Edited 12/9/21
Two
On Agriculture
Plants of all colors and leaves of all shapes cluttered the grubby glass panes and crawled along the wrought iron skeleton of Greenhouse Three. Bell shaped blossoms sprung from the woody vines that twisted along the roof and snapped their jaws at buzzing insects, baring their vivid throats for sunlight. It was surprising that any sort of light got through the clutter at all. But in it dropped, fluttering about like sheets of yellow chiffon, stippling the tables, the hungry plants, and the working students alike with warmth.
Harry sat at his table, a wriggling plant in his grip. It shot up from the soil of its terra-cotta pot like a midnight black slug covered in oily blisters. It was a Bubotuber, and Harry was to harvest its pus.
Newly Fourth Year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors surrounded him in a lagoon of droning conversation, but it was just a tapping to the thunder in his head. Every time Harry gave the Bubotuber a twist or squeeze, Mad-Eye Moody's wooden leg thunked in his head. And the black plant would not cease its wiggling protest, so Harry flexed his fingers and squeezed the rubbery thing with even more vigor. Struggle as it might, the plant was only helping him. The more it fought, the easier its growths burst open.
Thunk!
Moody's clawed foot crashed against the floor of the Great Hall, and Harry reached out to capture fresh pus in his sun-dappled mason jar. The pus smelled of petrol. Harry knew this, but all he could smell was Hogwarts' welcoming feast, rain soaked cloaks, and the gentle paraffin candle scent. His stomach gurgled. He hadn't eaten much for breakfast.
"Smith!"
Harry's eyes jumped from the Bubotuber. Professor Sprout's voice had cut through the din of students and the clatter of Moody's leg. She shouted something at a Hufflepuff boy that had gotten flecks of the Bubotuber's pus on his cheek. The boy shrieked and hurried towards the professor for aid. Harry crinkled his forehead. Smith was an idiot. He turned back to his plant.
Beside him, Neville Longbottom chuckled. The pudgy boy was handling his own Bubotuber, tongue between teeth. Several jars of pus were already collected on his section of table. Generally timid and slow to learn, Herbology was the only class that Neville ever did well in. Harry didn't begrudge him the success. Neville was a nice fellow.
Harry spared him a phantom smile and returned his attention to the Bubotuber. The scent of petrol was heavy in his nostrils. The sun painted his desk dark green and red and yellow. And violent fingers of lightning speared across the enchanted ceiling. Moody's scarred face was illuminated in white and black. The Auror's lips were twisted. His unblinking blue eye rolled and came up backwards, milky white.
Thunk. The pus missed the jar and spilled onto the table. Harry didn't react right away. More pus dribbled through his gloved fingers. He shook them, sprinkling Bubotuber juice onto the table and made to grab his wand.
"Yuck, Harry!" called Daisy. She grabbed his messy dragon leather glove with hers. It was cleaner, but only marginally so. Daisy whipped her wand out from beneath her robes and nudged him over as she cleaned the mess. "Scourgify!" His twin dropped his hand and gave him a dirty look. "Didn't you listen to Sprout? The pus is dangerous."
"Sorry, sorry," muttered Harry. He dipped his head and absently waved a hand, before squeezing the Bubotuber again. Daisy's eyes did not leave him.
"What?" he asked, turning his head.
Daisy had bound her hair up, for gardening safety of course, but a good amount of it had escaped restraint and wiffled about her ears and neck. Added with her furrowed brow and quirked lips, the girl looked particularly wild this morning.
"You're thinking about something," she said.
"I'm always thinking about something, Daisy."
"Don't be difficult," she said, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Spit it out."
Daisy capped a jar and plucked one more from the crate on their table. Harry frowned. Beside her, Ron was locked in combat with his plant and had yet to collect a measurable amount of pus. He was mumbling curses under his breath as he wrestled with the Bubotuber. The more colorful words were directed at Professor Sprout, rather than his uncooperative plant. Harry peered over the redhead, making certain that the professor was far enough away that she didn't hear him. However he could not see much beyond Hermione's great thicket of hair. Mainly because the girl was sitting with her back turned to him. His frown deepened.
"Harry!"
"What?"
"What are you thinking about?" asked Daisy.
"Moody," replied Harry in an undertone. He didn't want Neville or Ron to know just how disturbed he was by the retired Auror's presence at Hogwarts. Daisy's eyebrows rose.
"Why?" she said, matching his tone and leaning in towards him. Harry didn't say anything and Daisy took it as a directive to press on. "I mean, they say he's mad and all, and I know how much you fancy Dumbledore's brand of madness, but Moody's just a nutter. Ron's dad had to fix his dustbins before he could even get to Hogwarts."
Harry held up a pus covered hand. "Stop. I just," he paused, "I didn't know that's what Aurors ended up like."
"Don't you worry," said Daisy, patting his glove with hers. An impish smile turned her lips up at the corners. "You won't lose your nose."
"It's not my nose!" said Harry a little too loudly. Neville started, and just barely managed to catch the squirt of pus in his container.
"Your nose?" the boy questioned. Concern flooded his face. "Did you get Bubotuber pus on it? I'll call the professor."
"No, Neville," said Daisy, leaning over her brother. "Harry's worried that all Aurors end up like Mad-Eye Moody." She made a face. "You know, maimed and crazy."
"I'm not!" said Harry to Neville, but at Daisy's comment, the boy had turned a shade of white so stark he might have been marble. Without speaking, Neville averted his gaze and stiffly went back to harvesting pus.
Harry pushed his own pot away. What did Neville know about Moody? Harry almost asked, but the question died on his tongue. Neville's knuckles were white. His plant, which moments earlier had been in easy submission, trembled. Harry shook his head, and tried to stop Daisy from upsetting the boy further, but she ignored him.
"Neville?" asked Daisy. She bit the corner of her lip. "You all right?"
"Yeah," whispered Neville at length. "Fine." He turned his back, just as Hermione had, and so Harry was left with only his twin for company as the class dragged on. But at least he was not the only person that had the new Defense professor on his mind.
Daisy was saying something about the Bubotubers. Harry nodded, not really listening. Something more than Moody's disfigurement was bothering him. He was a hunter. He'd pursued criminals and dark wizards, and he had been good at it. For his effort, the man had acquired a reputation for creating nearly as many enemies as he eliminated. As a result, Mad-Eye Moody's paranoia was unrivaled. He never accepted strange food. He never drank from anything but his tiny silver flask, and he was always watching with his Mad-Eye.
Angelina Johnson had joked last night that Moody was suspicious of the sun in the sky and the snot stains on his handkerchief.
"They say he retired," Angelina had said. "But my mum says that after he enchanted all of his inkwells to squirt anyone that entered his office without the proper pass-phrase, they just bundled his crazy arse out."
Everyone had laughed, but the comment set Harry's teeth on edge. The stories of dustbins and scars and inkwells were jarring, of course, but that was not what niggled at him.
No, what concerned him was the need for the Headmaster to pull a man with Mad-Eye Moody's tendencies out of retirement.
Professor Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard that Harry had ever seen. He'd defeated the Dark Lord Grindlewald when he had been a young man and lived long enough to fight the Dark Lord Voldemort. And he still had both of his legs and his nose. Did Moody's presence have something to do with the Death Eater revival and the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup?
Harry had not had enough time. Things were moving much too quickly and the world seemed much larger and more dangerous now.
Moody.
The Triwizard Tournament.
Harry was sure that if they were that hard up for teachers, Professor Snape would have taken the Defence post without hesitation. Snape would have no qualms about teaching two subjects. It would mean twice the opportunity to torment the children. Harry grabbed the Bubotuber and sank deeper into his thoughts.
The Hogwarts Express had pulled into Hogsmeade station shortly after his confrontation with Malfoy.
Harry and his friends sped through the driving rain and up to the black carriages that waited at the gates. The great dark-skinned horses that were reined to them seemed utterly ignorant of the weather. The rain struck their scaly wings and slid off, leaving not a trace of wetness behind. The students weren't so lucky as the Thestrals. Thoroughly drenched after the short sprint, they clambered up into the carriage in a jumble of squeals and curses.
Hermione, who had ignored Harry's explanation of the ruckus in the corridor, made it a point to sit near him and silently bore into his skull with an unrelenting glower. He tried speaking to her, but she only stared more fiercely at him. So, Harry turned to stare out the tiny window of the carriage as it trundled along the drive and circled the castle grounds.
Wind rattled the windows. Rain drummed into the roof and dug into the mud of the drive. Harry saw the trees that lined the path bend and sway under the force of it all, and whenever they turned, he could feel the carriage's wheels skitter just a little bit.
Lightning flashed overhead and threw the sprawling grounds into spectral brilliance. The sky was black and boiling with clouds, but the pulse of violet light made the wet lawn sparkle, and the shadowy trees grin.
Harry could see movement, almost like a slideshow, whenever the lightning struck. In one flash, as the carriage bucked over a fissure in the drive, there was the gleaming white profile of a unicorn at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. In the next flash, it was caught, mid-leap, bounding over the fence of the school's paddock. Lightning flashed again, and it was gone.
Harry pressed his face into the glass.
There were dozens of other flashes of movement in the forest. Once, Harry saw, not a creature, but a great mass of inky shadow lurking in the fringes of the undergrowth. Fogging the glass with his breath, he peered closely at the spot, but by the next strike of lightning, whatever it was had gone.
He used the sleeve of his robes to clear the glass in search of more things. Thunder rumbled overhead. There was a flash of light in the dark, but it wasn't the storm. It was a blast of blue flame. The light splashed out, batting away the storm's murk. Harry sucked a breath in through his teeth.
There was someone out there.
He had only seconds to wait for the next burst of light.
The figure stood at the edge of the lawn, covered in a grey hood. He seemed oddly hunch-backed, leaning against a gnarled staff, waving his wand overhead. The rain shimmered and spattered against a barrier that surrounded him like an invisible egg. The lightning's glow receded, but again the figure sent a wave of blue light that lit the lawn around him. The hooded man turned, and Harry caught sight of something white glinting beneath the cowl.
"Daisy," hissed Harry.
"Hmm?" his sister answered. "Have you seen another pretty unicorn?"
Ron snickered, and even Hermione made an amused sound from his elbow. Harry just grasped the front of Daisy's robes and hauled her before the window. Again the wizard in the storm casted a spell.
"So?" said Daisy. "It's probably Flitwick making sure that the forest doesn't topple over onto the castle."
"Does Flitwick walk around with a cane?" asked Harry; his glasses clinked against the window pane. "And has he grown since last term?"
"It's probably Dumbledore," said Ron, standing to peer into the dark with them. "He likes his theatrics."
Daisy nodded, patted his shoulder, and returned to her seat. Harry made a frustrated sound. That wasn't Dumbledore. He knew what Dumbledore looked like. That was someone else, and he was casting spells on their grounds. A cold feeling pooled in his gut, reminding him of the Dementor patrols last term. "It's not the Headmaster."
Harry relished the look of disbelief on their faces when Moody clunked into the Great Hall with his twisted staff and grey hood. But Harry's triumph didn't last long. Mad-Eye Moody ignored the entirety of the student body, made a face at the sorting hat, and stumped up to the staff table.
He began to whisper into Professor Dumbledore's ear, his false eye whirling. Harry watched their interaction with a surging trepidation. The Triwizard Tournament was far more dangerous than Malfoy had let on.
The feast came and went. Harry poked at the honeyed duck, and moved the vegetables around his plate. He even let Ron have his pudding. Whatever appetite he had was gone. All through the dinner, he caught both Dumbledore and Moody stealing glances at Daisy. Harry supposed that Dumbledore knew his sister just as well as he did. He had imposed an age restriction on the tournament, forbidding anyone under seventeen from entering the competition.
It didn't prevent Daisy from adding her voice to the protest, though. And although she said that the Tournament didn't interest her, Harry noticed how Daisy's face colored as she shifted her eyes from his and across to the Hufflepuff table where Cedric Diggory sat whispering with his house-mates.
Was the Headmaster not enough to protect the students this year? Could he not prevent anything else from happening to Daisy? He tried to catch Dumbledore's attention, but the old man seemed to settle his gaze on everything but Harry.
"Aha!" cried Ron, and Harry was jerked from his reminiscence. The boy held a jar full of milky green fluid up to the light. "Filled one!"
Daisy snorted. She patted the boy's shoulder and pointed to the box full of jars.
"Bugger." Ron slumped down in his seat.
Laughing quietly, Harry turned back to his plant, and popped one of the Bubotuber's blisters with the edge of his thumb.
Thunk.
Professor Sprout turned them loose with a demand for an essay on the use of Bubotuber pus in potions, due next class. As if Harry's mood wasn't dark enough. He had very little use for potions, their ingredients, or the slimy men that brewed them.
"Imagine," Harry muttered to his twin as they threw their dragonhide gloves into the bin and walked down the rolling lawn, "the look on Snape's face if we replaced all of the Bubotuber pus with actual pus."
"Gross," said Daisy. She wrinkled her nose, and reached up to free her hair.
A gaggle of fourth year girls strolled by them and proceeded through the sodden vegetable patch in a cloud of chatter. When the girls reached the castle's wide stone steps, they split up with loud cries of 'See you,' and 'Have fun in Potions!' Harry suspected the latter remark was sarcastic. The Gryffindor fourth years were on their way to Care of Magical Creatures, and the Hufflepuffs were to spend the afternoon in the dungeons.
Daisy snatched at Harry's sleeve as she watched their classmates scatter over the lawn. Her hand found his elbow beneath the folds of his robes and grabbed onto it.
"Aren't we going to wait for Hermione and Ron?" she asked, pulling him to a halt.
"Is Hermione still cross with me?" said Harry.
"Yes."
"Well then, why should I wait?" Harry shook his sister's hand from his arm. "So that she can huff and puff and stamp her feet at me?"
"If you didn't want trouble, you shouldn't have snogged Malfoy," said Daisy. The girl was able to hold her composure for only a second and then burst into giggles. "If you want to imagine something, Harry, imagine Malfoy being kissable."
Daisy attempted to emulate the blonde girl's haughty look, and then puckered her lips so much that she looked like a fish out of water, and threw herself at him. Harry batted her hands away.
"Potter!" Daisy intoned, imitating her rival. "Father says you must snog me. For the Minister!" Harry gave a snort of laughter, and shoved her gently.
"I'm glad that you believe me, at least," he said and scuffed his shoe on a patch of dirt. "Bloody girls."
"Of course, I believe you," said Daisy. "And Hermione will come round. She spent all summer talking about how you were so very talented at defense and transfiguration. I thought you might have transfigured her brain into another heart. I'd bet she enjoys having to compete with… Malfoy." Daisy tried to hold back her laughter, and failed.
"You would think the girl would stop at envy, before star crossed," groused Harry.
"I didn't say she wasn't jealous of you," said Daisy. "But that was last year."
Harry stopped walking.
"What did you tell her?"
"What do you mean?" Daisy replied, not really meeting his eyes.
"Don't be so ruddy transparent," said Harry. "You told her something."
"No."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't."
"Daisy!"
"I might have mentioned you helping me with the Patronus Charm once or twice," she said after a moment. Harry's glare intensified. Daisy threw her hands up.
"Fine!" she cried. "I got angry and told her that the only reason she got a better score on her exams was because you waited up every night to help me learn the stupid charm."
"Why! Why would you do that?" Harry asked, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. If there was anything Hermione fancied more than intelligence, it was compassion. Harry pulled at his hair. It wasn't that he didn't like Hermione. She was clever, and kind-hearted, and was pretty enough, if you got past her perpetually stern countenance. But Harry simply had no time to waste on girls.
"You know I love her," said Daisy, "but sometimes her massive intellect spills out of her ears and gets on my skirt."
"What does that even mean?" asked Harry through a groan.
"It means…" Daisy began and jabbed a finger at him, "that you should shut your trap, and be happy that I defend your honor."
"Sometimes, Daisy, sometimes," said Harry. He swatted her finger away and mussed up her hair with both of his hands, pulling her close. His fingers pressed into her skull. "Sometimes, I wonder why I can't bring myself to hate you."
"Because you'd have done the same thing," said Daisy brightly and attempted to right her tangle of dark locks. "Now off you pop, Hagrid's waiting."
Harry laughed.
The roof of a cabin appeared as they climbed over a hillock. The wooden roof tiles still glistened with water. It had not rained since early this morning, but proximity to the Forbidden Forest let the wood's overarching trees shower the cabin with fresh water whenever the wind blew through their leafy branches.
Hagrid's home wasn't a grand place; it had a pair of windows, a plain door, and a crooked chimney. The roof was a little too high and door a little too broad, but that was by necessity—Hagrid could place the angel atop a Christmas tree without reaching, and was also as wide around as an evergreen. Most importantly, Hagrid liked to hang game animals from the rafters, and it was better for everyone if bits of pheasant didn't get stuck in the giant man's wiry black mane.
A dog barked somewhere behind the hut. Harry felt a grin turn his lips. It had been too long since he had seen Fang. Harry missed the timid boarhound's sloppy kisses and playful begging. Harry missed Hagrid, too. He missed the man's rock cakes and too strong tea, and the stories of a time before Dark Lords, and wars, and plots to off his sister.
And nothing dangerous had bitten Harry in months.
He saw a similar happy expression spread across Daisy's face as she raced off, robes fluttering, for the small pumpkin patch where they held lessons.
Rubeus Hagrid was the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. He was the first wizard that Harry had ever met. The immense man had been the one to come to collect him from the boy's home. Harry could still remember Hagrid comically trying to squeeze through doors and up the creaky stairwell of the building to his room. After an age of blubbering and apologizing for leaving him at the mercy of muggles as 'on'y a babe,' Hagrid had revealed the two greatest things a small orphan could ever hope to hear: Harry Potter was a wizard, and Harry Potter had a family.
For the longest time, Hagrid had been the only person in the Potter twins' lives that could tell them any stories about the parents they had lost.
"Hey!" came Ron's loud voice. Harry felt the boy's fingers pull at his shoulder, and then redhead's breathless form appeared beside him. Ron set his hands on his knees and panted. After a moment, he glanced up at his best friend and frowned. "You didn't hear me call after you the whole way down the lawn?"
"Might have," said Harry.
"So, why didn't you wait for me?" Ron complained, and straightened up.
"Dunno," replied Harry. He threw a glance over his shoulder and caught sight of a lone brunette making her way up the mound. She fixed him with such a glare that Harry feared he would catch fire if she got any closer to them. He faced Ron. "Maybe I wanted to keep my good mood intact before class."
"Oh come on, Harry," Ron said as the two of them followed after Daisy. "You know how Hermione is. She'll have a good cry in the bathroom. We'll beat a mountain troll off her. And then she'll call it even."
"Yeah, you prat," said Harry. "That's why I didn't wait."
"Well," Ron said, and then fell silent.
"'Well' is right," said Harry. He could hear Hermione huffing up the hill. "Let's go. I want to say hello to Hagrid before class begins."
"What d'you think he's got us doing this term?" said Ron. "I really liked the flobberworms. Peaceful. Quiet. Herbivorous."
What Hagrid had waiting for them in a set of wooden crates in the pumpkin patch, was anything but peaceful, quiet, and herbivorous. The creatures that scuttled about in the containers were more of the slimy, silent, and incendiary persuasion.
"It explodes," moaned Ron.
"It explodes!" echoed Harry. He smiled widely and leaned over a crate to get a closer look at the critters. They seemed like rather large juvenile shellfish, but without hard shells. Some of them had legs in the right places. Others didn't seem to be as fortunate and had been bestowed with legs on their backs and sides. The only sounds that came from the box were the click-clacking of chitinous feet on timber.
"Yeh," said Hagrid grinning at Harry, and joining him over the crate. The man's black eyes shone with adoration. "Blast-Ended Skrewts, they're called."
"Don't look so chuffed, you two," Ron called out. The boy was standing a respectable distance from the crates, and Lavender Brown was clinging to his robes in fright. "Its arse explodes, Harry!"
The words hadn't rolled off Ron's tongue, when the nearest skrewt blasted off.
"Ow!" Harry hissed, and drew his hand from the crate. His fingers were burned, nothing more dangerous than grabbing a kitchen match, but the sting of it rattled into his bones.
"Not too bad, now, eh, Harry?" said Hagrid, but his face crinkled in concern behind his great beard.
"Not too bad," Harry replied, shaking his fingers out. "They're going to be deadly when they mature."
"Aren't they," crooned Hagrid, stroking the back of skrewt that had raised itself up, somehow. The skrewt flipped onto its back and revealed a sucker, like that of an octopus, on its squishy belly.
Harry cocked his head and prodded it lightly.
Hagrid tasked them with feeding the skrewts bits of flesh and guts that he had collected in a set of tin buckets. No one bothered to ask why they didn't try to feed them anything green or leafy.
Daisy and Hermione joined Harry and Ron at the first crate of skrewts.
"Don't encourage him, you idiot," Daisy muttered into her brother's ear when Hagrid moved off to supervise Lavender and Parvati's squealing attempts to grasp handfuls of frog guts. Harry just winked and shoved a piece of rabbit liver into the sucker of the up-ended skrewt. The thing seemed to choke on it, and Harry hurriedly cleared the orifice. Crack. The skrewt blasted away from him and flipped over.
"I guess that's not a mouth," said Harry staring at his fresh burn. Daisy made a disapproving cluck and flicked the frog guts into the crate. She washed her hands under Hagrid's garden spigot. Harry shook his hand, and made to put his fingers into his mouth.
"Oh, for goodness' sake," said Hermione, grabbing Harry's wrist. She ran her wand over his fingers; an expression of supreme concentration came over her face. "Frixi!"
The discomfort from the skrewt's blast was replaced by a cool sensation that rippled from Harry's fingertips and along the back of his hand. Harry made a pleased sound. Hermione's hand lingered on his a little longer than necessary. He didn't say anything. The first hints of color appeared in her cheeks, but, quickly, she forced a scowl over it, and let Harry have his hand back.
"Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome," replied Hermione curtly, and swished her wand to levitate a portion of gory slop into the skrewt crate. Ron, who had watched the interaction in silence, spoke up.
"Was that a special thing?" he said, holding up a suspiciously red thumb for Hermione to see. "Or could you do that for me as well?" Hermione huffed out an angry breath, but crossed to cure Ron's injury.
"Brilliant!" Ron murmured. "Where'd you learn to do that?"
"I read, Ron," Hermione told him. "You might want to give it a go sometime."
"I read enough," said Ron. "I read the back of that packet of dungbombs this morning."
"Oh, why are you so difficult?" Hermione snapped. "You know what I meant."
"Me," said Ron; his face stretched in incredulity. "I'm difficult? You won't talk to Harry because he thumped Malfoy and you took it for bloody intercourse."
"I did not take it for, for…" Hermione fumed.
"Bollocks," Ron shot back. "You're just mad that she exposed herself and hers were bigger, you great prude." Daisy grabbed Hermione as she hefted the floating bits of frog guts and made to toss them at Ron.
"Easy, Hermione," said Daisy. "Harry didn't see anything, did you, Harry?"
"No," Harry said quickly. It seemed too quick for Hermione, though. The girl turned on him. Harry thought she was going to fling the guts at him, next, and recoiled.
"Do they like the frog guts?" she said instead. Harry lowered his arms from his face.
"What?"
"The skrewts." Hermione pointed at the crate and approached him with the sloppy skrewt food.
"Oh," said Harry. "Right. Erm, they don't seem to eat anything, actually." All of the students had effectively filled the containers with blood and guts and squishy bits, and the Blast-Ended Skrewts were just trundling through the slop like it was a sticky lagoon. Hermione came to stand at Harry's shoulder as he observed them.
"I suppose they're… interesting," said Hermione to him quietly, and lowered the food onto a pile of skrewts. She brushed at her hair. "No idea what their use is, though."
"They don't have to have a use!" Harry burst out. Hermione looked sideways at him, bemused. Harry forced the heat from his voice and said, "Not everything has to be harvested for bits of potion's ingredients, Hermione. They're entitled to survive as best they can."
"Only you and Hagrid can love these things." Hermione sniffed and scrunched her face up. "They smell foul." But she settled next to him to watch the skrewts patter about the boxes for the rest of the class. Harry almost didn't notice the slight pressure of her shoulder against his.
Hagrid dismissed them with the promise of a more hands on session with the Blast-Ended Skrewts next class. Lavender looked ready to faint at that. It took Parvati Patil and Seamus Finnigan both to walk her away from Hagrid's hut.
"I can't blame her," Ron mumbled as they set off up the lawn. "Once Hagrid figures out what they fancy eating I reckon they'll be massive."
Harry shrugged. He liked the skrewts, and wouldn't mind seeing how big they could get.
"We all know that you don't care," grumbled Daisy. She was fiddling with the strap of her bag. "But I'd rather not get stung by a overgrown lobster. Or sucked on, for that matter."
"Agreed," said Ron as the great oaken doors of the castle came into view. "That aside, we've got Divination, now."
"Double Divination," Daisy corrected, looking upset.
"It's your own fault," said Hermione. "You should have swapped it for something else, like Arithmancy, or Runes."
"I'm not going to do maths." Daisy sounded sour at the thought of it. "Or read stone tablets."
"We don't read stone tablets," said Hermione testily. "Just rubbings."
"I'd still rather have Trelawney," said Daisy stifling a giggle. "Who knows, maybe she'll pick on Harry this term."
"I'm not going to Divination," said Harry, allowing Dean Thomas and the rest of the Gryffindors ahead of them.
"What?" said Daisy. "Why not?"
"I told you at breakfast," said Harry. "I gave it up."
"Why?" asked Ron.
Harry just stared at them.
"You can't be serious," said Daisy, folding her arms over her chest. "That stupid prediction?"
"I'm not complaining," Hermione interjected. "Divination is a farce, but you can't take Trelawney seriously, Harry. Daisy's still alive, isn't she? Trelawney spent all term predicting her brutal murder, and lo'… she's still in one piece." Daisy smiled at that, but Harry's heart had started to speed up.
"You didn't hear her," he said. "It was a real prediction."
It had to be. Prophesy, it was called. He'd asked the Headmaster. But Dumbledore was not certain if Professor Trelawney had, in fact, predicted anything. According to him, the woman had only ever had a single real prediction. But it didn't matter that no one else took him seriously. Even remembering Trelawney's words filled him with unease.
Harry was the reason that they were all still alive. And he had barely survived at that. Their teacher had died instead. And Wormtail had escaped.
Ron was opening and closing his mouth behind Daisy, clearly struggling for words. Harry shot him a silencing look, and watched the boy's teeth click together. He looked queasy.
"Harry." Daisy jerked on his forearm. "Think for one bloody second. You think that Wormtail, Wormtail, is going to revive Voldemort? He spent thirteen years sleeping on Ron's stomach. Crookshanks nearly ate him! Trelawney is off her nut."
"Daisy!" Ron hissed, flinching. "How many times do I need to say, 'don't say it?'"
"Grow up," Daisy snapped, turning her head. "Is his name going to give you nightmares?"
"No," said Ron. "But… but, just don't say it."
Daisy wasn't moved."Voldemort is not going to rely on your rat, Ron."
"H-he's not my rat." Ron scowled at his own tremulous voice, pressing his lips tight. "He's Percy's rat, if anything. And you saw him, he's the worst sort of person."
"You can't just ignore everything, Daisy," said Harry. "It means something. Everything does. Your scar, the Death Eaters, Wormtail, everything."
"Don't," Daisy growled. "Do not throw my scar pains into your barmy, half-baked conspiracies, Harry."
"Daisy."
"I said don't!" She chucked a piercing glare at him and stalked off up the lawn.
"Should you go after her?" Ron asked.
"I - Why don't you?" asked Harry. He could feel the first stirrings of anger in his jaw. Not for the first time, a part of him wanted to make Daisy see things as he did. It wanted her to notice the way situations always went afoul whenever she was involved.
Daisy couldn't act a fool forever. And something had to be done. They couldn't just react to the constant danger for the rest of their lives. If only he knew what to do to prevent it. And then there was the bit of him that wanted Daisy to stay the same. Because acting as Harry did would only get her hurt. Daisy was too nice, too much had happened to her. He… just didn't know what to do, and… Harry ground his teeth.
"You all right?" asked Ron quietly.
"Tip top," said Harry with a forced smile. "You've got class with her, just go."
"Harry, it can't be easy—"
"Ron," Harry cut in. "I'm fine. Just go." Frown deepening, Ron nodded and hurried off after Daisy. Harry stood still. And breathed. She would be all right. Ron would cheer her up. Daisy would forget. She would forgive him by dinner. She'd be fine.
So why did he feel terrible?
"Come on," said Hermione softly from his side. "You look pale. Let's have lunch."
