A/N: In which we catch up with Harry and see how school is treating him. Again.

8 – Back to School

Harry was bored. It had only been a week of this, of this normality, of going through with the things he'd once thought fulfilling and even exciting, and he was already bored to the teeth.

The glory of being Quidditch captain was empty now, because he couldn't fly because he was a half-phoenix and had failed the careful tests Dumbledore had given him under the watchful eye of Madame Pomfrey every time. They had consisted of several trips to the Room of Requirement with his shrunk broom in his pocket and had ended, as always, with him transforming nearly as soon as he was in the air, contemptuously letting go of his feeble, complaining broom and really flying. Madame Pomfrey always ended the sessions with a healthy sounding out of him and Dumbledore for endangering Harry's health, and had put a stop to all sessions and all flying with or without broomsticks after the third one, during which Harry tried to lift Dumbledore into the air for some reason Harry couldn't even remember now.

Harry sighed heavily, flexing his slightly itchy back muscles, wishing for the hundredth time that he didn't have to be like this, wings away, red away, all normal and nauseatingly himself and not red. He took a deep breath, pausing before the shelf of books he was actually strolling past and not really searching, trying to will away the sudden need to transform. Transforming suddenly seemed to be the solution to his problems, now. Flinging off and taking down the complex disguising charms Snape had drilled into him before the end of his stay nearly always felt like releasing himself from painful bonds, and placing the charms on himself again like stuffing himself into a very small box.

Harry sighed again, reaching out an unwilling hand to a book that seemed to keep wriggling away, thinking it might be the one he was searching for, giving it up as the book next to it snapped nastily at his pale (too pale) hand. He hated the charms now with every fibre of his being, and secretly practiced removing and adding them more than was necessary every day so the horrible process would go quicker, and, during the day, often had to grit his teeth against the powerful urge to begin the sequence yet again.

Like he did every time he saw Snape, blood firing with the expectation of a real fight. Like he did every time he entered a room and found that conversations ceased, conversations he was bloody sure were about him and his strange, lengthy disappearance. Like he did every time he stepped outside for Herbology lessons or Quidditch practice (benched, for him), because he was outside and wanted to fly, instead of having to coach his nauseatingly sympathetic team from the ground.

Like he was pretty much doing now.

"I hear Potter almost died, but he used Dark Magic to recover – " he heard abruptly as he neared the end of the shelf, making him struggle not to pause in his search for Magical Properties of the Mighty Mandrake.

Harry scowled and kept on looking, trying hard to ignore the fact that he could hear the group of students whispering behind him (he'd looked, but only briefly) as clear as day. One of the worst things about having a ridiculous amount of rumours being spread about him (apart from the constant urge to rip up those doing the spreading) was being able to hear them all in detail. Even with his ears (which had stabilised into larger, horribly embarrassing hairy things) disguised, Harry could still hear a pin drop from five meters away. Which was more than enough to hear – what was her name? Vase, or Vain or something – say:

"Well I hear that's not Potter at all. It's someone else, Polyjuiced, see – that's why he's always in and out of the Hospital Wing – "

"He doesn't even fly in practices now," someone that sounded like Jack Sloper feverishly agreed, making Harry draw closer to the nearby table against his better instincts. "I bet the impostor doesn't want to give himself away, so – "

"Hey, Sloper," Harry couldn't stop himself from saying, his tone as loud and friendly as Jack's was furtive and malicious. "Practice is cancelled today, all right?" He leaned carelessly against the empty side of the table, careful to look friendly and unassuming, as much as that helped these days.

Before the phoenix thing, unabashed awe and embarrassment had seemed to be reactions reserved to kids below third year (non-Gryffindors for third year and above). Now, however, it was all Harry could stand not to walk around continually barking out, "Stop looking at my shoes, they're not my face!" Jack was usually an exception, as two or three Quidditch practices had inured him to Harry's presence, but now, caught firmly in the act of spreading malicious (extremely malicious, Harry confirmed inwardly) rumours about him, Harry used fully his 'Mysterious Older Student' aura (which was more effective now) to devastating advantage, and firmly expected it to work.

And work it did. "Myeh," was all Jack seemed to be able to say in response, looking for the entire world like a rabbit transfixed before headlamps. Which got Harry feeling as hungry as he was vindictive, and therefore prompted the comment –

"It was this morning instead," he continued, as if Jack had not probably bitten his tongue just a moment ago. "Didn't anyone tell you?" Jack shook his head very slowly, a look of confusion coming over his face. "Andrew," Harry continued, changing his tone to 'puzzled and stern' instead after a quick look round informed him that Andrew Kirke, Jack's fellow Beater, was nowhere in the vicinity, "told me you couldn't make it, said you wouldn't wake up and all that."

"Well, of course I couldn't – he didn't even bother to try to wake me up," Jack said, now beginning to sound irritated. Harry shrugged, easily settling into his Disapproving Captain stance as he replied to that, thumping the book in his hand a bit for emphasis.

"I'd ask him to explain himself if he was here. See that you send him to me when he gets back, Sloper." Jack nodded fervently, and Harry turned away from the group, a vindictive smile rising to his lips as he threaded his way through the stacks to the relatively hidden library table he'd left Hermione and Ron working at.

Harry sat down gracefully, ignoring the stares from people he passed as he slid into his chair opposite a slightly pink-looking Ron and Hermione, who looked interestingly uncomfortable for two people whom he'd left studying. Except – oh, they can't have been just studying. Because I can smell –

Right. Harry's face splashed with colour, and he immediately lowered his head. That was unmistakeably the smell of arousal. Whose, he really, really didn't want to know –

"All right, Harry?" Hermione ventured, sounding a little puzzled, but definitely calm. Harry opened the book in his hands sharply, not looking her or Ron in the eye, because now that he thought about it, the table practically stank of arousals, and it was really – "Is that even the right book?"

"No," Harry said shortly, feeling a little surprised but not very as he realised he was paging through something entirely different, something that dealt with the moon, and – he peered closer in curiosity – feminine cycles of –

Right. "Must've got the wrong thing by mistake – " Harry began hastily, shutting the book and making to shuffle it away into the pile of unused books in the centre of the table, but not doing so quickly enough that Hermione's sharp eyes didn't catch a glimpse of the title.

"Harry, that's…" she started, a deeper blush taking over as her brain caught up with her mouth. "…a book about female menstruation and the moon," she continued, face brimming with a kind of horrified curiosity. "I thought you were looking for the Mandrake one – "

"I was," Harry said lamely, suddenly remembering why he'd actually made the pathetic excuse to leave the table as Ron's bored eyes, which had been focused on the open book before him, began to rove over Hermione's form with a kind of plaintive lust that was just – "Look, Ron, I can see you."

"Oh, you're back – " Ron said, eyes snapping guiltily away from a place on Hermione that Harry found himself disapprovingly thinking was certainly not her face. "What took you so long?"

"Most importantly, I think I can smell you," Harry continued, ignoring the slight look of confusion Hermione now had on her face. "It's really distracting, I'll have you know – "

Ron's eyes widened. "You mean – "

"Yes, Ron. Why d'you think I need that spell around my bed? Our dorm practically reeks of it – "

"Reeks of what?" Hermione asked, just at the same time as Ron nervously said something that sounded like, "Fair enough, mate." Hermione stared at him as he, reddening further, hunched over his book in an almost protective manner. "Harry, I'm not sure what you mean."

"Ron is," Harry couldn't resist saying, as he rose again, "and that's all that matters, thank you. I'll just, er – " he grabbed the erroneous book – " – return this, and get that mandrake book, then – " Harry gave Ron a hard look as he said this, hoping he would take the chance to explain to Hermione and perhaps – well – clean himself up. Or whatever it took to get himself to stop smelling of come.

Ignoring the nausea that washed over him, Harry took the opportunity to pause by the table of an ever-more flustered Jack Sloper for some more insidious intimidation, then, having located the stupid book, headed back for his table.

Hermione's cheeks were a bit pinker than before, and Ron was positively burning up, but what allowed Harry to sit down and pretend his friends weren't sneaking silly, moony looks at each other was the fact that the smell of that was gone.

Harry sighed, feeling oddly comfortable for the first time that day, watching Hermione furtively stroke Ron's hand and watching Ron redden as it continued. Despite his uneasiness with his disguise, and despite the unspoken, yet glaringly obvious changes in the state of things between his friends, right now, he just felt…truly at ease. Truly content.

He only hoped it would last.

Preview for Chapter 9: Multiple Personality Disorder

"What was that about?" Ron asked, sounding resoundingly suspicious. An innocent look appeared on Harry's face so fast that he actually felt guiltier than before, while watching a confused, cowed Jack Sloper retreat back into the corner of his common room from which he'd issued to ask Harry why he'd deceived him earlier in the day.