A/N: First of all, I have to say, I am SO SO SO sorry for taking so bloody
long. I just got lazy last semester and stuck to LOTR fanfic. Well, here
it is, a sort of sequel. I'm posting it under the same story name for two
reasons: 1) Because I can't think of another story title for what is
essentially the same one and 2) Because maybe my readers will come back
faster if they see a familiar title/summary. Thank you for reading!
Child-of-the-Dawn: You asked if I could turn on my Author Alert. I'm sorry
to say I can't; I'm not a paying customer :)
Ok, awaaaayyy we go...
Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring out at the frosty night encroaching on the castle, his Transfiguration textbook lying forgotten on his lap. He was tired and felt as if he would roll headfirst and unconscious onto the floor if he studied any longer. Ever since that horrible day in Professor McGonagall's office, he had started to become exhausted by the slightest task. Fights with Ron, and even Hermione, were a daily occurrence, as well as playing the role of mediator between the two of them. He shrank from actually approaching the headmaster in his office, and he wanted to give his friends some time to themselves. That was one thing that he could still smile about. He loved Transfiguration lessons now; it was worth the stern comments and the hand of iron just to be the only one to see when the mask slipped. It didn't happen often. But Dean and Seamus had become the Fred and George of the fifth year, and once in a while Harry would turn, laughing, back to the front of the class to find Professor McGonagall's eyes on him, an odd, tender spark burning somewhere beneath the glitter of steel in their depths. But in the afternoons he crept away silently to his lessons, and the nights... the nights were terrifying.
He would wake in the earliest hours of the morning, sweating and trembling, surfacing slowly from the gluttonous depths of yet another nightmare. He never knew what they were about, but his scar burned like fire and he barely escaped crying out. Usually some sound escaped, however, for the almost nightly ritual never varied. Sometime after he had shaken himself awake came Ron's sleepy voice from the next bed: "That you, Harry?" He would sigh and answer: "Yeah, just me. Go back to sleep, Ron." "Ok," Ron would mumble in return. "If you're all right." "Yes, fine, Ron." "Ok. Night, Harry." "Goodnight." Harry would usually lie awake until dawn, when rays of sunshine poured into the room and kept him from falling back asleep. He was more lonely in those silent hours than he ever had been in his life. Even at Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon's wall-crumbling snores had never left him so alone at night.
His tea-time chats with Professor McGonagall were almost a distant memory. He was unreasonably hurt that she supposedly had not noticed the rarity with which he visited, and he both resented and desperately missed her. Unbeknownst to him, she also missed the formerly so frequent sight of the frank green eyes behind their wire frames peering around her door, but fondly assumed he had decided to study harder for the O.W.L.s or devote more time to Quidditch practice, a habit he had sorely missed during his constant search in the library for her cure only weeks ago. Harry wished people wouldn't assume so much. Ron assumed that Harry could take care of himself, and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore evidently thought the same. Hermione assumed he and Ron were having problems, which they were, but that wasn't nearly the half of it, Harry remarked viciously to himself. Ron kept bugging him about asking out Cho Chang, and he kept telling Ron to bloody well mind his own business. Ron then always called their friendship into question: "Friends don't keep secrets from each other, Harry."
It was evidently Ron's mantra. He literally told Harry everything, from his latest grudge against Hermione to his hopes for the Gryffindor Quidditch team (Ron had made Keeper, much to the delight of all the Weasley clan, especially Charlie: "Way to keep the Weasley torch burning, Ronnie- kins!") to his grievances with Snape's assignment of Potions essays the size of the Bayeux tapestry. Harry had raised his eyebrows slightly at the artistic allusion; apparently Hermione was beginning to rub off on Ron. Which brought him to another large, offending issue: Ron *and* Hermione. Harry was sure it was only a matter of time. He wasn't jealous... exactly. He just wanted the Trio to be a trio, not a duo plus Harry. If there were going to be any duos around, he wanted to be part of one, not left out in the cold like he was now. But Ron would have Hermione, if he didn't make some hideous blunder and alienate her forever, and Professor McGonagall would have - did have - Dumbledore, and he would have - Voldemort. Yes, he was meant for something else, something more important. Hadn't Sirius written it to him, a hundred times if he'd written it once? Harry wished someone else could be the Boy Who Lived; maybe then he could have someone be the other part of his destiny who wasn't a sadistic madman set on ending his life. Harry blinked himself back from these thoughts, quickly wiping his eyes before anyone saw.
Someone - or something - *had* seen, however, having been on the lookout for the dark-haired boy for the last twenty minutes. Pigwidgeon, having left the Owlery for his nightly flit around the castle, had found a commission. A letter to deliver, at this time of night! He had nearly hooted with joy, before he remembered himself. Gentlemanly owls didn't hoot, he recalled. They sat still, fluffed importantly and scowled cross- eyed at the floor. Pigwidgeon thought being a polite owl looked very boring. But the woman hadn't seemed to mind, although she had grabbed his leg *very* hard when she tied the letter on. Pigwidgeon, widely known as not quite the brightest crayon in the box, had had trouble sifting through the occupants of the castle in his search for this boy. But now he sailed ecstatically across the room and landed with a well-timed somersault in Harry's lap. Harry looked down and stared at Pigwidgeon. The tiny owl remembered that staring was very rude, just like hooting. With an air of studied dignity, he held out his left foot, to which a letter addressed in green ink was attached. Harry took it, absently patting the little creature on the head, who by this time was absorbed in the bewildering and fairly futile task of trying to read Harry's Transfiguration textbook upside-down.
Harry opened the letter and recognized the beautiful script right away. He read the letter eagerly, which ran as follows:
~ Dearest Harry,
I hope this note reaches you. The owl I found seems very... zealous, but I fear that he may have taken leave of his senses. ~
Harry grinned at that and looked down at Pigwidgeon, who was now endeavoring to stand on his head in order to get a better view of the whole page. Harry rolled his eyes and returned to the letter.
~ If you are not otherwise engaged tonight, I would like to treat you to a cup of hot chocolate. I know you are anxious to improve your studies, but believe me when I say that James' son could not do otherwise than excel at Transfiguration. Or am I wrong, my boy, in supposing that that book is in your hands at this very moment? Take a break, Harry- come and see me.
Always,
Minerva McGonagall ~
She thought he had been studying. If only. His concentration had entirely left him for the evening, leaving his mind free to dwell on things he didn't want to dwell on. Yes, he would go, if for no other reason than the fact that he missed her terribly. And she was right; he needed a break. "Thanks, Pig," he said gratefully, tickling him under the chin, if the tubby little owl could be said to possess one. Pig hooted happily, then looked mortified as he remembered his manners, and assembling his little wings with great ceremony, he took off, thinking it a very good thing that Hedwig had not seen his behavior. He would have gotten a severe ticking- off and perhaps even a delivery ban. He shuddered and returned quietly to his perch, while Harry climbed quietly out of the portrait-hole and headed for Professor McGonagall's rooms.
Ok, awaaaayyy we go...
Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring out at the frosty night encroaching on the castle, his Transfiguration textbook lying forgotten on his lap. He was tired and felt as if he would roll headfirst and unconscious onto the floor if he studied any longer. Ever since that horrible day in Professor McGonagall's office, he had started to become exhausted by the slightest task. Fights with Ron, and even Hermione, were a daily occurrence, as well as playing the role of mediator between the two of them. He shrank from actually approaching the headmaster in his office, and he wanted to give his friends some time to themselves. That was one thing that he could still smile about. He loved Transfiguration lessons now; it was worth the stern comments and the hand of iron just to be the only one to see when the mask slipped. It didn't happen often. But Dean and Seamus had become the Fred and George of the fifth year, and once in a while Harry would turn, laughing, back to the front of the class to find Professor McGonagall's eyes on him, an odd, tender spark burning somewhere beneath the glitter of steel in their depths. But in the afternoons he crept away silently to his lessons, and the nights... the nights were terrifying.
He would wake in the earliest hours of the morning, sweating and trembling, surfacing slowly from the gluttonous depths of yet another nightmare. He never knew what they were about, but his scar burned like fire and he barely escaped crying out. Usually some sound escaped, however, for the almost nightly ritual never varied. Sometime after he had shaken himself awake came Ron's sleepy voice from the next bed: "That you, Harry?" He would sigh and answer: "Yeah, just me. Go back to sleep, Ron." "Ok," Ron would mumble in return. "If you're all right." "Yes, fine, Ron." "Ok. Night, Harry." "Goodnight." Harry would usually lie awake until dawn, when rays of sunshine poured into the room and kept him from falling back asleep. He was more lonely in those silent hours than he ever had been in his life. Even at Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon's wall-crumbling snores had never left him so alone at night.
His tea-time chats with Professor McGonagall were almost a distant memory. He was unreasonably hurt that she supposedly had not noticed the rarity with which he visited, and he both resented and desperately missed her. Unbeknownst to him, she also missed the formerly so frequent sight of the frank green eyes behind their wire frames peering around her door, but fondly assumed he had decided to study harder for the O.W.L.s or devote more time to Quidditch practice, a habit he had sorely missed during his constant search in the library for her cure only weeks ago. Harry wished people wouldn't assume so much. Ron assumed that Harry could take care of himself, and Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore evidently thought the same. Hermione assumed he and Ron were having problems, which they were, but that wasn't nearly the half of it, Harry remarked viciously to himself. Ron kept bugging him about asking out Cho Chang, and he kept telling Ron to bloody well mind his own business. Ron then always called their friendship into question: "Friends don't keep secrets from each other, Harry."
It was evidently Ron's mantra. He literally told Harry everything, from his latest grudge against Hermione to his hopes for the Gryffindor Quidditch team (Ron had made Keeper, much to the delight of all the Weasley clan, especially Charlie: "Way to keep the Weasley torch burning, Ronnie- kins!") to his grievances with Snape's assignment of Potions essays the size of the Bayeux tapestry. Harry had raised his eyebrows slightly at the artistic allusion; apparently Hermione was beginning to rub off on Ron. Which brought him to another large, offending issue: Ron *and* Hermione. Harry was sure it was only a matter of time. He wasn't jealous... exactly. He just wanted the Trio to be a trio, not a duo plus Harry. If there were going to be any duos around, he wanted to be part of one, not left out in the cold like he was now. But Ron would have Hermione, if he didn't make some hideous blunder and alienate her forever, and Professor McGonagall would have - did have - Dumbledore, and he would have - Voldemort. Yes, he was meant for something else, something more important. Hadn't Sirius written it to him, a hundred times if he'd written it once? Harry wished someone else could be the Boy Who Lived; maybe then he could have someone be the other part of his destiny who wasn't a sadistic madman set on ending his life. Harry blinked himself back from these thoughts, quickly wiping his eyes before anyone saw.
Someone - or something - *had* seen, however, having been on the lookout for the dark-haired boy for the last twenty minutes. Pigwidgeon, having left the Owlery for his nightly flit around the castle, had found a commission. A letter to deliver, at this time of night! He had nearly hooted with joy, before he remembered himself. Gentlemanly owls didn't hoot, he recalled. They sat still, fluffed importantly and scowled cross- eyed at the floor. Pigwidgeon thought being a polite owl looked very boring. But the woman hadn't seemed to mind, although she had grabbed his leg *very* hard when she tied the letter on. Pigwidgeon, widely known as not quite the brightest crayon in the box, had had trouble sifting through the occupants of the castle in his search for this boy. But now he sailed ecstatically across the room and landed with a well-timed somersault in Harry's lap. Harry looked down and stared at Pigwidgeon. The tiny owl remembered that staring was very rude, just like hooting. With an air of studied dignity, he held out his left foot, to which a letter addressed in green ink was attached. Harry took it, absently patting the little creature on the head, who by this time was absorbed in the bewildering and fairly futile task of trying to read Harry's Transfiguration textbook upside-down.
Harry opened the letter and recognized the beautiful script right away. He read the letter eagerly, which ran as follows:
~ Dearest Harry,
I hope this note reaches you. The owl I found seems very... zealous, but I fear that he may have taken leave of his senses. ~
Harry grinned at that and looked down at Pigwidgeon, who was now endeavoring to stand on his head in order to get a better view of the whole page. Harry rolled his eyes and returned to the letter.
~ If you are not otherwise engaged tonight, I would like to treat you to a cup of hot chocolate. I know you are anxious to improve your studies, but believe me when I say that James' son could not do otherwise than excel at Transfiguration. Or am I wrong, my boy, in supposing that that book is in your hands at this very moment? Take a break, Harry- come and see me.
Always,
Minerva McGonagall ~
She thought he had been studying. If only. His concentration had entirely left him for the evening, leaving his mind free to dwell on things he didn't want to dwell on. Yes, he would go, if for no other reason than the fact that he missed her terribly. And she was right; he needed a break. "Thanks, Pig," he said gratefully, tickling him under the chin, if the tubby little owl could be said to possess one. Pig hooted happily, then looked mortified as he remembered his manners, and assembling his little wings with great ceremony, he took off, thinking it a very good thing that Hedwig had not seen his behavior. He would have gotten a severe ticking- off and perhaps even a delivery ban. He shuddered and returned quietly to his perch, while Harry climbed quietly out of the portrait-hole and headed for Professor McGonagall's rooms.