Rated
R for swearing, violence, and suicide (and/or suicide-related
issues). If this offends anyone, don't read. Thought I'd add that I
own nadda. All characters, names and related indicia are property of
J.K. Rowling. I am merely trying to share some of her goodness in a
non-illegal way. :)
-------
Chapter 3: Plots
The
white porcelain sink gleamed in the candlelight. Spots of
illumination danced here and there across the smooth white surface,
molten- like, beautiful. Silence. Except for the steady drip of water
from a pipe not far off. And occasional weeping, mournful and quiet;
echoing slightly eerily around the ancient room.
The girls'
toilet, to be exact.
Harry Potter leaned over one of the
sinks. He closed his eyes, both hands on either side of the cold
surface, trying to breathe normally. This had been happening quite a
lot over the summer...and Hogwarts wasn't about to let him forget
it. Moaning Myrtle was in one of the stalls, crying again. Over who
knew what. Harry ignored it.
Opening his eyes, he looked at
himself in the mirror and waited for the tears that blurred his
vision to fall.
He felt them sliding down his face, and he
squeezed his eyes shut again, but they kept falling anyway. Then he
was sobbing so loud it felt as if his soul was being mangled from
inside his body. Behind his closed eyelids it was as though a film
had been waiting to start, and a multitude of images flashed before
him.
All the pain he had caused.
All the deaths.
All
the people who had died because of him.
It was all his fault.
He hadn't saved them. And he couldn't save anyone else.
It
blocked his throat so he could not breathe. His hearing was muffled,
he was incapable of speech. He couldn't do anything but cry.
Breathe. Wait it out. Try breathing the air around him but knowing it
wasn't enough. He closed his eyes again and tilted his head back,
facing the ceiling. He groaned quietly as his head began to throb
painfully. Myrtle's crying was reduced to sniffling.
He knew
something was very, very wrong the first day back at Hogwarts. His
temper did not seem to want to tolerate any bullshit from anyone. He
couldn't help it. If someone hurt him, he would try to hurt them
back ten times worse. Several times, teachers and other students had
had to pull him off Draco Malfoy, whom Harry had been trying to pound
into the ground. Usually it was Malfoy who'd started it: lately his
favourite pastime was insulting Sirius or Molly Weasley or Harry's
parents. And each time Harry's blood would boil and he would be on
top of the blubbering, stupid git, trying to hurt every single inch
of him that he could...
Detentions would be given, points
deducted, and he would be yelled at. He would glare into Draco's
bloodied face, and Draco would glare right back, a smirk plastered in
place. Egging Harry on for next time. Only the detentions weren't
making the anger in his veins subside. They weren't erasing the
pain he felt in his heart, in his mind, in every inch of him. Sirius'
death was too much to bear...
Harry shook himself. Tried to
rid the images of the archway from his mind. Of the pain he'd felt
when Voldemort had posessed him. Of Lucius Malfoy staring Harry in
the eye – daring to stare Harry in the eye - demanding he obey.
Harry shuddered. He hadn't saved Sirius...
Suddenly, there
came a noise at the door. Harry's eyes snapped open and his body
tensed, froze. He couldn't be caught in here. He was just going to
run and hide in a stall, when the heavy wooden door creaked open, and
a small girl trudged inside. Her shock of red hair was the first
thing to cause Harry a slight sense of relief.
Ginny looked up
and started. Harry smiled uncertainly in spite of
himself.
"Harry?"
Harry raised a hand and
waved slightly, aware of how stupid he must look. He was also
suddenly aware of how untidy his hair was.
Ginny's gaze
flickered from side to side, cautious, as though she was looking or
watching for someone. She looked up at Harry slowly, disbelief and
questions in her chocolate brown eyes. They were really quite large,
Harry noticed. And pretty. Although she was looking at him as though
he was the weirdest thing she'd ever seen.
"Um, what're
you doing in here, then? Generally I don't permit boys in the room
while I'm pissing."
Harry's eyes grew wide and he tried
not to laugh. His smile faded and he shrugged. "I come in here
to...think."
Ginny snorted. "To think?" She gave him the
same appraising look that Dumbledore had given him earlier that
morning. "Why in here? It's a girls' toilet after all...or have
you gone and broken your glasses again?" She smirked and her eyes
twinkled.
Harry shrugged again, hating himself for looking so
dumb. "No one comes in here really," he answered slowly. "So
I'm almost always guaranteed a little bit of privacy, you
see."
The youngest Weasley folded her arms across her chest
and surveyed the wizard standing before her. Her red hair was wild
and framed her fair, freckled face in red, bushy glory. She slowly
nodded, apparently digesting the information well. "Yeah, I suppose
it would be a good place," she concluded after a bit of
length.
Harry wished it wasn't so warm in the room.
"But,"
she added. "What d'you need to think about to be in here all
alone? I mean – why Harry, you're crying!"
Harry swore
inwardly and quickly removed the tears – a little too quickly –
from his face. "It's nothing," he insisted, wiping the wet away
with one of the sleeves of his robes. "I poked myself in the eye,
is all..."
But Ginny sensed a lie. "Harry, is something
wrong?"
Harry was trembling. The room had suddenly gone very
cold. His hands shook and he fought to keep them concealed in the
fabric of his robes. He needed a way out.
"Listen," he
stammered. "I – I've got to get going to thing...the
wahatchamacallit...potions detention..."
Ginny looked at him
as though he were mad.
"I've just got to go."
Harry
swept out of the room, leaving a very suspicious cloud in his wake.
-------
The
Slytherin common room was unusually chilly. It was always chilly,
mind you, but that night it was bloody freezing. It didn't help
that it was made almost entirely out of miserable stone,
either.
Draco Malfoy blew some hot air into his cupped hands
and observed Pansy Parkinson as she knelt on the floor, stoaking the
fire that had been growing fainter for the past hour.
"Leave
it," he said sharply. "That's a House Elf's job."
Pansy
smiled faintly and remained at the fire, holding her hands out for
warmth. The flame's light flickered eerily around the common room,
across the lanterns hanging from chains on the ceiling (which were
now dark), casting rays of light all along the floor, and dancing
evilly along the rough, damp stone walls. Dungeons were like
that.
"It's so bloody cold in here."
"Unusual
for September, yeah," Draco answered, not really caring. He had
been in colder places than this. He leaned casually against a table,
head cocked to one side, the merest trace of a smile playing across
his pink lips. Sitting in chairs on either side of him were Vincent
Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, both of whom were as massive as ever and
indulging themselves in cauldron cakes and Fizzing Whizbees. All were
wearing their winter robes to keep warm. Although the fire was now
roaring (thanks to Pansy), the common room remained Alaska.
"Did
you see Potter in potions today?" Draco asked after a few moments
of silence.
"Bloody idiot's always storming out of one
class or another," Pansy answered, settling her large frame into a
cross-legged position on the floor. "He never shuts up, does he?
Always has to turn the heads his way."
"Pissing me off now
more than ever," Draco said through clenched teeth. His eyes
narrowed into slits. "How dare he land my father in
Azkaban..."
Crabbe and Goyle grunted in agreement.
Draco's
pale hands were balled into fists. He had hated Potter since the
bastard had embarrassed him in front of their whole year the first
day of term. His hate had grown rapidly with each year as well,
seeing all the glory Potter got, watching him get away with
everything, the center of attention always being Harry fucking
Potter...but the issue of his father being thrown into that wizard
prison was his breaking point. This time, Potter had gone way too
far.
"If Voldemort doesn't kill him," Draco vowed. "Then
I certainly will. I swear to god."
Pansy looked frightened
at the mention of the Dark Lord: her eyes grew wide and she jumped
slightly.
"Oh, you needen't be such a wuss," Draco
hissed at her. "Unless you're not really on his side?"
Pansy
tutted and threw the blond boy a withering look. "Shut up, Draco,
you know I am."
Goyle chewed loudly on a cauldron
cake.
A few more minutes passed by in moody silence.
"You
know," Crabbe grunted, his mouth full of cake. "Potter's got
detention with Snape every night this week."
"Congratulations
Crabbe, you've formed a complete sentence," Draco said hotly.
"What the fuck is your bloody point?"
"Touchy, touchy,"
Pansy almost whispered.
"Well," Crabbe went on thickly,
putting his food own long enough to crack his large knuckles. "He'll
be walking back to his common room every night...alone."
Draco's
eyes lit up. He sat in thought, chewing on his bottom lip for a few
minutes. "What ever shall we do with this?"
Pansy's
laughter was answer enough.
"What time is it?" Draco
snapped, his face a sinister smile.
"Around eight," Goyle
drawled, checking his watch.
"I'm too lazy right now,"
Draco said. "We've got all week, though, haven't we? I say one
night, we go wait for our friend and...let him know how we're
feeling."
Pansy smiled, looking very much like an unusually
happy banshee. "I can always stand watch."
You could
always sit on Potter and kill him right there, Draco thought
savagely. Instead, he nodded at her.
"How about
Friday?"
"Friday it is."
-------
