A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary and disclaimer in part one.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is PG.

Notes:

Continual thanks to lovely beta Nyarth. Everyone: GO READ HER STUFF! She's in my Favorite Authors. Go! Go! *but finish this first*

Dean Thomas gets the dubious honor of Harry's Former Love Interest, because he's one of my favorite minor characters. I think he's cute. :p

Snape next chappie. I promise.

Chapter Five. In which Harry and Macavity make friends, lunch is served, and er, other things probably happen also.

Harry miraculously made it to the bedroom that had been assigned him without any further complications or encounters. He shut the door behind him with a sigh and leaned back against it, closing his eyes. This was easily going to be officially the strangest summer he had ever had. Snape. Suicidal drama queen ghosts. Talking animals. House elves with delusions of grandeur-- okay, that last one wasn't fair. Wiggin, so far, was the sanest creature he'd met.

Harry opened his eyes with a sigh-- and did a double take. The ginger coloured lynx was lying on his bed.

"Um, hi," Harry said slowly, one part of him wondering if he was going to be doomed to start all conversations of the summer this way. The cat fixed him with green eyes but said nothing.

"Yeah. Right. Welcome to my room, make yourself at home," he muttered under his breath. He had always considered himself able to get along fairly well with animals, from Fang to Hedwig, but since making the acquaintance of Hermione's cat Crookshanks, he had removed 'felines' from the list of animals and put them into a category of their own. This was the category of creatures that liked to stare at him unnervingly. Coincidentally the group that included Snape and Voldemort, with the difference that cats were generally harmless, if you petted them.

He didn't think Snape or Voldemort would take kindly to being petted. Miaow.

Harry pushed himself away from the door, moving to one of the high-backed chairs that occupied his new room. With a sigh he plopped into it, then winced at the sudden contact between seat and rear end. Uncle Vernon's belt, two nights ago, and what fun that had been. Aside from the lingering soreness there was the embarrassment; he was sixteen (soon to be seventeen) for Merlin's sake, not a bloody five year old! Perhaps, he thought with a wry, resigned smile, Vernon Dursley had been trying to make up for not beating him enough as a small child.

There was something important about Uncle Vernon, he realized with a frown; something he should be thinking about. He chewed his lower lip and tried to think what it was.

Something he should be happy about... something pertaining to all the Dursleys... hmm...

Oh yes. Something along the lines of NOT HAVING TO SEE THEM FOR THE REST OF THE SUMMER.

Harry let out a giggle that did make him feel like a five year old as the reality of the situation set in. He was going to be here until school started, which was certainly bearable, considering the alternative was Privet Drive; and after that he had a whole school year away from them. Breifly, he frowned at the thought of the month or so that would remain between graduation and his eighteenth birthday. Hmm. Surely he'd be able to find someplace to stay for that period of time... with Sirius or Remus, if either of them had settled down by then... or, who knew, maybe with Snape?

The thought was nowhere near as horrible as it would have been even yesterday. Because, all things considered, Snape currently ranked very high on his list of People Who I Am Happy With.

After all, Snape had rescued him from the prospect of the rest of the summer with Them. And given him a place to stay-- a nice place, at that. And been semi-half-way-sort-of-decent to talk to. And had been concerned about him.

Still a semi-bastard, undeniably, he mused, but I can deal with it. That's probably just habit. With what he just did for me by getting me out of Privet Drive, he can be a berk for the rest of summer and I don't care. At least he won't object to me doing my homework, or saying the word 'magic,' or half-starve me, or keep me from getting mail from Ron and Hermione and Sirius and (though I really doubt it) Dean, or knock me upside the head if he's in a bad mood...

Snape would curse him upside the head instead, he thought with another laugh. He realized he was being ridiculous. He also realized that as soon as there were a few days between him and the memories of the Dursleys, he'd be a lot less cheerful about Professor Snape. But at the moment, the realization that he was free of Dudley, Petunia and Vernon was just about the loveliest thing, and he felt charitable to anything that moved, including greasy sarcastic professors that spend three-quarters of the year trying to make your life more difficult than it already is.

He felt charitable towards the puffy clouds moving across the sky. He felt charitable towards the house elves moving around the house. He felt charitable towards the cat currently sprawled across his bed as if she owned it.

"Macavity, did you know that life is beautiful?" he said to the feline with a smile. She ignored him, which he had expected. "That's all right. You're beautiful too."

The cat flicked her ears in a manner which suggested, I may be beautiful, but you, human boy, are an idiot.

"No argument," he said with a grin, and got up from the chair. He walked over to where his beautiful broomstick leaned against the wall and picked it up happily. Ah. Like being reunited with an old friend... He felt like shoving open the beautiful French doors and taking off on it to do some crazy loop-the-loops around this beautiful house.

Hmm. Flying was probably something he should clear with Snape beforehand. In his current mood, he wanted to be the best possible guest, and not make that arrogant hook-nosed git regret The Rescue.

Harry settled for sitting down (gingerly) on the floor and polishing the beautiful broomstick, pleasant dreams flitting through his head of how he and his beautiful Quidditch team were absolutely going to crush Slytherin during the coming year. Beautiful.

There was a sharp rapping at the French doors, and Harry's head shot up from the broomstick. Owl. Not Hermione or Ron-- no way they could have gotten back to him so quickly-- but whoever it was, was probably beautiful. Harry got up with a smile and walked over to the balcony door, opening it to let in an beautiful owl carrying an envelope sealed with the beautiful Hogwarts crest and Gryffindor lion.

An hour later, Harry slammed shut his Transfiguration textbook with an angry sigh, scowling at the cat that had fallen asleep on the bed. It was amazing how an hour of study could bring you right back down to earth and sanity.

He grabbed the remarkably non-beautiful letter and re-read it.

Dear Mr. Potter,

While I regret disturbing your holiday, there is the matter of your make-up work. As we agreed that you did not want to take sixth-year Transfiguration again next year, you said you'd be willing to complete assignments over the summer holiday. I have tried to contact you several times regarding this, and each time the owl has been returned to me with letter unopened. Perhaps this time we'll have better luck.

Enclosed is the list of required reading from your text, and the essay work required on each chapter. You will complete each of these on a weekly basis and owl them to me.

If you have any questions, kindly contact me.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Professor of Transfiguration

Head of Gryffindor House

Deputy Headmistress

P.S. I hope your summer is going well and look forward to start of next term, when we shall, I trust, thrash the Slytherin Quidditch team into the dirt. -Professor M.

          Sigh. Homework-- whatever Hermione might think-- was. Not. Beautiful.

          Harry was trying to steel himself to leap back into the text, under the assumption that it would be better if he just got it all out of the way, when a light knock at the door interrupted him.

          "Come in," he said, still staring at his book, and the door creaked open to reveal Wiggin.

          "Master Potter. I've brought you lunch--"

          "Oh, that sounds great. I'm starving," Harry gasped, launching himself towards the tray that he could see behind the elf. Wiggin looked momentarily intimidated but nevertheless acted with his usual dignity, setting out a delicious meal on the table Harry had been using to study.

          As he bit into his second roast beef sandwich, Harry realized Wiggin was staring at him oddly. He fought the impulse to ask why until after he'd swallowed his current mouthful.

          "Oh, it's nothing," said the creature with a relieved sigh. "I was just afraid when I came in that you'd say you weren't hungry. I hate it when he does that."

          "Who, Snape?"

          Wiggin looked pained. "Yes. How is the sandwich?"

          "Great. Delicious. Wonderful," he mumbled, washing down another bite with a swallow from the tall glass of milk. Again he realized he was being stared at, this time by the lynx on the bed. What?

          Oh. The milk.

          "Er, can I ask for some, um..."

          "Yes, Master Potter?"

          "A bowl or saucer of milk or something. For Macavity," Harry said, waving his sandwich towards the cat. Wiggin turned to follow his gesture, then did a double take.

          "Macavity! What are you doing in a guest's bedroom! Oh, when I tell Master Snape..."

          The cat twitched an ear in response to the threat, and Harry hurried to say, "Oh, I don't mind her. She, uh, keeps me company."

          Wiggin hesitated. "Well... if you're quite sure..."

          "Yes. Quite," Harry said with a cheery smile.

          "Then I suppose I'll get her some milk," the house-creature said unhappily, and vanished out the door.

          Harry's green eyes sought out Macavity's, and Harry felt his lips twitching as they looked at each other. The cat was definitely laughing, if silently.

          The meal passed in silence, broken only by Wiggin returning with the saucer of milk, which he placed on the floor. Disapproval lingered on his face, but after asking Harry if there was anything else he needed, the elf quietly retreated.

          After the door had closed behind Wiggin, the lynx leapt gracefully down from the bed and lapped up the milk. Licking her whisker clean, she looked up at Harry and purred in a low throaty voice, "Thanks."

          Harry wondered if he should feel honoured the cat had spoken to him directly. "Oh, no problem. It's, uh, kind of fun to tweak him."

          "Yes. Yes, it is. I like you, Hari."

          He managed not to laugh at how she said his name, which sounded more like 'Harr-ee' than 'Harry.' He didn't think cats took correction well, however, and decided to let it stand.

          "Thanks. I like you too," he said with a little grin. The cat considered him. After a few moments, she said, "Er... I would, however, appreciate it if you didn't mention my being here to Severus. He would tell me to get out."

          "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," Harry said solemnly. She purred softly and returned to her milk.

          This summer might just be great after all, he thought to himself.

          Harry spent the rest of the afternoon in a guided tour of the manor, with Macavity giving commentary. The cat led him through what felt like a mile of corridors, stairs, walkways and back passages, talking all the way. After several hours of this, Harry felt he could find his way to the pertinent places of the house with only cursory glances at the magic map.

          They went to the kitchens, where Nezzy the house-elf fussed over him and fed him. She was a much more normal elf than Wiggin, yet bossy and over-bearing in her own unique way.

          They went to the entrance hall, where Harry amused himself by letting his voice echo around the huge room.

          They went to the 'portrait hall,' where he looked on a long row of pictures of Snapes past and present. Harry was most interested in the recent ones. Snape strongly resembled his father, from the black hair and eyes to the height and thinness. His mother, on the other hand, was a short, curvy woman who looked to be of Italian or Greek ancestry. Though she was not conventionally attractive in her features-- he could see where Snape got the rather aquiline nose and the greasy hair-- she exuded a great presence and was striking in her own way.

She was definitely where Snape had gotten his stares and smirk from. The small, forceful woman in the picture turned a dead good impression of Glare Number Ten, the Evil Evil Evil Look, accompanied by Wicked and Monstrous Smirk, on him. Harry felt himself wilting.

There was one portrait of the whole family. Harry examined it with interest, as Macavity explained that Severus had been nine in the picture, Siobhan six.

Severus-Snape-at-nine was a solemn little boy who stared unnervingly back at you, rarely looking away as the others did. The only time he looked elsewhere was when his sister, a dark-haired little naïf with mischief sparkling in her black eyes, started poking him in the ribs. Then, for a second, the boy was transformed-- his eyes gleamed with the same spark and he jostled her back, a little smile twisting one corner of his mouth in what was obviously the much less malicious forerunner of the Advanced Sneer.

Harry had looked, entranced, at his aloof, cold, nasty Potions Master being a simple, normal human child, but the parents in the photo had soon intervened. Two stern glares bored down from above and quelled the little game. The siblings returned to their sober expressions, at least for a little while, before starting the whole thing over again.

There were few other pictures of either Severus or his sister in the hall-- Macavity explained neither of them had much patience for the tradition of the grand pictorial heritage, and had stopped portraits being made of them as soon as they had had a choice in the matter. Still, Harry told himself he'd come back to the gallery when he could, and take longer looks at the ones that were there.

They went to the courtyard, during which the Captain and Seeker for Gryffindor's Quidditch team again reflected what a great place to practice it would be.

They went to the tops of several of the towers, which afforded some great views of the surrounding countryside.

          They went to the gardens, where Harry examined roses and benches and fountains and statues while Macavity chased a mouse she had claimed to have seen. Harry sat down on one of the benches and thought-- about a number of things, but primarily Dean Thomas.

          Dean would love this place, he mused with a wry smile, considering what his classmate and fellow Gryffindor would be doing here. Probably drawing-- sketching the fantastic gardens that were like something out of a gothic fairy tale. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he thought of Dean-- white teeth flashing in that smile; the enthusiasm that animated his long limbs and deep brown eyes whenever he started talking about either football or art; the dark, strong hands skimming agilely and skilfully over paper. Or pale skin, in beautiful contrast.

          For the twelfth time, he wondered if they'd been doing the right thing in breaking it off before the summer. But they'd both acknowledged it wasn't anything like true love; just two young, reasonably attractive men who had happened to find that one of the things they had in common was a crush on each other, and spent a great deal of sixth year snogging when they got the chance. And doing a bit more than snogging at times, he recollected with a faint blush in his cheeks.

          But Harry had known it wasn't permanent. They were too different in some of the important things; Dean had this amazing ability to be 'in love' with four different people simultaneously, and mean it as sincerely with each of them; Harry knew that ultimately he wanted someone he could settle down with for a long time, whether it was a boy or girl. The (admittedly awkward) romance with Cho in the fifth year had taught him that he wasn't gay, but equally interested in both genders.

          He rolled his eyes as he remembered breaking the news to both Hermione and Ron. Hermione had looked up from an essay she was writing for class, arched an eyebrow, and said after a pause, "Well. I was wondering how long it would take you to realize."

          Ron had been-- there was no other word for it-- squicked. For at least a month. He had blushed furiously whenever Harry had looked at him, ducked to avoid his gaze, and it hadn't been until Harry had finally cornered him and reassured him that he had no intention of hitting on him that things had returned to something like normal.

          But it had been fun being, more or less, 'with' Dean. The other boy was by turns thoughtful and witty, charming and withdrawn. And had that killer smile. If Dean hadn't told him before summer started that he was the world's worst correspondent and there was no point in owling, he would have included the boy in the morning's mailing list.

          At least they were still friends. That was a very nice change from the dramatic break-up with Cho, which had involved tears and resentment on both sides. He could do without girlfriends on the rebound from dead boyfriends, no matter how smart, skilled or pretty said girlfriends were.

          He was pulled out of his reverie by the sudden realization that he was getting cold. Not surprising, considering the sky was darkening and his wristwatch read after eight o'clock. He shivered and started back inside, the cat stalking mutely by his side.

          Supper was served in his room, another affair that put anything except Hogwarts feasts to shame. He couldn't help a laugh at the thought of going back to school fatter than before, which would certainly be a first.

          After eating, he flopped down on his bed and studied the ceiling, the cat curled up by his feet. Wiggin whisked dishes and trays away with a minimum of fuss, the slight clattering noises filling his brain comfortably. So much easier to think about that than anything else.

          But all too soon, the elf was gone, and the silence of the room began a heavy oppression. Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then sat up briskly. Macavity made a slight protesting noise, but didn't stir from her position.

          He got up from the bed and walked over to the armoire, then flung it open. If he was going to be here for the entire summer, the least he was going to do was make himself comfortable. He dragged his trunk over to the wardrobe and moved his clothes and belongings into the piece of furniture.

          A good hour passed in silence as he worked, until he finally had things as he wanted them. Harry gave a bone-breaking yawn. The exploration of the house had made him dead tired.

          A shower then, and after that, bed. Tomorrow was, as Molly Weasley was fond of saying, another day.

          More sensual delight as he took advantage of the lovely bathroom. As he soaped and scrubbed, Harry wondered just why Professor Snape taught at Hogwarts. He obviously didn't need the money-- hell, the git had a bloody castle to live in, and that sort of thing came with Galleons enough to roll in.

          And the other option-- teaching for the sheer joy of the profession-- was something Harry highly doubted the truth of. As far as he could tell, the man hated children. (Though honesty compelled him to admit that as they had moved into the more advanced potions making of sixth year, Snape had become less of a bastard and more of an instructor. Hermione had seemed to be bloody enjoying the class, and Harry himself confessed-- secretly, within the privacy of his own head-- that the potions they worked on were interesting.)

          Harry dried off with one of the thick dark green towels, then wrapped and tied it around his waist. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye and he grinned, idly appraising what he saw.

          He had been getting a tan, before summer started and he had been relegated to the cupboard; the lake at Hogwarts offered a great swimming place when the weather was warm enough for it. He had surprised himself by developing a rather nice shade of brown (unlike Ron, who had burned like a lobster). His Quidditch practice had finally given him something approaching a Physique, and he found himself flexing a bit in the mirror, before blushing furiously at his own vanity.

          But the toned muscles of Quidditch practice were a bit... marred. He didn't let himself look too long at the fading, but still livid, areas here and there on his sides and limbs. Uncle Vernon really didn't know his own strength, after all. And he had mouthed off right after getting home for the summer; what had he expected?

          Harry suddenly found himself unable to look at his reflection any longer. He tore his gaze from the mirror, grabbed another towel to dry his hair with, and headed back into the bedroom.

          He yanked open the newly full armoire and grabbed a pair of shorts to sleep in. All he wanted to do was go to bed. Tomorrow, he could sleep in as late as he wanted (glorious!) and once he got up, get some studying done, then maybe explore the house some more, perhaps ask permission to fly his broomstick in the courtyard...

          Anything to keep busy, as he had managed to do today. To keep from thinking about things better left alone.

          He had pulled on the red and gold Chudley Cannons boxers (Christmas gift from Ron) and turned back to bed before remembering he wasn't alone in the room. The lynx had one green eye cracked and was looking at him solemnly. Harry felt the hated blush rise to his cheeks again (oh for the love of Merlin; this was an ANIMAL he was embarrassed in front of...) and managed a feeble, "Uh..."

          Macavity rolled her eyes and settled back down. Harry sighed in relief. He really didn't think he could take some comment about his attractiveness or lack thereof from Snape's pet cat.

          Harry returned the towels to the bathroom after drying his hair. The mere thought of bed was inviting, and he headed for the soft warmth of mattress and covers.

          "Who gave you the marks?" the cat asked in a nonchalant tone, her eyes still closed. Harry stopped and swallowed. Why had he been able to talk about to Snape, last night, and yet couldn't answer the cat without a sudden thickness in his mouth?

          "I... some people. My uncle," he muttered, conscious that his cheeks were burning and feeling suddenly ashamed. But the lynx only nodded sagely, as if it confirmed something she had been thinking. He breathed again and took more steps towards bed.

          "Severus had marks as a boy," she purred quietly. "Is it a ritual for childhood?"

          Harry froze again. "What?" he finally managed, looking at the cat.

          "I asked whether this is a tradition, a passage rite. For the humans to hurt their young."

          "N-no. It's... not. I... Sev-- Snape, uh, had 'marks'?"

          The cat nodded again, her green eyes strange and feral in the light of the room. "His father. When he was young. Younger than you, I think, but Severus was... also older than you. He aged as we do: in spirit, not in body."

          Harry tried to wrap his mind around Macavity-talk and managed to translate parts of it. "Snape's dad beat him?"

          "'Beat.' That is the word for the hitting? So it is a ritual?"

          "No. It's--"

          "You have a special word for it."

          "It's not... it's complicated."

          "You humans tend to be."

          Harry bit his lip and frowned. Argument with a feline was not something he felt up to right now. "If it is a ritual, it's not... a good one," he said weakly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The lynx turned and rested her warm, solid head in his lap, the presence oddly reassuring. He automatically scratched behind her ears. She purred.

          "You are a little like Severus. He would pet me too, after a beat."

          "Beating," he corrected absently. His thoughts flew to two separate images of Severus Snape-- the bastard he faced at school, the domineering, arrogant, intimidating Potions Master... it was impossible to think of anyone daring to lay a hand on him. They'd get hacked off at the wrist.

          But also the solemn nine year-old boy, staring at him with black empty eyes from a portrait frame, the shadow of his father behind and above.... Harry shivered. The realization that someone he'd always despised until only twenty-four hours ago was a real human being, with pain and hurt and, dammit, maybe something in common with him, was not something he felt comfortable with.

          Harry turned off the lights, wishing he could turn off thoughts the same way, and curled up under the covers, the cat a reassuring, heavy warmth at his feet. In the dark, he buried his face in the soft pillows and thought fiercely about Quidditch strategy until sleep finally came. He hoped he was tired enough that dreams would not be an issue.

          His hopes were in vain. Harry's eyes flickered open as he clamped his teeth over a shout, one hand clapping at his forehead.

          The standard Volde-crap, he thought angrily to himself. Figured the bastard would interrupt the first really sound sleep he'd had since leaving Hogwarts, unless one counted last night and the exhausted unconsciousness that had followed.

          He sat up wearily. A fumble for his glasses and wristwatch revealed it was after one. Damn.

          The warmth at his feet was gone, and he wondered idly if Macavity had just gotten bored in the nature of all cats, or whether he had kicked, tossed, and turned her out of bed.

          He flopped back onto the pillow with a sigh and tried to forget whatever the dream had been about. Fragments still flitted across his brain-- a woman screaming, someone laughing low and maliciously, a voice saying 'crucio'... He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. Dragged his palms over his face, as if trying to scrub away the images. They remained, and he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

          Since a little over two years ago, when Voldemort had conclusively returned to life at the Tournament, things were not the same. Well of course not, how could they be? he mentally mocked himself. Fudge had been forced to admit, finally, the very real war being fought, and wizarddom returned to a state it had thought left behind sixteen years ago.

          Life went on, of course-- but Aurors patrolled the streets of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. Two were on duty at all times at the Hogwarts gates (which Harry privately thought was rather stupid, as if Albus Dumbledore and staff's potent charms weren't enough to keep out the forces of Dark, what good would two wizards do?). There were no more Hogsmeade weekends. Remus Lupin once more taught Defense Against the Dark Arts-- now synonymous with How To Fight Curses and Use Spells in Combat Situations. Harry himself got extensive private tutoring in this area, and was fine with that-- up to a point.

          The point was... they all expected him to save the world. Didn't they? he thought bitterly. That was why he was given the extra lessons, taught things that were most definitely not on the curriculum, taught things about Voldemort's rise to power. Because they hoped that he would again duel with the Dark Lord and somehow, yet again, manage to beat him. Or at least set him back for another year.

          His life stretched ahead of him, years of frantic tutoring to make him ready for the inevitable end-of-the-year battle, the build-up, the confrontation, the madness and terror as he fought for his very life-- let alone the lives of everyone he held dear-- and with a combination of some skill, his reflexes, magical help from Dumbledore and others, and a great deal of blind luck, somehow managed to blunder through to another victory. Another postponement of the day when he knew they would have to settle things once and for all.

          I'm sixteen. Sixteen! They expect the world from me. Never mind I can't even pass my Transfiguration final or stand up to my Muggle uncle; they want me to lead some sort of damn army to destroy Lord Voldemort. They don't have a battle plan, any idea of how to attack him; that much is obvious. The wizarding world just looks at me and expects me to pull off the next miracle.

          It'd be funny if I wasn't at the centre of the whole thing.

          Harry groaned and buried his face in his pillow, and uttered the mental cry of reluctant heroes since the dawn of time. Why me? I didn't ask for this.

          And he worried. Worried for himself, yes, but also his friends, who were targets just by association with him. He had awkwardly tried to bring up the subject to Dumbledore before the school year had ended, and the Headmaster had looked at him over the glasses with a funny expression and said, seriously, "They are not without protection, Harry. I cannot promise you anything, but they are not without what protection we can give them."

          He had had to be content with that. And try to ignore the fact that he saw the solemn side of the Headmaster much more than he would have liked. He missed the faintly dotty, nearly always cheerful Dumbledore of the earlier years.

          Harry Potter squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself to sleep. It didn't work. Thoughts and worst-case scenarios seemed to plague him no matter what he tried, even the old stand-by of counting Snitches.

          He got out of bed, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold stone between rugs, and the cold air hit his mostly bare skin. He walked over to the French windows and pulled the curtains aside.

          The night outside was clear and cold-looking; he had no desire to open the doors and see whether that was true. It was already cool enough inside without that. He rubbed his hands over his upper arms and thought about climbing back into bed.

          Ron's words to Hermione, in their first year, came back to taunt him. Are you a witch, or aren't you? He smiled. "No, Ron, I'm not a witch, but you have a point..." He found his wand, also lying on the nightstand, and cast the heating charm they had learned in fifth year. The room was instantly cosy and he relaxed into the comfortable warmth, moved to one of the chairs, and sat down.

          The starlight and moonlight that entered through the window gave him enough light to see the room-- the cat-less room, at that. For a moment he wondered how Macavity had opened the bedroom door to leave, but she had also gotten in somehow. For all he knew, her magic abilities extended to more than just talking.

          He was wide awake and hated it. Sleep-- if it was dreamless-- would have been so incredibly welcome. He tried to tell his muscles that they were tired; reminded them of the miles of corridor they had walked today. They would have none of it. Harry grumbled and threw his head back in the chair.

          He was hungry. Again. Gods, I had a bloody enormous supper, what's wrong with me? he thought. Probably trying to gorge myself after the fast at the Dursleys. Maybe I should go down to the kitchen for a snack.

          He paused and considered it. Well, why not? Maybe warm milk, which Hermione always said was supposed to put you to sleep. He had never had any, and thought it sounded ghastly, but at the moment it was worth a try.

          He grabbed the robe he had noticed hanging earlier in the bathroom, his wand for light, and made his way into the immense dark maze of the castle at night.