Chapter 12: Aftershocks
"Harry…please…" A.M. whispered, dragging herself toward him, her jerky crawling that of wounded prey. "Can't you just take away the pain?"
He found himself horrified and disgusted by the animalistic heap in front of him. She- no, it was a spy, a traitor. 'To think I saw something in her.' She wrapped her hand around his ankle, but he hastily kicked it away.
Turning, he pushed his way through the confused onlookers. Wasn't he Harry Potter, protector of good, guardian of pretty, wounded girls blocking the entrances to lavatories? Then the gasp went up- a single, collective breath, proving that what he had seen was real.
He barely registered the flurry of faculty running past him. Snape, unsurprisingly, was the first to barrel him over, panting, "No, why couldn't she just stay in her room?!"
Alone, staying a brisk pace, was Madame Pomfrey, leaving only the slow shuffling of Dumbledore, McGonagall at his side. "There's nothing to be done now," he was telling the other teacher.
"Oh Albus, surely we can make some sort of announcement- give some explanation-"
"Minerva, we can't undue this. We can only start damage control. I expect quite a few howlers from angry parents."
"But that poor girl. How will she deal with the other students? Certainly they will ostracize her."
"Then I suppose it's time for Ms. Kinter to learn a new set of social skills. There's nothing we can do." The conversation continued in this same vein, but Harry had to strain to hear.
He felt the sudden need to run, to escape what he had just seen, and did not stop until he reached the portrait of the fat lady. Inside his bedroom, he slammed the door and locked it with every charm and ward he knew. Woe to the boy who tried to get through there.
One word entirely encompassed his every thought and emotion: betrayal. He'd put himself on the line for A.M., standing up for her to Hermione and the rest of the Gryffindors. He'd opened up to her in a way he'd never done with a girl (with Hermione as an exception, of course). He'd allowed himself to become attached, but like all the people he loved, she had turned black and sour, died in his arms.
His hands burned and itched where he'd touched her, but he knew it was just his imagination, like when one's skin crawled at the mention of spiders. It was so unfair, though. Why had A.M. tricked him? Was she a spy for Voldemort? What else could she be? 'But Dumbledore and McGonagall knew about her,' he pondered. 'So did Snape and Madame Pomfrey. Why would Dumbledore let a Death Eater come through those front doors?'
Despite several silencing charms, Harry heard a tinny knock echo through the room. A few waves of his wand removed the spells, spilling Ron onto the floor by the door. "Next time, warn me when you remove all the wards. I was pushing from the outside."
"Sorry."
"I heard what happened."
"Yeah," Harry murmured, not to anyone in particular. He lay on his bed, arms under his head, feeling no need to actually look at his friend.
"There's a good side to this."
"What?"
"I won't have to kick your ass for trying to steal my girl." Managing a smile, Harry gave thumbs up. He didn't have the energy to fake a chuckle. "Did she try to kill you?"
"No," he replied, suddenly immersed in the memory of A.M.'s fresh tears, her arms reaching out to him, her voice begging. "She asked me to help her. She wanted me to help her." The split second of sympathy evoked was smashed in a wave of anger. "She betrayed us all, then asked for my help, so she could continue to betray us."
"What are dames for, mate?" Ron seemed awfully cocky for a boy who, only days ago, was lusting after the same girl.
"Yeah," Harry murmured. "What are dames for?"
***
The next day Harry became fully aware of the repercussions, both good and bad, of his actions yesterday. The fellow students felt he was a hero, the only one capable of ousting a spy. The teachers, on the other hand, were extremely distant, even spiteful toward him. After several attempts, he gave up trying to talk to Hagrid, who, whenever Harry approached the great table, was always able to engross himself in one conversation or another. McGonagall refused to even meet Harry's gaze.
The Gryffindor table itself was far more crowded than any day before, not from extra breakfasters, but from an old school game. Much in the style of cooties, the other students gave A.M. full room (almost a third of the bench), choosing instead to practically sit on one another's laps. Needless to say, no one was comfortable: A.M. mentally, the rest physically.
Harry watched the happenings with great content, but stared on, horrified, as Hermione passed the other Gryffindor students and headed to A.M.'s end of the table. How could she be such a traitor? However, Ron saw her too and yelled, "Hermione, down here! I saved you a seat!"
Harry's friend looked annoyed, but abandoned her plans and took the cramped spot next to Ron. "You can't do this to her forever. I'll sit with you today, but I'm going to talk to A.M. tomorrow."
"Please Hermione," Ron begged, "you're committing suicide. She's a Death Eater."
"Oh really? That wasn't much a deterrent when you two were scratching at her door." She stared at the blonde. "Besides, I think there's more to this. Someone should at least discuss this with her before casting judgment."
Ron, eager to change the subject, brought up the only topic that could possibly sway Hermione's attention. "So," he asked coyly, "on another note, what are you wearing to the dance?"
***
The greatest consequence of all came after breakfast. After A.M.'s intervention, Snape had treated Harry with civility (obviously a great strain on his psyche), if not kindness. However, A.M. must have told her professor that Harry had dropped her and run, for Snape was particularly nasty. "Today we will be making a healing potion," he informed the class, "a blood coagulating charm, to be exact." He looked around the room, a cruel smile caressing his thin lips. 'And one of you lucky students, chosen at random," he chuckled, "will be our guinea pig." All eyes were on Harry. It was quite obvious who the random student would be.
"Now, if the potion is made correctly, it will scab over even the largest of cuts. St. Mungo's often uses it to heal incisions after major surgery. In our situation, unless our student has an open wound, there won't be much indication of a working potion. However, there will be an excellent indication of a faulty potion." He paused for effect. "The subject's veins will dissolve, killing them instantly."
A few students giggled nervously, but the professor continued. "I'll draw a name out of this hat," he explained, rummaging through a cap on his desk. "Well, what do you know? Harry Potter."
"Hermione, we better get this one right," Harry whispered.
"Mr. Potter, five points from Gryffindor for talking in class and, if you're going to warn your partner, you might as well warn everyone. You'll be trying all the potions."
Hermione finally stood up, her back arched, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You can't make us do this. We'd get in trouble with the ministry if something happened to Harry."
"Ten points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn. However, you are correct, Ms. Granger. The ministry would be quite upset about a murder, but unintentional manslaughter is merely a court date and an apology to the deceased's parents. Well, in this case, just a court date." Harry turned red, his breath coming in short gasps. "Of course, if one were to purposely mess up their potion for any reason whatsoever, they run the risk of a first-degree murder charge, but it would be almost impossible to prove intent or action. Now, shall we begin?
As Harry and Hermione set to work, Harry felt his entire body break into a sweat. However, looking around, he noted even the most despised Slytherin measuring and stirring more carefully than he'd ever seen. Despite Snape's assurances, no one wanted to sit before the Ministry and try to plead innocence. Azkaban was enough to put fear in the heart of the most moral man alive.
Explosions and Neville's cries of distress quickened Harry's heart until he felt his temples might burst. Counting partners, he saw he'd have to drink 12- no, 13 concoctions. He'd be lucky, with the difficulty of the recipe, to even survive four. He realized, more than any other time he'd been in danger, that he might well lose his life that day.
However, once all the potions were made and poured into chalices, each had the same sickly orange color of a rotten peach. Either they'd all gotten it wrong, or, hopefully, they'd all done it right, a first for this potions class. Suddenly, he realized there were only 12 potions. Who wasn't done?
A snicker from behind grabbed his attention just in time to let him see A.M.'s and Malfoy's potion, the perfect shade, turn midnight-blue as Malfoy poured in the whole jar of earwigs. A.M., shrugging, filled her chalice and took it to the front of the class, where she placed it at the end of the line.
Snape, observing all this, raised an eyebrow in A.M.'s direction, as if asking, "Are you sure you want to do this?" She simply turned and went back to her cauldron.
"Mr. Potter, are you ready?" It didn't matter whether he was or not. Snape simply asked for dramatic effect. Harry, considerably foolhardy, walked up stiffly and downed the first potion in one gulp. It would have been pointless to go get Dumbledore. After yesterday's events, no teacher would help him.
"And the next," Snape goaded. Again he drank the orange mixture. It was a vile potion, one that burned the roof of his mouth and brought tears to his eyes. "And the next." He continued until only the blue concoction remained.
"And the next." Harry slowly picked up the chalice and closed his eyes, not wanting to accept his death, but too prideful to turn down Snape's challenge. Just as the cup touched his parched lips, he felt it snatched from his hand. Blinking, he saw A.M. in front of him, raising the glass to her own mouth.
"Miss Kinter, please return the potion to Mr. Potter and take your seat." The professor's voice was steady, but his demeanor proved otherwise. He eyed the girl nervously, as if she might just be crazy enough to take from the cup.
"I find it quite unfair that Mr. Potter gets to test my work, but I don't get a chance to try it." She stared back at Snape boldly, a bald challenge.
"Miss Kinter, please put the potion down and-"
"But Professor Snape, why is he allowed to drink it and I'm not? If you thought the potion was made incorrectly, certainly you wouldn't let either of us, or anyone, for that matter, to take it, right?"
It was a battle of wills. Snape wanted desperately to punish Harry for abandoning his favorite student in her time of need. But now that A.M. had become the antagonist, what decision would he make? "All right," he finally growled, "class is dismissed early today."
As the other students filed out, Harry returned to his desk, relieved at the outcome of the previous events. One usually feels some sort of elation when death, sitting behind him on his haunches, finally stalks away. He grabbed his books, but did so slowly, as to hear the conversation between A.M. and Snape. He hoped the teacher would crucify her. One good deed did not correct every bad one she surely had committed as a Death Eater.
"My dear, please leave the punishment of my students up to me next time," he smoothly chastised, obviously suppressing a hot frustration.
"Killing isn't a punishment. It's a vengeful act, pure and simple. Harry's done nothing wrong to you." Harry couldn't believe the charade she was putting on. Would a Death Eater stop at nothing to save herself?
Harry dropped his quill, snapping the two conversationalists to attention. "Mr. Potter, remove yourself from this room at once," Snape ordered.
"Yes sir," he replied, but, after a few seconds, settled back in. The professor, apparently unaware, returned to the topic at hand.
"Don't you know who found you? Who left you to the mercy of the masses? Don't you-"
"Don't you think we've seen our share of killing, Severus?! That there's enough blood on our hands?!"
"Potter, did I not tell you to get the hell out of here?!"
"Yes sir, yes sir," Harry stammered, lunging for the door before things got even more heated. He'd heard all the evidence he needed.
Right behind him the potions classroom door slammed. A.M. was there, books in hand, chest heaving. Snape did not follow. "Harry, we have to talk!"
He looked the killer in the eyes. "I really don't want to discuss this right now-"
She fought to catch her breath. "It's not about yesterday, I swear. I understand what you did. I wouldn't have done the same thing, but… well, I understand. This is about a promise I made to myself." She reached in her robe's pocket and, when she pulled out her hand, a teardrop aquamarine dangled from her fingers. He'd seen it before, but only hanging around her neck.
"I was worried you wouldn't take this seriously, so I wanted to give you this-" she pressed the necklace into his palm, "to prove the worth of my words." She locked his stare with her own cornflower gaze and, despite his anger, he felt his stomach flip-flop. "This is a necklace my mother wore many years ago. It…means a lot to me. She always said that it brought her good luck, but it doesn't seem to be working for me. Hopefully it will do better by you."
She paused, trying to get her mind around her words. "I really like you, Harry, and I have since I met you. I realize that you haven't seen the best side of me, and I don't think what I know of you is the best side of you. I hope that you'll give me a chance to prove to you who I really am."
Clasping his knuckles, she worked hard to keep her mouth from wavering. He watched with a certain fascination as she struggled to control her quivering lips. However, her nervousness was betrayed in the trembling hand closed about his own. "Harry, will you go to the dance with me?"
His mind blanked. "Dance?"
"The promenade. Next month."
He laughed. Was she serious? "Um, no, A.M. I'm not going to go to the promenade with you." He laughed once more, then tried to put on a straight face.
A.M. hung her head, pulling her hand back as if she'd been burned. "I understand. This was a moot point. Like I said, I just had to fulfill a promise."
Rubbing the back of his head, Harry took a step toward the door. "Are you done?" he asked, feeling no need to show manners to a Death Eater.
"Yeah, you can run onto lunch. Though I don't know how you can eat anything after drinking all those potions."
He merely walked away, refusing to dignify her small talk with a response. How could she? How dare she? Had she not realized the game was up? A spy discovered is a spy no more.
As he briskly strode to lunch, two thoughts played themselves repeatedly in his mind. The first was understandable: "Screw the bitch." The other came from nowhere and pestered him mercilessly: "How can I ever forget A.M.? Why, if she's the enemy, do I feel like I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?"