DENIAL AND ITS SIDE EFFECTS

HashtagMC

So, here you got another chapter! As always, this chapter isn't beta-read (spell-checkers don't count). I hope you enjoy reading it, I'm already working on the next chapter.

— Hashtag

PS: The chapter is beta-read now.

CHAPTER 5 – THE DRUGS DO WORK

'Oh, Harry! Come in, come in!' Slughorn sounded delighted, but his voice lacked the undertone of enthusiasm it had held back in sixth year. Harry guessed the head of the Slytherin house was still happy to have Harry as a part of his little 'collection', but without Harry's supposed brewing skills, he had probably lost most of his interest in Harry. Not that Harry minded.

'Minerva has already notified me of your little indisposition,' Slughorn said as he rummaged through his brewing cabinet, producing little bottles and vials along with little bags of ingredients. He kept talking about nightmares, every now and then adding an anecdote about one or another famous witch or wizard he had known had suffered from nightmares, but Harry was, if anything, listening only half-heartedly. Mostly, he kept silent and watched while the Potions master poured powders and liquids into the happily bubbling cauldron, every now and then asking Harry to stir the potion a few times, chip a piece of wormwood, or mash some beans with a name Harry couldn't even pronounce.

'—maybe you remember Gwenog Jones, I think I mentioned her once? Well, the fact of the matter is, she once told me—'

So far nothing important.

'Well, Mr Potter, here you go!' Slughorn said, presenting a flask of the draught to Harry. 'Three drops before you go to sleep, Harry, and the nightmares should vanish!' Harry reached for the flask, but Slughorn held it out of Harry's reach. 'Come to me if this one is empty, but remember, large doses have severe side effects.' He handed the flask to Harry. 'I expect nothing but responsible behaviour from you, Mr Potter.'

'Yes, Professor.'

Storing the little vial away in his pocket, Harry hurried back towards the Gryffindor tower, still musing about Slughorn's warning. He knew, of course, the side effects of overdosing on sleeping potions – it had been the subject of an essay a week before (unnecessary to mention, he had failed the essay with a P grade). Aside from nasty things such as puking and fever, there were also the problems that one could easily get addicted to them, and last but not least the threat of a lethal overdose. Admittedly, one had to take way too much for this to happen, but if the aforementioned wasn't enough, there were always the withdrawal symptoms if one had to discontinue them. Harry would have rather not been forced to this drastic measure.

But with three drops, as prescribed by Slughorn, nothing could go wrong, otherwise McGonagall wouldn't have sent him to the Potions teacher. And Harry surely didn't intend to overstep the border of three drops. He was guilt-stricken, sure, but not suicidal – although Harry suspected that his friends thought otherwise. They knew how responsible he felt for every single victim of the war, and he was fairly certain that they were at least keeping their eyes open so they wouldn't miss any sign of depression he might show. They thought he didn't see and hear their worried glances and whispers they exchanged behind his back. If they could, they would treat him like a fragile piece of glass, as if he could break and run amok any moment.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'So they gave you a sleeping potion?' Ron asked, doubt dripping from his voice. 'But we've already tried this –'

'Ron,' Hermione beat Harry to an answer, 'I'm sure Professor McGonagall knows what she's doing. Leave Harry alone, he'll go to bed now and take this potion, right Harry?'

'Uh…' Originally, Harry had planned to take a walk across the school's grounds before curfew, but Hermione's expression told him he better go to bed. Deciding that he was too tired to mess with his best friend, Harry sighed.. 'Right.'

Hermione crossed her arms, a triumphant smile on her face. 'You see?' Grabbing Ron's hand, she dragged him away, still muttering something under her breath which Harry didn't catch.

'I see you're finally working on your nightmare issues?' Harry jumped at the sound of Ginny's voice. Dang, Ron's sister had really gotten the hang of sneaking up to people unheard.

'Apparently,' Harry responded, together with a nondescript shrug. While he was stuffing the school books which had previously lain on his bed into his trunk, he noticed that Ginny didn't leave. Harry spent some more seconds with unnecessary tasks such as rearranging the items on his bedside table, before he turned around and sent Ginny an annoyed frown. Her eyebrows rose in response. 'Aren't you supposed to take the potion?'

Harry groaned inwardly. So his so-called 'friends' didn't even trust him to take prescribed… medicine, that was what it was – nowadays, but insisted on making sure he did so? Great friends they were. Under Ginny's scrutinizing looks, Harry uncapped the small vial and poured three drops into his mouth.

'Satisfied now?' He knew he was being childish, but seriously, he was eighteen, not five! He surely could take his medicine without a watch dog!

Ginny nodded. 'Goodnight, Harry.'

Already feeling the exhaustion overwhelming him, Harry rid himself of his clothes to slip into his pyjamas and then under his blankets. He sent a short 'night' towards Dean and Neville before he fell into a – hopefully dreamless – slumber for the first time in weeks.

He awoke after what felt like minutes, but a quickly cast Tempus spell revealed that it was actually past noon – way too late for breakfast. But, on the positive side, Harry felt more rested than ever before, and he couldn't remember any nightmare either. From what it looked like, he'd had the first night of proper sleep in slightly more than four weeks. Of course it was too early to draw any conclusions, but maybe, Harry allowed himself to hope, maybe this could be the solution – at least temporary, because he sure as hell wouldn't rely on these draughts for the rest of his life. He could only imagine the field day Rita Skeeter would have if she got word about the 'Boy Who Lived Twice' regularly consuming sleeping potions. Hell no.

Just as Harry had finished changing into his casual clothes – weekend equalled no school robes – Ron stepped into the dorm, involved in a conversation with Neville. They both looked up as Harry bid them good morning – good day, rather – and the relieved smile his best friend flashed Harry assured him that he had indeed hadn't had another dream.

Well, that surely was a good turn of events, Harry mused as he made his way towards the common room, considering to ask one of the house elves to bring him a slice of bread for breakfast.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

Frustrated, Draco punched the wall until his knuckles bled. Cursing, he stuck the fist in his mouth to suck at the bleeding wounds. He hated it. He wasn't sure what it referred to in this particular case – his dorm mates, students from the other houses, this school, or maybe his life in general. Whatever it was, he hated it.

He had kept his anger inside until the others had left the dorm, but as soon as he was alone, he had been unable to hold back. Weekends were the worst. During school days, there were things such as the occasional tackle from other students, entire groups stepping out of his way and murmuring insults – or, if they were more brave, openly yelling them at him – and teachers having to assign him to a partner because nobody wanted to voluntarily be partnered with Malfoy the Disgrace (Slytherin), Malfoy the Death Eater (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw), or Malfoy the Traitor (every house). But weekends? To other people, it might mean relaxation, free time to spend with whatever pastime they chose.

Draco's fellow Slytherins' favourite pastime was 'let's torture Draco'. He'd experienced almost everything, from mocking and insults, over every hex his former comrades could come up with (Draco hadn't known Goyle could remember this many incantations), to such Muggle-ish methods such as simple, physical violence. Under different circumstances, Draco would have laughed about the thought of proud purebloods using the Muggle way of fighting – fists and foots hitting whatever they could reach of Draco's body – but since he was the one playing the role of the victim, it wasn't exactly funny. Less than.

Which led to him punching the cold stone wall until he hardly felt the pain in his fist anymore. He wished it was Goyle's face, or maybe Pansy's. The situation of having to rely on his own – admittedly below-average – physical strength was new to Draco. There had always been Crabbe and Goyle to act as his arms and fists if he need them, but now, Goyle was Pansy's fist, because the girl didn't have the guts to ruin her perfectly painted fingernails by hitting him herself, and Crabbe was in no position to punch him. Because he was, well… dead.

Crabbe was dead, and Draco was alive, because Harry 'I am the chosen one' Potter had saved Draco's goddamned life. Worthless life, he could hear his house mates say. They never grew tired of reminding him that they'd rather have him dead and buried than being disgraced by sleeping in the same room as he. More than once, he'd had half a mind to summon a sleeping bag and sleep in an empty hallway like a homeless Muggle, if it only meant getting rid of his classmates.

You should get these knuckles treated, insisted the – rapidly shrinking – part of rationality in his mind. Why should I, Draco wondered. They'll bleed soon again. He had already spent some hours in the library learning how to heal Stinging Hexes, and if things between him and the others stayed the (miserable) way they were, he'd get enough practice. The other students definitely were game for giving him enough wounds to practise with.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'Queen to B7! Checkmate, Harry!'

Groaning, Harry toppled over his King, admitting defeat. 'One day, I'll get the hang of it,' he assured Ron, ending another fruitless chess lesson with Ron. Harry liked Wizard's Chess, but he couldn't measure up to Ron, and honestly, no one really could. Even Hermione, whose intellect everybody thought should make her the ideal chess player, was at a loss to the infamous Weasley chess skills. Harry, for his part, had more fun playing against less skilled, hence more equal, players such as – well, everybody else.

Having to choose between hanging around the Gryffindor common room and die of boredom or lay on his bed and die of boredom, Harry remembered the book he'd borrowed from the library which was due tomorrow. He'd finished it yesterday, so he might as well return it to the Library right now. Heading towards the boys' dormitories, he was soon intercepted by Hermione. He brushed her question what he was doing off with a short 'going to the library', realising his mistakes too late when his best friend began gushing about how wonderful it was that he'd become responsible and decided to study, and that she'd just grab her books and join him… Which led to a rather angry Harry sitting in the library while Hermione was happily rambling about their History of Magic homework, oblivious to Harry's foul mood.

'Uh, I just remembered, I still have to do this essay for DADA,' Harry excused himself, retreating into another part of the library. It wasn't a lie, he had to write this essay, and since he could hardly escape the library while Ron's girlfriend was watching, he might as well do it now.

Cursing his decision to come here, Harry scanned the shelves for the book he was looking for. Quietly muttering the title of each book, he walked across the aisles, eyes fixated on the backs of the books—

'Ouch!'

—until he accidentally ran into—

'Malfoy?'

'Potter,' the other boy snarled as he got up from the floor. 'Graceful as ever I see.'

'I'm sorry.' The words had slipped out of Harry's mouth without much thinking – this being Malfoy or not, Harry had tackled him to the ground, right? Just as he'd expected, it earned him a humourless grin from Malfoy.

'Yeah, sure. Chang was also sorry when she tackled me – oh, wait, she wasn't!' Malfoy collected the books and parchment he'd dropped. 'Save your excuses, Potter.'

It took Harry a few seconds to process the meaning of Malfoy's words, but then—

'Are you implying that I have intentionally pushed you?!' Harry bewilderedly asked, which earned him another of Malfoy's scowls.

'Don't pretend you didn't,' he forced through gritted teeth, obviously keeping his anger at bay.

'I did not do this on purpose!' Harry exclaimed. 'Do you think I run around and tackle people to the ground because it's funny? I'm not the kind of person to do this, I'm not you! I'm –'

'on the "Light side", Potter? What a coincidence, so is the Ravenclaw prat, and yet she didn't mind sending me to the ground. And you're nothing better than her.' He showed a – forced, Harry thought – grin. 'But you're right: You're not me. Now, if you would kindly get out of the way…', and without another word, he brushed past Harry and disappeared between the bookshelves, leaving Harry utterly confused.

Why the hell would Malfoy think he'd intentionally bump into him? And what was this with Cho doing the same? Harry wasn't dumb, he knew that the majority of the students saw Malfoy as nothing but a traitor and Death Eater – the symbol on his forearm made it hard to deny – but he'd never thought of Malfoy being one who let other people shove him – more the other way around. Before, Crabbe and Goyle would, on Malfoy's command, do the tackling and shoving, but obviously, things had changed.

Harry frowned. He had – on condition that Malfoy hadn't lied – never thought of Cho as someone to harass people. The incident in the Hospital Wing weeks ago came to his mind – Malfoy had said somebody had been trying to get back at him.

Maybe Malfoy wasn't the only one who had changed, and some people had definitely not changed for the better.

— Denial and its Side Effects —

'Oi, Harry!' Harry looked over his shoulder to see Ginny quickly catch up to him. 'We're having Quidditch practice, and Ron asked me to ask you if you wanted to watch. Hermione's already there.'

Since he had nothing else to do, Harry thought he might as well do as Ginny said, even more since he hadn't seen her fly since her appointment as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. From what Harry knew, there hadn't been any Quidditch under the Carrow's rule, so this was going to be the first Quidditch session in two years.

As it turned out, Ron had grown a lot more self-confident. Obviously, he had won the tryouts for the job of a keeper for a reason, and it wasn't the nepotism some people made it out to be. Harry hadn't seen a Quidditch match since sixth year, and this was just training, but only then he realised how much this meant to him. Aside from the normality, the triviality of a training session, without a war impending – watching his house mates zoom past him, trying to score a goal against Ron, was, as strange as it might sound, relaxing.

Letting his gaze wander through over the pitch and the handful of makeshift benches which had been set up – they could host maybe twenty people at maximum – Harry noticed his successor chasing after the Golden Snitch, a bit away from the other players. Harry didn't know the name of the new Gryffindor Seeker, but from what he could see, she was doing a pretty good job at catching the Snitch. She would probably have a hard time measuring up to the standards he'd set, Harry mused. He wasn't one to brag, but he knew how good he was, and he was afraid that compared to him, most students would have a hard time.

Up in the air, Harry heard Ginny yell a few commands, and the players descended to the ground of the stadium, unmounting their brooms and walking towards the castle, the few visitors following suit.

As he walked towards the castle, Harry sent a glance towards Hagrid's hut, and felt a stab of guilt. He really should visit his friend more often – in fact, he had, aside from lessons, not talked to the half-giant at all this year. A great friend he was. But somehow, the idea of visiting Hagrid seemed more like a… chore to Harry; an inconvenient task, which he'd love to postpone as much as possible. Just like weekends seemed more like a bother now, actually. Harry couldn't remember a time when he had been this bored in his free time. The years before, he had always had something to keep him busy, might it be a giant Basilisk running amok to worry about, the Trimagic Tournament, the DA, a Dark Lord on the loose, or himself on the run. His life hadn't been this relaxed since… forever, he decided.

And there they said that N.E.W.T.s were stressful.