Chapter Eleven: There?

Harry slipped into the Great Hall softly, his body sleek from the damp shower of the early morning. Glancing about, noting the stifling emptiness of the place, he made a quiet beeline for the Gryffindor table before veering off course.

Instead he settled at the Ravenclaw table, hardly caring. Actually, he found it a bit thrilling. He rarely took up residence for a meal at another House Table, though he knew many that did. The drawbacks, apparently, of having friends, basically, all from the same house.

Reaching forward, he shoveled some eggs and bacon onto his plate from the steaming, fresh food, sitting so far back upon the bench that his legs swung a bit. He felt almost like a little boy, swinging his legs like so, but had a picture been snapped of him, it would've been quite apparent that he looked rather strange indeed.

Sitting so far back that his arse was on the very edge, his usually cropped legs swung back and forth, utterly swaying the mere imagine of him being a Hero—an Adult. He was the Savior of the World, he was even a murderer (even if no one acknowledged that part.). Heroes, murderers (unless mentally ill) didn't sit on benches, swinging their legs, secretly enjoying a simple meal of eggs and bacon.

Alas, no one truly knew the mind of Harry Potter, now did they?

Though as a few minutes drifted by, the thick, rigid silence of the Great Hall was bothersome. So unusual it was, so irksome even, having to sit in complete silence in a Hall usually so filled with chatter, laughter, and people that it crawled, creakingly, into his bones.

Setting his fork down, he straightened out, legs firmly planting themselves upon the ground, and he cupped his forehead, staring at the table tiredly. Lost? Was he lost?

As if in answer to his question (rather disputing it or confirming it) the door to the Great Hall creaked open and someone slinked in. Not too caring to lift his eyes up, he frayed out his hair a bit more, dragging his fingers through it.

"You do realize, Mr. Potter, that your table is Gryffindor, not Ravenclaw?" Snape's silky voice seeped over him, causing his shoulders to tense. Uggh, he didn't want to deal with that man.

"Yes sir, I very much recall that," he looked up scathingly. "I'm merely failing to acknowledge that."

"You'll do well to watch your tone, Potter," the man growled out darkly. "I daresay we've had this conversation far too many times for my liking." He turned away, sharply. "The consequences of having it again will not be pretty."

With that stated, he stalked off, robes billowing out behind him as he made toward the Head Table.

"Is a simple, 'Good Morning,' beyond your witty reach, Professor?" Harry sighed quietly, though a dry voice mockingly told him that it was so. Ever so.

The silence between the two of them in the Great Hall was just as bad as the solitude silence, but luckily, it didn't last long as Ginny seemed quick to respond to Harry's silent pleading for company.

She stepped in, took one sweeping glance, walked over and joined Harry at the Ravenclaw table, seemingly empty of questions. "Morning, Harry."

"Morning," he smiled at her lopsidedly. Collecting her plate full of food, they fell into a comfortable silence for the rest of the meal.

987

Running his hand through his fringe, he looked at Ginny resolutely bored. She was walking about the Trophy Room, fingers trailing themselves across the brightly polished trophies, smudging them ever so slightly.

Ah, all those students' hard hours of the labor down the drain…(Sarcasm—too much Snape.)

"'Ere!" she finally declared triumphantly from a spot toward the farthest corner.

"Whatssa?" he slurred, unmoving from his reclined position upon the wall. He hardly understood nor cared for the reason that the redhead had dragged him throughout the school upon a sudden mission of sorts to give him some enlightening knowledge. He was fairing quite well at the second without it (and he suspected the future would fair well too.)

Narrowing her eyes dangerously, a Weasley temper that was never neglected in genes rising up sharply. "If you want to know, Mr. Potter, then you'll get your arse over here and look. Lazy, little, devilish bum of…" she trailed off sourly in her mutterings making the boy smirk.

"What will I be missing if I fail to move my 'lazy, little, devilish bum' over there?"

"I'll keel you."

Cocking his head to the side, an amused smile playing his lips, he spoke silkily. "How, my dear little Weasley, do you think you'll 'keel me' as you so elegantly put it?"

"By telling you Snape's your father—which is very possible with the way you're acting—cute, Potter." She rolled her eyes dramatically at the theatrically flare Harry put on to his abrupt collapsing onto the ground. "Just come look."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled as he pushed his gloved hands into the ground and propelled himself up. "What's so special about this anyway? Eh? Tom's plaque spontaneously dissolve?"

"No, but I could arrange for that to happen," she commented thoughtfully as she rubbed her chin. "This has to do with our possibly—and I say 'possibly'—homicidal new Dark Arts Professor. Seeing the track record, the 'possibly' is very good."

Giving her a torn look, one that could've rivaled the Tragedy and Comedy Masks of the Theater, Harry saddled up alongside her. "In recognition of superb bravery and excellence of skill, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry awards Travis V. Gary the Special Honors Award…blah to blah, dust to dust, vice to sin, who cares!"

"'E fought off a group of rogue dementors that attacked Hogwarts in the late 60s."

"So Dumbledore was still a hundred then," Harry said sardonically.

Snorting, she lifted a shoulder. "Doesn't matter—think 'bout it Harry, next to Moody, the fake-one, he could be the next homicidal maniac worth his spit."

"He's insane."

"Insanity is best presented as a façade."

"You're paranoid."

"Surprised you're not."

"He's dead," he voice was cold. "Why would we have to worry about murderers after me?"

"Because, Harry, you'll always after murderers after you—and they're always DADA professors or Dark Lords—take your pick."

"Charming."

"Sorry to break reality across your unruly nest of hair."

"I'm good," he smiled at her lopsidedly. "I'll be aware—maybe his insane digresses in class carry subliminal messages of blood, guts, gore, conspiracy, murder, you know, all that good stuff."

"Yeah, best start listening better."

Laughing somewhat, Harry turned with the girl. "Well do—hell, I might ever take stock in his ramblings of some bloke up in Denmark named Hamlet. Who knows what'll that save me from!"

Both laughing out right this time, they left the Trophy Room swiftly, in hopes of catching some flying time with Ron and Dean before dusk settled down too far.