat in hand and realise it must have been one of the twins. 'You good?'

'Yeah!' Harry yelled back. Thunder rumbled in his bones. His teeth were chattering. 'This is horrible!'

'What?'

'This is horrible!'

'Oh—yeah!'

He pulled up his broom and rose higher, hoping to dim the lights from the wands with distance and get a clearer sense of where everyone else was. He didn't even know where Diggory had gone, and he always kept track of the rival seeker. Hopefully the Snitch wouldn't have smacked him in the face at any point in the match. In this weather, Harry could not see how else Diggory might have found it when Harry hadn't.

It was easier to see the players from up above. It was also easier to see the Dementors.

They had come from the west, a cloud thick as smoke that seemed at first to Harry a single entity before he recognised it for a swarm. Harry's fingers around his Nimbus felt cold and limp, suddenly useless against the force of the wind. The darkness that the Dementors brought with them was lost in the fury of the storm, in the half-night of the heavy cloud, and no one except Harry had noticed—and then he heard the voice again. It was screaming.

Not Harry—Stand aside, you silly girl—

He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to dislodge the awful sense of utter despair. He had to hang onto hope. He had to hang onto sanity—he hadn't told anybody about this voice because after last year he knew they would all go mental, and because he knew instinctively that this time the voice was within him only, that it came from a place deep inside that he didn't want anybody knowing about. He felt desperately in his robes for his wand, but the hard wrist protectors made it difficult, and he felt panic claw at his throat—

Lightning struck the lake. Illuminated in it, Harry saw the Dementors in stark contrast, every line of their skeletally thin bodies sharp and obvious—and he breathed, and closed his eyes, and did what his body had wanted to do from the moment he'd felt the first stroke of thunder.

He let the storm in.

Magic filled his every limb. It thrummed in his heart. For once, it did not feel like something dangerous and awful; it did not feel like just another thing that made Harry freakish and alone. It felt like strength and like endless possibility, and it was all Harry needed to whisper the words,

'Expecto Patronum.'

On Wednesday, things go very, very wrong.

Thank you for reading!