Looking up from his newspaper bed, soggy beneath the rain, a tramp peered into the night. The comforting presence of his solitude enveloped him, much as the starry blanket of the velvet sky phagocytozed the troubled world. As the cold drops of water washed over him, so they forged lines of pink upon his dirt – encrusted skin. The lofty building walls surrounding him provided little shelter as they did the inhabitants of the apartments on the other side of the stony divide. Jet-black hair forming shiny tendrils upon his wet forehead and a darkly bestubbled jaw meant his face was framed by a darkness heralding anonymity. Society wouldn't know his face, and neither could he know the face of society.
Far above him in a shoddy flat a young man, barely dressed, staggered into his poor excuse for a bathroom. He pulled the cord beside the mirror and was accosted by the ghostly neon light emanating from the naked bulb above his head. The light did nothing more than to accentuate the hollows around his eyes and to scorch his retinas. The tramp below squinted as the rectangle of harsh light in the heavens reached his damp resting place.
Grimacing at his image in the mirror, he fumbled blindly in the cabinet beside the basin. Without difficulty his fingers found the familiar pot; every night for countless months they had curled around the prescription container. In one swift movement he had opened the pot and dispensed a single white pill into his tired hand. It looked so small and insubstantial and yet without its effects the nightmares - or were they memories? - that had once again caused him to rise in the middle of the night, would return with their uncompromising cruelty.
He placed the pill on the back of his tongue and swallowed, not noticing the bitter taste it left in his mouth. With a sigh he turned the rusty tap and splashed his face with a handful of icy water. Shaking himself in reaction to the shocking cold he weakly turned off the light and traipsed out of the bathroom.
As he lay back onto his bed, his arm touched another's bare flesh. His companion did not wake, nor was he aware of the tears coursing from tired eyes as, with a heaving chest, silent sobs peeled into the darkness.
It will make a weak man mightyIt will make a mighty man fall
It will fill your heart and hands
Or leave you with nothing at all
It's the eyes for the blind
And the legs for the lame
It is the love for hate
And pride for shame
Harry flinched, awaiting the moment when cold drops of ice found their way between his scarf and the sensitive skin on the back of his neck. The snowball had hit him square on the back of his head and he could feel it melting as he bent down to grab himself a handful of the white ammunition. Fortunately he had found a spell the previous night to protect his hands from the cold; his gloves were utterly useless, so moth-eaten were the fingers that they served only as a source of ridicule.
'Sucker!' crowed Ron, somewhat smug that his aim had been accurate. 'Beat that for a cracking shot!'
He regretted that almost immediately as Harry's response was to send a snitch-sized ball hurtling through the air, landing triumphantly in the centre of Ron's freckled forehead. Harry collapsed in a fit of laughter, too amused to care that he was covering his robes in snow. He would never fail to be amazed by Christmas at Hogwarts; it always snowed and, unsurprisingly, it was always truly magical.
The snow this year was thick and well suited to being squashed eagerly into balls ready for jocular war. Having never been allowed to do such things at Privet Drive, Harry indulged himself completely in the festivities, and in Ron he had an ever-willing companion. Hermione preferred to watch, complaining that melting snow in her hair would cause a frizz disaster, the likes of which had never before been witnessed.
'Good one Harry!' she giggled as Ron gave a perfect imitation of someone taken by surprise with a bitch-slap. Harry, who had got back onto his feet, was taking a bow.
'Yeah, I suppose it was a good shot,' Ron had to agree, but followed with a running leap, his hands full of loose snow, with which he proceeded to smother Harry's face.
'Pff mwar peh bleugh,' Harry gabbled, his mouth full of snow.
It was Ron's turn to roll around mirthfully in the snow. He couldn't stop laughing, despite the fact his stomach muscles began to ache and tears were coursing down his cheeks. It was infectious, and soon Harry was back on the ground; a chortling mass of black robes amongst the white snow. Both boys were weakly tossing lumps of snow in the vague direction of the other, their failing attempts only inciting further laughter. Hermione could do nothing but watch in amazement as her two best friends were reduced to gibbering wrecks before her eyes.
Suddenly, still gasping with hilarity, both Ron and Harry got up and ran towards Hermione with a united purpose. They unceremoniously tipped armfuls of snow over her as she protested with piteous cries of 'my hair, oh my poor hair!'
The boys were off again; it was all too funny to bear. Their amusement took the form of more laughter, which chimed around the courtyard. It took several minutes before Hermione's rage subsided, but eventually she too found the comical side.
When Seamus came to tell them it was lunchtime he found his friends in a giggling heap on the snow, occasionally injecting half formed sentences before once again collapsing into newly re-kindled glee.
'What the...?' he was speechless
'He...We...The hair!' Ron tried to explain but couldn't fight back the chortles.
'So funny! Snow...WHAM!' All three rolled around at the last comment. Seamus shook his head in disbelief, but grinning like a loon all the same.
'Honestly! I leave you alone for a few hours and you turn into uncontrollable giggling children. It's time for lunch, hungry?'
The all-important words had been said, and they leapt to their feet, suddenly aware of how hungry they felt. An air of contentment surrounded them as they made their way to the Great Hall.
Is anybody even thereWho doesn't just pretend to care
This time I need to know – are you there?
Does anybody think they can
Begin to even understand
This time I need to know – are you there?
Muffled sounds and blurry visions met his senses. Slowly they came into focus and he couldn't decide if the faces before him were the spectres that haunted his mind, or if they were real and able to provide the physical comfort his lonely frame so desired. Before he could reach a conclusion the darkness swept over him again.
This relentless drifting between oblivion and incomprehensible images had lasted for several months. He was unaware of his surroundings, save for the occasional delirious conversation he held with whatever nurse was on duty that day. They all took turns to care for the heartbreakingly incapacitated youth; he was in the prime of life, yet he was living the death trap of his tortured mind.
The Ministry of Magic had decreed that he was not to be released until matters had been investigated further. There was Dark Magic at work and nothing could be done until they knew exactly what was being dealt with. No magic could be used on or around him, for this would serve to worsen the situation. So all they could do was watch as, day after day, his suffering continued.
There were times when he became almost lucid, and the nurse would be greeted with a beautiful gaze from startling eyes and an accompanying nod. Hopes were raised and recovery was the first word on the tip of every tongue. However, these moments passed and the calm staring gave way to frantic searching, as the one thing he so desired was absent. It was from these spates of desperation that the indelible marking appeared on his wrists and ankles as he struggled against the restraining buckles. Angry, confused sobs could be heard coming from his room, their haunting resonance adding to the pathos of the situation,
'Come back! Come back to me please. Without you I'm useless. Stop! What are you doing? We can't... Oh where have you gone? You are my life. My life,' his cries were interrupted with sporadic wails.
On these days the staff on his ward would go about their work ashen faced and silent, except for murmurings of 'a life without magic,' 'just taken away,' 'so young,'
It had been several months since he had last seen his visitor, and the 'bad days' had increased in their savage virulence afterwards. Stories were still told of the day he left; the cloaked wizard had run from the hospital as though he wouldn't have had the resolution to leave if he didn't move fast enough. Instead of shouting, only endless silence came from the remaining inhabitant of the hospital room. There was such raw anguish evident in his face that it reduced the doctor, a fully-grown wizard, to tears that fell hot on sympathetic cheeks. No one could begin to comprehend what had so affected the usually unresponsive teenager.
It was several days after the dramatic departure that the emotion poured forth. And pour it did. Relentless, bitter tears escaped his eyes like prisoners freed from a lifetime in Azkaban. He coughed out tortured sobs, and without his hands to shield his face; he shut his eyes to the world.
In the weeks that followed he did not once open his eyes. Make no mistake; he was far from being asleep. Rather he was running through memories, re-playing them on the theatre of his eyelids. Surveying with agonizing detail the events leading up to the fateful day upon which he was hospitalised. Contrary to common belief, the pain did not ease with time. Its throbbing did not become a negligent ache; instead it became an evil of inescapable potency. Its wrath filled every fibre of his weakened being, turning hope to despair, shredding his dignity and removing all belief of self-worth. No soothing words could ease the ever-increasing agony; try as the nurses might the deepening lines on his face could not be halted.
After three weeks of sleepless sorrow his exhausted body slipped over the edge of consciousness upon which he had be precariously balanced. The sweet sanctuary of slumber appeared, for a short while, to ease the tension in his fatigued muscles. As he revelled in the blissful nothingness his appearance seemed rejuvenated, though he still looked old beyond his years; his face spoke of trials far beyond that which any mortal should be expected to endure.
Unfortunately, it seemed his rest was merely a replenishing period before the turmoil recrudesced. The nightmares began infrequently, the staff put it down to anomalies often encountered during deep sleep. However, it soon became obvious that the nightmares were not mere chemical imbalances. The wounds on his wrists and ankles were re-opened and his pyjamas were wearing thin where fingers had torn at anything within their extremely limited reach.
The terrible dreams had a reducing effect on his already diminished physique; each morning when the nurses changed shifts they would find him curled up as close as possible to the foetal position, his wrists bleeding and fresh marks where he had bitten his lip in the throes of dread. His eyes, although still shut, were red and sat in deep hollows in his gaunt face.
It was in this condition that his visitor found him on returning to the hospital...
'Shit you look awful,' a familiar voice rang like the purest music in his ears. He had waited for that sound for so long.
'You came back? But you –' the slumbering boy drifted back to awareness.
'Shh. I know,' tender reassurance flooded his mind, a soft touch graced his hand, 'The Ministry wouldn't let me see you. They're being such morons; I tried to tell them but they wont listen to me. I can't stay – if they catch me...'
Footsteps rang in the distance.
'Fuck it!' the bed shook as a fist banged hard against its steel frame, 'I have to go. Don't let this place get to you. I'm doing all I can, you'll be free in no time,' with that the voice went.
The conversation had been brief, but it had been enough. He could still feel the fingers on his skin and the words, like incorporeal knights, fought back the demons in his mind.
The staff couldn't understand it. It couldn't have been magic; that would have had altogether the wrong effect. What had changed? Why the sudden peace on the sleeping face? One nurse swore blind she had seen traces of a smile creep onto the washed out lips. Though the others found this hard to believe, they all agreed that the downward spiral had ended and perhaps, just perhaps, things might be on the mend.
Have you ever stood outside a picket fence
You could see through, but you can't get to the inside
You sit there and wait
I look at you and anticipate
What we could be and what we could do
'I can't believe the holidays are almost over,' Hermione sighed. 'You know, I think this has been the best Christmas ever,'
'I know, time has flown by so quickly. We're going to have to start thinking about revising this term – it's not long until our NEWTs is it?' Ron groaned, the impending doom of exams putting a dampener on his festive spirit.
'START revising? You mean you haven't even begun your revision yet?' Hermione looked like she'd seen the Dark Lord apparate into the common room, 'I started months ago. You boys really ought to get your act together,'
'Bloody hell, I hadn't even considered exams. You couldn't give me a little help could you Herm?' Harry requested, a look of worry on his face.
'Only if you promise not to mention my hair to anyone. No one. At all,' Hermione stated with a steely glint in her eye. Her hair had been uncontrollable for almost a week after the snowball incident. Funny as it had been at the time, she was livid when she caught sight of herself in a mirror afterwards. Harry and Ron hadn't let her live it down for the rest of the holidays and she wasn't going to let it continue any longer.
'Hey! I don't want any tuition, so I can still tell people right?' Ron looked hopeful.
'No, you can't,' came the reply, 'if you tell anyone I will stop helping Harry,'
Harry looked desperately at Ron, who paused for several minutes, looking torn. Finally he spoke,
'You owe me big time, man. I was going to let that one run through 'till the summer,' Ron grinned wickedly as Hermione glared at him. 'Don't worry Herm; your secret is safe now. Unless someone doses me with Veritaserum,' He pondered this, 'Does that count?'
'Oh for Merlin's sake Ron! Nobody is going to give you Veritaserum, and even if they did they wouldn't be questioning you about my hair!' her patronising tone did a poor job of hiding her amusement as she pictured the scene in her head.
'Well, they might,' he mumbled.
'Might what?' Ginny Weasley popped her head into the common room.
'They might dose Ron with Veritaserum to get from him the world's most terrible secret,' Harry's eyes opened wide in mock scandal.
'What do you mean? What happened whilst I was gone? Honestly! I go home for a few days...' her eyes suddenly darkened menacingly, 'Ron, do you know where You Know Who is?' Ginny bore down on her brother, 'Why didn't you tell me? More importantly why haven't you told Dumbledore?'
Ron burst out laughing, 'Ginny, I have no idea where You Know Who is, nor do I especially want to be privy to such dangerous information,'
'Then what is it, this 'terrible secret'?' she asked petulantly.
'It's just about something that happened to Hermione this Christmas while you were at home, that's all,' Ron said secretively
Seamus leapt into the group, a large grin on his face letting everyone know he had been listening, 'What, you mean her hair? I don't think I've ever seen anything like it,' He proceeded to tell Ginny the entire story, not noticing when Hermione fled to her dorm, tears fresh in her eyes.
'Good one Seamus,' Ron muttered angrily before running after her, taking not the blindest but of notice that he was going up to the girls' dormitories, which were strictly out of bounds to all boys.
'What did I do?' Seamus' ever-cheerful face dulled for a moment as genuine worry passed over it.
'The hair – touchy subject,' Harry said with a knowing look.
'Oh shit. Should have thought about that. I wasn't particularly tactful was I?' he looked chagrined.
'Not really,' Ginny said bluntly, 'She must have been really worked up about it; I wondered why she wore that beanie hat for a week on end. You should know by now that we girls tend to be a bit sensitive about our appearance, or haven't you noticed the enormous mirror at the bottom of the girls' staircase?'
'To be honest no, I have never seen a mirror there. But I always wondered why you girls spend hours on end staring at the wall, and now I know!' the bright light of understanding shone from his eyes.
'I knew it was there,' Harry admitted, 'It's actually really useful; you can check your hair before you go down to breakfast and –' He stopped short at the incredulity in Seamus' face.
'Check your hair?' he was agog, 'How vain can you get?'
'I heard that Malfoy carries a mirror with him wherever he goes,' Ginny answered conspiratorially, despite the rhetorical nature of the question.
'Yeah, that Malfoy is such a poof!' Seamus added, 'He is always looking at his reflection in the portraits as he walks past, and I swear his t-shirts are about two sizes too small,'
'Two?' Harry guffawed, 'More like four! I swear I once saw him buying a pair of leather trousers in Hogsmeade. Leather trousers?!! That can't be normal,' he didn't dwell on the fact that Malfoy had actually looked good in the trousers, nor that he had given any thought to Malfoy's appearance.
The thread of insults continued until Ron returned, dragging a reluctant, and red-eyed, Hermione behind him. She refused to look at anyone; instead casting ominous looks at the floor.
'Seamus? Do you have something to say?' Ron prompted.
'Herm I'm sorry. I really am,' sincerity was clear in his voice, 'I didn't mean to upset you. I should have been more considerate; I know how much your hair bothers you. Please forgive me?'
Hermione raised her eyes at last, letting them meet Seamus' apologetic phizog. Her tears had dried and she managed a smile.
'It's ok Seamus. Sorry I overreacted,' She looked up at Ron, who nodded at her with pride at her humility. 'Just please no-one mention the hair again,'
There were vehement nods all round and a brighter air filled the room. Discussion turned to the fast-approaching term.
'It'll be nice to get back into the swing of things. I'm starting to really miss the bustle of term-time; the castle seems so empty during the holidays,' Seamus mused. 'Not that you guys haven't been great company though,' He hurriedly added.
'I know what you mean,' Ron concurred, 'there's a liveliness during the term that gets snuffed out when it ends,'
'I don't think that was helped by Fred and George's absence. I didn't realise quite what an impact their departure would make,' Harry felt the reassuring touch of the Marauder's Map in his pocket; maintaining the twin's legacy even after they had left. Without his father's map Harry's school life would have been more than a little awkward. He had the twins to thank for this inheritance.
Fred and George had completed their education at Hogwarts that summer and had immediately set about honing their prankster's skills in preparation for their ultimate aim: to open a joke shop of their own. Although Harry was awaiting this venture with great anticipation it did not prevent him from mourning their exodus.
'Hmm, you're right Harry,' Hermione agreed, 'there certainly is a novel air of seriousness without them here. However! We still have two Weasleys in this establishment; there will be more flame-haired mayhem I'm sure,'
Ron's heart fluttered a little; it was rare that anyone had talked about him as if he could be on par with his brothers. He was always referred to as 'the twins' brother' or 'that other Weasley' and among his friends he was just 'Ron'.
Ron he thought boring old Ron, that's all I am to people. My only contribution to the 'social world' is being sidekick to Harry Potter and occasionally supplying a joke or story to the forum. The perpetual bitterness fluctuated once again into a raging beast within Ron; he resented feeling inadequate and he always suspected that the only reason anyone even said 'hello' to him was an oblique attempt to curry favour with Harry. This insecurity was born of growing up in a large family where attention was rarely bestowed on any individual for a significant length of time unless there was an ulterior motive involved.
That Ron felt so rancorous made him feel terribly guilty – what good friend could harbour such jealousy and bitterness towards his companion? His guilt served to increase the agitation within. So ashamed was he of this acrimony that he never dared voice it. The anger therefore accumulated to vast proportions.
His one saviour was Hermione; something about the way she treated him gave the impression she set him aside from everyone else, that he was in some way special. It was for this very reason that Ron revered her so. His admiration was often interpreted as awe of her abundant knowledge, a feeling held by many. However, Ron no longer regarded her intelligence as something extraordinary in itself, rather a single thread in the magnificent fabric of her being.
Hermione too had to live in the shadow of their famous friend. In this Ron found a vague comfort; he was not alone. Whether or not Hermione objected with equal passion was unknown to him. For, if he, whose acumen paled beside hers, had kept his unsettled mind hidden, then it was entirely possible that she, too, was concealing her true opinion.
Seamus, who had tired of Ron staring into middle-distance and decided to tug a handful of fiery hair, halted this rather morose train of thought abruptly.
'Hey! Daydreamer!' he wafted a hand in front of Ron's now outraged face, 'Care to join reality?'
'I, I was listening. Really, I was,' the words didn't sound nearly as convincing as he'd hoped they would.
'Ron, you were listening about as much as I was riding a Hippogriff into the moonlight!' Hermione quipped.
'Really? Was it fun?'
'Well, well! Whoever she is, you are obviously rapt. I say you stop daydreaming and ask her out,' Harry stated, feeling pleased for Ron and the prospect of a burgeoning relationship for his eternally single friend. He hoped somewhat that the 'mystery girl' was his other, equally lonely, companion; Harry had noticed that Hermione's eyes drifted rather frequently to gaze at the fiery haired wizard, 'Go on! Make a move and ensnare the lucky lady,'
'Well, to be honest, I don't think McGonagall would say yes, so I think for now I will just leave it to my imagination...' For a moment everyone sat with horrified expressions, before Ron crowed with delight at their gullibility, 'Merlin! Did you honestly think...? I cannot believe you all fell for that!'
'Well, you do have a picture of her next to your bed,' Seamus added with a wink.
'You WHAT?' Ginny gaped.
'Oh yes, he loves that picture. She's wearing her best robes and that purple velvet hat she wears on special occasions and –'
'And it seems to me that this image has come to your mind far too quickly Seamus...' Ron grinned wickedly, 'I wonder why that could be? Is it, perchance, that you yourself have said picture by your bed and are confusing it with my bed?'
'Does he often get your beds confused? On a long lonely night...' Harry's suggestion brought about fits of giggles in the girls, whilst the boys put on an act of false outrage.
'Damnit Ron! Did you have to tell him? Now everyone will know about us. I thought it was our special secret,' Seamus wailed, raising a hand to his forehead dramatically.
'I couldn't help it! I was just bursting with elation; I had to tell someone. I just love you so much I can't contain it anymore,' his sarcastic declaration was interspersed with mock sobs.
'Oh Ron! I love you too. Marry me?' Seamus threw himself at Ron's feet.
From the other side of the common room a figure hurtled towards them,
'Nooo! He is mine Seamus! I will never let you have him,' Dean lunged at his housemate.
The common room turned into a stage for the friends' dramatic production. Bewildered first years scuttled away, somewhat afraid about the mental stability of their seniors. A few intrepid youngsters stayed to watch, highly amused by the display.
Before long their improvised story had turned into one of love and treachery, war and scandal and, above all, a contest of outrageous ideas. Ginny had just admitted to stealing Harry's white horse when Seamus leapt to his feet, having been knocked to the floor by his ex-mistress Hermione.
'By Merlin, I understand now!' his mouth was stretched into an enormous and triumphant grin, 'It is the Miller's fault. It must be! He was the one that sold me that bizarre creation, what did he call it? Sliced Bread I think. Yes! Everything has fallen apart since then; nothing has been good at all. Ron, please make my life wonderful again; marry me. It
would be best thing since –'
'Oh don't say it,' Ginny managed to convey her disgust through her laughter, 'I can't believe you actually tried to set that up for yourself!'
The shocking display of poor humour calmed the situation slightly, although there were sporadic outbursts of gleeful laughter for the rest of the evening. Ron had forgotten his resentment and there was once again an air of contentment among the Gryffindors.
What makes you think you're the oneWho can laugh without cryin'?
What makes you think you're the one
Who can live without dyin'?
Every little bit is there to see
Every little bit of you and me
'...I 'ave to remind you all that the Forbidden Forest is very dangerous, and none of yeh should go anywhere near it. Anyone found near it will be expelled immediately,'
'What is that oaf harping on about now?' the familiar cutting drawl belonging to Draco Malfoy echoed loudly around the Great Hall, his scorn aimed at Hagrid, 'We already know the Forbidden Forest is dangerous. I suppose he has just worked that out now, what an achievement! Of course, the whole forbidden part just passed him by, what with his keen eye for danger and all...'
His sarcasm was rewarded with a few sniggers and several longing glances from hopeful girls on his table. It seemed that, for some, every word he uttered compounded his appeal and he had developed quite a crowd of devotees over his time at Hogwarts. Whilst many would be unsure of how to handle this situation, Draco took it all in his graceful and poised stride; being accustomed to high regard from those he encountered. Not only did he hold his family name, which in itself was a social standard worthy of praise, but also his own effortless elegance demanded copious admiration.
It grated on him, however, that some individuals could not recognise his superiority; notably Harry Potter and his Gryffindor cronies, who persisted in annoying Draco at all possible opportunities. Since the day Harry had snubbed Draco's offer of friendship on the Hogwart's Expess the two had not seen eye to eye. It had become almost sport between the two groups – Draco and his Slytherins, and Harry and his Gryffindors – to launch increasingly poisonous insults at each other.
It was no longer acceptable for the exchanges of sub-standard lambasting of earlier years to pass between them. Instead, they had refined their spiteful tongues and, as a result, their criticism, although more infrequent, was deliciously soul-destroying. Those around blenched when a Potter/Malfoy war of cutting eloquence was underway, for just hearing the remarks could instil insecurities far beyond fear. However, neither party would back down until a final, acidic barb had caught its desired target, or a teacher interrupted the exchange. The defeated boy would skulk back to his dorm, plotting all the while the demise of the other, whilst the victorious would further display his perspicacity with a tirade of mockery.
It is to be said that neither was more frequently triumphant than conquered, though both would deny hotly their comparative equality. And whilst unused mordant words were becoming scarce, the challenge was ineluctable. In between verbal battles both blond and brunet were likely to be found brooding in a dark corner, their eyes vacant and their lips moving with the phantoms of unspoken words.
However, at this, the very beginning of term, there had been, as yet, no malevolent mutterings or provocative comments. Harry had not thought once about possible retorts over the holidays, he had been far too preoccupied. Something told him that he was not the only one to have been enjoying life to the full over the holidays; Malfoy was far too arrogant to be able to hold back a good insult for long; if he had found any time to spare for plotting over the holidays Harry would already have suffered the initial tirade of abuse. As it was, both boys were unprepared for a duel and pacifists around the castle heaved a sigh of relief.
They were sitting, as always, on opposing sides of the enormous hall; constricted, as tradition dictated, by the bounds of their house tables. The reactions to the various speeches given by the professors were subject to each table. Upon hearing that the Forbidden Forest was under even stricter regulation than usual, the Slytherins took it upon themselves to be affronted by what they considered to be an insulting reminder of rules they already knew and despised.
The Gryffindors, on the other hand, began talking in hushed tones, a flutter of worry and intrigue swept the table. Harry's ebony brow furrowed as his mind set to finding a reason for such precautions; everyone knew that the Forbidden Forest was out of bound to students, a directive that he had taken little notice of in previous years, and to impose a further jurisdiction upon its grounds seemed a little over-zealous. Why the sudden anxiety?
'Do you think it's got anything to do with You Know Who?' Neville half-whispered. All eyes studiously avoided Harry's; not knowing how he would respond to such a suggestion, despite it being on the tip of almost every tongue.
'Probably,' Harry tried to sound bored; and with a roll of his eyes he fought back, in vain, against the surge of fear rising within the pit of his stomach, a charging horse of terror that he knew so well. As the hooves of dread stampeded and incensed his heartbeat, he waited for the pain; the famous mark upon his forehead waited; his clenched fists waited...
But the pain did not come. His scar remained in a state of painless bliss. In the wake of unfulfilled expectance Harry momentarily revelled in the sensation of normality. There was not even a trace of the familiar dull ache beneath the magically forged rift in his olive skin. The startling green of his eyes returned as dilated pupils contracted.
Rapidly the trepidation diminished, fading to a remembered worry, and it was not long before his relieved heart gladly slowed to resting pace. The last traces of disquiet dissipated.
Harry's brief flutter had passed by unnoticed; his comrades' whispers lingered on the subject of Voldemort. This time his sigh of disinterest was delivered in total honesty. He felt sure that his enemy was not involved, but said nothing; not wanting to discuss the delicate issue of his hurting scar. His torment was not something many were privy to, and he intended on keeping it this way. A small part of him, no matter how irrational, felt that to voice and share a fear would only consolidate its grasp on the mind.
Draco, however, looking across the hall from his Slytherin table had seen the look on the raven-haired boy's face. Something about the alarm in those emerald eyes had struck him. Harry's expression held something akin to the monumental chasm of terror Draco felt each time he returned home. Each time he caught sight of his ever-strained father, noticeable aging in the brief time he was ensconced in Hogwarts each term. It seemed that the pressure placed upon Lucius by the Dark Lord was taking its toll, wreaking revenge as due for all of the memories of unspeakable acts of cruelty and malice.
To see his father wan beyond the trademark Malfoy pallor crushed Draco. His idol, his hero, was being torn apart by the ghost of the past and the terrible future, lurking like a black cloud on the horizon. Determined to survive the wrath of his master, Lucius persevered with his Death Eater ways. Draco knew not whether this choice was made merely for survival or for genuine support of Voldemort's political leanings. However, what he was certain of was his own opinion; he hated anyone who could reduce his marvellous father to such fragility, who could shred a man's sense of self will and create a shadow from such a vibrant figure.
It was on this matter that the two young enemies had common views; they both loathed the same twisted wizard. The very same man was responsible for countless sleepless nights and fearful awakenings. And it was with an equal passion that they contrived to bring about the downfall of the Dark Lord.
Since the revelation of the prophecy which told of Harry's role in saving the wizarding world, he had become accustomed to the fact that he was expected to stand up and face the man who killed his parents. And much as he dreamt about his revenge, a small part of his conscience taunted him; would he be able to defeat such a terrible figure? Would he, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, at that final moment, crumble under the weight of the painful memories and crippling fear? He had not only his self-inflicted pressure upon his shoulders, but also the hopes of magical folk around the world.
Under any normal situation no one, let alone a child, would be coerced into being even in the near vicinity of a murderer. Harry was required to show the utmost bravery, and failure was not an option.
'I am headed straight for failure!' Ron's plaintive wail dragged Harry back to reality and the now animated conversation amongst the 7th year Gryffindors, 'I'll never pass my exams, the work just won't sink in,'
He looked positively morose and Hermione couldn't help but lay a reassuring hand on top of his. Neville grinned widely at this display; the pair hadn't openly admitted their feelings for each other, but the signs were there for all to see. Except, that is, for the couple themselves, both denied fervently any relationship beyond that of friendship. As is often the case those directly involved with something are the last to know.
'Oh would you two please just get married already!' Parvati Patil groaned in exasperation from her seat beside Neville; they had been going out since the beginning of the school year, and were constantly trying to set other couples up.
'Ha ha, very funny,' Hermione's face showed no sign of humour, only a tinge of pink, 'there is nothing going on between us,'
Ron nodded vigorously, 'Well said Herm'! Besides, you all know that McGonagall is my true love...' Fits of giggles broke out amongst the friends, but Ron and Hermione shared an awkward glance, each one blushing dark shades of fuchsia.
'What's the joke?' A languid, yet undeniably insulting, voice came from behind Ron and Hermione, 'Finally come out of the closet Potter?' the smug tone was evident at the pun.
Harry's eyes snapped up from his plate, pupils dilating angrily, but when he saw the object of his rage something in his stomach jumped, rendering him almost speechless.
'What closet?' he flustered.
'Ah, still confused are we? Shame,' Malfoy mocked, but there was a wistful note in his voice that Harry couldn't quite decipher.
'Fuck off Malfoy,' Ron broke in, 'Just because you've run out of pansy-boys –'
'Actually, I think you'll find Pansy is a girl, Weasel. Or maybe you need glasses too,' he sneered, passing a disgusted eye over Harry's battered NHS lenses.
'AS I was saying,' Ron continued forcefully, 'Just because you've screwed every boy you can lay your hands on, doesn't mean you can move on to Harry,'
'I think you'll find that's for Harry to decide,' with that Draco Malfoy wheeled on an Italian leather-clad heel and left the Hall.