Well, this got away from me lol. Three thousand words longer than expected, and even angstier than I intended, have fun kids.

Chapter 4: Trials and Tribulations

Life settled into a comfortable rhythm for the occupants of the castle over the following week, as it always did after the whirlwind first week of classes. The first years were gradually learning to navigate the twisting corridors and jump the trick stairs and stopped getting lost so much on their way to lessons, the older students were gradually learning to accept their doomed fates as O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students who had suddenly very little free time and quite a lot more stress, and that usual, somewhat surreal air of nervous excitement which surrounded returning to Hogwarts faded naturally into the feeling that they had never really left.

A brutal wind had blown up around the castle, whipping steadily across the grounds and sneaking through the gaps under doors, rattling the windows in their frames and chilling the hallways.

This, Harry brooded as he shifted positions uncomfortably, must certainly be why he was so bloody freezing all the time now, and he pulled his robes more tightly around himself.

It was his Friday morning free period and he was sitting crouched in one of Hogwarts' secret passageways, hidden behind a tapestry, head bent low over the Marauder's Map. He scanned the miniaturised drawings of classrooms and corridors, eyes darting about rapidly, searching…he had just seen…there! Harry smacked his finger to the parchment triumphantly, tracing the little dot labeled 'Draco Malfoy' as it moved down one of the tiny staircases, flanked by two other dots marked 'Gregory Goyle' and 'Theodore Nott'. Malfoy was heading to the ground floor…he, Harry, was only one floor above! He thought quickly…if he left the passageway and used the stairs to the right, he could overtake Malfoy easily in minutes. But if he followed the passage, it would take less time…though that would lead to more classrooms, and a higher chance of getting caught…Harry rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them. He wasn't out-of-bounds, but he would rather no one knew what he was up to, not yet…not until he had proof….

Harry's elbow brushed a small lump of material balled up inside his pocket, just over his hip, and he nearly startled as it struck him: his Invisibility Cloak!

It was so obvious he felt stupid for not realising it earlier. But then again, he supposed as he fished it out of his pocket, he wasn't quite yet used to having it with him all the time, before now he'd always kept it in his trunk when he was at school.

Well, that settled that, he decided – he'd take the shortcut. A thrill of anticipation and purpose raced through Harry as he made to stand.

But then he hesitated, checking Malfoy's progress: he and his lackeys were on the ground floor now, and they were heading toward the dungeons…Harry felt quite sure that if they were about to deface something or cause any trouble, it would be out in the open again for the whole school to see, not down in the dungeons…Harry sat still another minute and watched the three dots rove deeper into the bowels of the castle, and then pass through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, as he'd suspected they might.

Harry slumped back against the wall, disappointed.

This was the third time this week he had sat hidden away in a secluded section of the castle, alone, waiting for Malfoy to make a mistake…to perhaps wander off somewhere he wasn't supposed to be, or to linger too long anywhere that was not a classroom, or a bathroom….

And this was the third time he had been left with absolutely nothing to show for it.

Harry knew Malfoy was up to something. He knew it had been Malfoy who'd written those foul things on the wall in the second-floor corridor, and if no one else was going to do anything about it, then Harry would.

It had not been difficult, these past few days, to slip away unnoticed by Ron and Hermione whenever they started up into one of their usual rounds of bickering. They had been doing that quite a lot recently. Bickering, that was. Harry supposed that they had always done that – had always liked to needle each other to the point of exasperation, but he had noticed a definite uptick over the summer, and he had a sneaking suspicion as to why that might be.

And he was not sure how to feel about it.

About the possibility of Ron and Hermione…what? Abandoning him? Shutting him out forever, so they could be on their own?

But Harry mentally kicked himself. Surely that would never happen. They had, both of them, stuck by Harry, even through some pretty tough times, and he was certain that wouldn't change just because they might want to start dating each other.

Harry let out a quick puff of air. His free period was already half over, and he still had to run back to the Tower to get his books before his next class. Resigned, Harry quickly rolled up the Marauder's Map and tucked it back inside his robes. He climbed to his feet and stretched, pulling his arms briefly above his head. His back was aching and sore from sitting still for so long, and he took a moment to stretch that out too, his spine popping in several places.

Cautiously, Harry poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he stepped out from behind the tapestry.

He had to switch up his strategy, Harry thought as he made his way toward the stairs, mulling over his Malfoy problem again…the Slytherins (collectively, for Harry was positive Malfoy'd had help) had last struck in the middle of the night, and Harry had so far only managed to post himself throughout the school at random times of the day, whenever a break in his timetable allowed it. It would make more sense to keep watch at night…it was not as though this would interfere with all the solid sleep he was getting, he considered ruefully...but then again, there was the risk of getting locked out of Gryffindor Tower if the Fat Lady decided to visit another portrait….

"Hi Harry!" a voice called brightly behind him.

Harry's hand jerked, ready to draw his wand, but as he turned and saw who it was, his arm fell back to his side.

"Hi Luna," said Harry, relieved in spite of himself. The sight of her, wearing her usual radish-shaped earrings, blonde hair as long and straggly as ever, was oddly comforting, and his heart stuttered back to normal. He realised with a twinge of unhappiness that he had not seen her properly since they had shared a compartment on the train. As she caught up to him, Harry dug his hands into his pockets and turned automatically so that they were walking together.

"What are you doing down here? Haven't you got class?" Harry asked her.

"Oh yes," Luna nodded serenely. "Charms. But Laura Hinkley accidentally overdid her Summoning Charm and smacked herself in the face with a globe. She broke her nose and knocked out two front teeth, so Professor Flitwick ended class early to take her to the hospital wing. I feel a bit badly for her – I would feel much worse, only she's one of the girls who calls me 'Loony' sometimes," she said matter-of-factly.

Harry grinned at her, and he was surprised to find it came easily. He hadn't grinned in what felt like ages.

"I'm glad you got out early, then. It's nice to see you," he told her sincerely.

Luna's wide, silvery eyes lit up, and she absolutely beamed at him. "It's very nice to see you, too, Harry."

They chatted companionably through a few more corridors, and as Luna told him all about her first week of school, Harry scratched absently at his wrists.

His hands itched all the time now; the strange, intense urges to bathe himself had not abated over the last week and had continued to strike him randomly at thoroughly inconvenient times. He wasn't, of course, able to sneak away half a dozen times a day just for a shower, so he had found himself slipping into the bathroom between classes and meals to quickly shove his hands under some hot water. It seemed to help suppress his odd new compulsion, but the skin on his wrists and the backs of his hands was now cracked and dry, and he had begun to develop tiny blisters.

Harry wasn't exactly sure what was driving this weird impulse. Perhaps it was his now seemingly permanent case of the chills – a hot shower seemed to be the only thing that could sufficiently warm him up these days.

Or perhaps it was the fact that he now felt very like he had done after witnessing Nagini's attack on Mr. Weasley the year before and subsequently hearing some of the members of the Order speculate that he might have been possessed without his knowing…Harry remembered, very clearly, how…separate…from everyone else he had felt on the train ride home from visiting Mr. Weasley at St. Mungo's – contaminated, infected...dirty….

Harry found himself thinking, sometimes, though he tried very hard not to, about that night in the broom cupboard with Romilda. He had neither properly seen nor heard from her since the evening she had left him chocolates in his room, and Harry felt quite certain that the best thing he could do would be to just forget about what had happened between them. The only problem with this, however, was that she seemed to have transferred something to him that night. Left some parasite on his skin that had crawled up inside him and latched on, releasing a kind of vile toxin that made him itch all over, made him feel like he had a thin layer of living grime sitting just underneath the surface of his skin…Harry found that the feeling went away, for just a little while, after he'd scrubbed himself sufficiently, though he could never quite seem to fully eradicate it.

Harry pulled his sleeves down over his hands and shoved them back into his pockets, forcefully shelving all thoughts of Romilda Vane and focusing instead on Luna's animated description of a Blibbering Humdinger her father had claimed he'd seen a month before.

"Anyway," Luna said as they climbed another set of stairs together, "what were you doing down there, all by yourself?"

Harry shrugged. "Enjoying the view," he said as though it were obvious, gesturing grandly at the exceptionally uninteresting bare stretch of wall they were passing, and Luna broke out into giggles. She snorted slightly, which Harry might usually have found a bit grating, but coming from Luna he found it somehow endearing, and he felt his spirits lift considerably as he watched her, another smile tugging at his lips.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Luna stopped and turned to Harry, tucking her wand more securely behind her left ear. "Well, I suppose I'd better be heading back. I've got Care of Magical Creatures next, and I'm afraid I'm already quite late," she said, smiling widely. "See you, Harry!"

"Bye, Luna," said Harry, her words sinking in as she climbed back down the stairs. She hadn't been heading this way at all, then, but had simply walked with Harry to keep him company, even though he had made her late for class.

Harry watched her go, a fierce sort of affection rising in his chest, and hoped, as Luna disappeared around the corner, that Laura Hinkley's broken nose was still smarting.

"Been stalking Malfoy again, have you?" Ron said offhandedly without looking up from his Charms text as Harry plopped into the chair next to him and put his feet up on the table.

Harry laced his fingers over his stomach and did his best to look highly affronted. "Who says I've been stalking him?"

Ron glanced up at him, giving him a look that said quite plainly he wasn't fooled, and Harry gave in.

"Yeah, alright," he shrugged easily, and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

He heard Ron snort and turn a page. "Don't know why you're wasting your time…."

Harry lifted his head again to look at Ron incredulously. "What, you don't think it was him who wrote that rubbish in that corridor? You said you did!"

"'Course it was," Ron agreed, squinting at a footnote. "It's just…I mean, how d'you think you're going to catch him at it? Better to just wait and see if he does it again, and then you can see what his game is, where he'll make his next move…." Ron trailed off, tapping his quill against the table as he looked something up in his text's index.

Harry stared at him. It was no wonder Ron Weasley won every game of chess he ever played, he thought wryly. But it was, in Harry's opinion, a moot point. He had admittedly already considered this strategy and discarded it – after all, what if Malfoy ended up hurting someone next time? But when Harry voiced this concern to Ron, he merely laughed.

"Malfoy? Come on, Harry, he's a filthy rotten creep, yeah, but he's a cowardly filthy rotten creep," Ron pointed out, closing his book and leaning back against the wall, mirroring Harry's position. "Since when has he ever done anything more than stand there insulting people, and threaten everyone with his father?"

"But that's just it, isn't it?" Harry pressed. "His father's in prison, isn't he, and now Draco thinks it's his job to prove the Malfoys aren't all worthless, they're still useful…hey!" A sudden idea had just struck him. "D'you reckon he's working for Voldemort already?"

Ron cringed at the name but did not attempt to challenge Harry's use of it. "Are you serious? What would You-Know-Who want with a slimy, spineless little git who's not even fully qualified yet?" Ron shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Well, I still reckon he ought to be expelled either way," Harry said grimly. "I mean, you do realise it was people like Hermione he said should pop their clogs, don't you? I thought you'd be more upset about this…."

"I am!" Ron said indignantly, sitting up a little straighter and frowning down at Harry. "I just think you're getting a bit obsessed, that's all…."

"Who's getting obsessed with what?" asked Hermione, who had just appeared next to them. She set down a rather large stack of books and pushed Harry's feet off the table, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "boys" and "respecting the furniture."

"Harry's getting obsessed with Malfoy," Ron informed her as she sat down across from them.

"Oh, that," she agreed conversationally. "Yes, I do think you're putting a bit too much energy into it, frankly, Harry…until you've got proof – "

"Ron thinks I'm right that he's up to something, don't you?" Harry demanded, but Ron simply held up his hands as if to say 'sorry, nothing I can do' and Harry glared at him.

Hermione ignored both of them. "Until you've got real proof, there's really no point in wandering about the school, wasting time when you should be studying…."

"And how am I supposed to get proof without going looking for it, wait for it to fall into my lap?" Harry challenged.

But Hermione seemed to have lost interest in discussing the matter, giving him a stern look but declining to answer. Harry looked away in defeat, vowing to bring it up again next chance he got. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione looking him up and down, as though inspecting him for any visible signs of an ailment.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Between Harry's frequent trips to the bathroom and his continued lack of appetite, Ron and Hermione had started to express the concern that Harry might have come down with some sort of stomach illness. Every time Harry had looked at food for the past week, he'd felt a rolling sense of nausea, and after several days of consuming only water, tea, and modest portions of whatever soup the kitchens had produced that day, Hermione had become increasingly insistent that he should try to eat a bit more. It was just no use telling her he wasn't hungry, and that probably he wouldn't be able to keep any of it down anyway; her incessant harassment was starting to wear on him, and he had begun to find a certain bitter pleasure in refusing her demands….

Just then the bell rang, much to Harry's relief, and the three of the them headed off to Charms, where he knew Hermione would have blessedly little time to focus on his well-being, physical or otherwise.

The next day dawned grey and calm. Overcast, but no sign of rain yet, and the brutal wind had died down to almost nothing. Perfect Quidditch conditions, and Harry could not have been more pleased – it was Gryffindor tryouts today, his first official duty as Captain of the team, and he wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible.

The thought of the good weather sustained Harry all the way down to breakfast, and he even managed to get down three sausages and a pile of eggs before Hermione announced over the morning paper that Stan Shunpike had been arrested.

"What?" he and Ron both said at once.

Hermione read the rest of the article aloud, and it seemed clear to the three of them that the Ministry had now reached a point of desperation, and had resorted to merely constructing the appearance of doing something about the growing threats to the community they were supposed to be protecting, even if it meant jailing innocent people.

Harry sat there silently as Hermione and Ron continued to discuss the subject, fingernails scraping absently against the back of his wrist, and glanced up at the staff table. For a while he watched Dumbledore, who was deep in conversation with Professor Flitwick, and wondered when their next lesson together would be.

Harry certainly wasn't managing to do much on his own to improve his chances of helping to win the war: with his growing inability to concentrate properly in lessons and an ongoing struggle to get a full night's sleep, Harry's classes had become an even bigger challenge than before. The printed words of his textbooks blurred together and sometimes did not even seem like they were written in proper English, and he would find himself reading the same sentence a dozen times as his mind wandered off completely. His teachers' voices oftentimes faded to a dull buzz that he had trouble deciphering and he would feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier, until he was inevitably nudged awake by Ron's elbow, or startled by the bell.

And the worst part was he could feel himself beginning not to care.

He wanted to care, he knew how important his education was (what use was he to anyone else as an underqualified wizard) but he sensed his motivation for schoolwork slipping through his fingers and he did not know how to stop it. What was the point in trying, after all, if he couldn't keep any of it inside his brain….

Harry knew his marks were already starting to suffer for it.

He'd caught McGonagall frowning at him more than once, and Flitwick had handed Harry's last essay back to him with a rather baffled look of dismay. Slughorn, with a rather melodramatic expression of pure agony on his round, walrus-y face, had expressed his profound consternation that the evidence of the talent Harry had obviously inherited from his mother had disappeared so entirely and had offered to tutor Harry privately.

But the thought of being alone for hours on end with Professor Slughorn, who often looked at Harry as if he were a delicious prize to be won and whom Harry did yet know very well, was deeply unsettling to him for reasons he did not know how to name, and Harry had flat-out refused this proposition as politely as he possibly could.

The breakfast Harry had managed to get down churned unpleasantly in his stomach, and he shoved his plate away, blaming it somewhat truthfully on the nerves of the upcoming tryouts when Hermione asked him if that was all he was going to eat.

The weather held as Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way down to the Quidditch stadium fifteen minutes later.

Ginny caught up to them about halfway down, her broom over her shoulder, and was joined shortly thereafter by Dean, which Harry would not have minded, as he liked Dean quite a lot, except that he casually slipped his hand into Ginny's, and this seemed to coincide with a slight dip in Harry's mood (although he saw Ron glance pointedly at their clasped hands and felt a bit better).

A rather large crowd had already gathered by the time they reached the pitch, and Hermione departed to find a seat in the stands, wishing them all a hasty good luck. Ron, Ginny, and Dean wandered off to join the rest of the hopefuls, leaving Harry alone to survey the massive group of applicants. Harry couldn't believe how many people had shown up…he tried to perform a quick headcount but it was impossible to tell for sure, as everyone kept moving around. Definitely more than had ever turned up to trials over Harry's previous years on the team. He felt his nerves flutter again….

Harry glanced up at the grey sky, thinking he had better get things started up before it decided to rain, and felt a faint tug on his sleeve. He looked back and abruptly found himself face to face with Romilda Vane – a sharp bolt of lightning seemed to lance through Harry in the millisecond it took for him to recognise her face, and he stepped back hastily without thinking.

"Harry," she said, smirking, and Harry was oddly surprised to find that her voice sounded perfectly normal. Like it could have belonged to any other girl.

"Hello, Romilda," said Harry evenly. He forced himself to stand his ground, even though what he really wanted to do was turn around and march across the field until he was as far away from her as possible. The vague beginnings of a headache throbbed to life at the back of his skull, but the panic that he had felt every time he had thought of her over the past week did not come. In fact, he suddenly felt terribly, mercifully blank. "Er – what are you doing here?"

"Trying out!" she beamed, gesturing at the crowd behind her, and winked conspiratorially. "Figured I had an in with the Captain…."

Harry gave her a tight smile and thought privately that Snape had a better chance of winning a tap-dancing competition than Romilda did of getting on this Quidditch team. "Right. Well, if you'll just wait over there…." He tried to direct her back over to the others.

"And anyway," she continued as if Harry had not spoken, "I haven't heard from you, did you like your present?" She gave him a knowing smile.

A box, a little box on his bed, and a note that smelled of roses-

She had-

"Please…."

been in his room-

Don't.

His fresh headache gave a nasty throb.

"I don't like chocolate," Harry said stiffly.

"Oh! Well, if you – "

"And like I said, you can wait over there with everyone else," he told her, pointing.

Romilda's expression faltered for a moment at his tone, but she recovered quickly. "Sure, if you like…." She moved as if to touch Harry's arm, but he jerked it abruptly out of her reach, and her hand fell back to her side. The barest trace of annoyance flashed across her face, and then she smirked at him again and walked away to rejoin the group.

Harry watched her go, and wished it were just a bit sunnier; the cool breeze seemed to have taken on a harder edge….

Harry wiped his palms on his trousers, squared his shoulders, and lifted the whistle hanging round his neck to his lips, giving it a sharp blast. The talk died down immediately as everyone turned to face him.

"Alright, you lot," he announced firmly, "we're going to start with the basics, I want you to split up into groups of ten…."

"So assertive," someone whispered, and several girls broke out into hysterical giggles. Harry pointedly ignored them and began relaying instructions to the first group of ten to fly once around the pitch so he could get a sense of their abilities.

Romilda Vane was in the second group. When Harry blew his whistle, not a single one of them kicked off from the ground, but merely dissolved into another fit of giggles, and Harry felt irritation flare in his empty chest.

"Leave now, please!" he barked at them, before turning to the rest. "And if there's anyone else here who's not going to take it seriously then you can get off this field…."

Romilda and her friends ran off the pitch, still laughing, and Harry noted with annoyance that they did not head back up to the castle but rather went to sit in the stands to watch everyone else. Harry grimaced, scratching his hand, the pressure in the back of his head increasing, and turned to direct the third group….

The rest of the trials took several hours and were somewhat of a blur. Harry could feel sweat running down his back despite the cool weather; he focused all his concentration on the players before him and did not look into the stands, though he imagined, in the back of his mind, that Romilda's eyes were following him…he thought Hermione might have tried to wave at him once, when he'd finished the flying tests and the Chaser candidates had stepped forward, to give him the thumbs up, but he steadfastly refused to look in her direction…he was vaguely sure she was sitting in the row just above Romilda…the pulsing heaviness in Harry's head seemed to be growing, twisting….

Harry watched, trying to absorb every detail, as each Chaser attempted to score as many goals as possible; Katie Bell was still as good as ever, and it was no tough decision to welcome her back on the team; Demelza Robins, whom Harry had only seen in passing before now, was a nice surprise, and had a particular talent for avoiding Bludgers; Ginny Weasley scored more goals than anyone before her, and managed to look damn good while doing it (although Harry didn't suppose this was relevant to her Chasing abilities, and it did not, of course, have any bearing on her acceptance to the team).

By the time Harry had chosen two new Beaters, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, he had shouted down several arguments and complaints from those who had failed to make the cut – normally he would have found this infuriating, but as it was Harry couldn't seem to muster any real sense of exasperation.

As Jimmy and Ritchie went to join the other spectators, Harry glanced toward the stands. Romilda was still there.

Harry's head pulsed again, and he wiped a bead of sweat off his temple, turning to watch Ron, who had flown up to the goal posts to start his trial for Keeper. Ron looked like he might be sick, and Harry felt his stomach dip in sympathy, but Ron managed to save all five penalties without much trouble, something no other Keeper applicant had managed to do, and Harry felt a relieved delight try to stir in his heart as Ron landed to the cheers of the crowd.

With the excitement over, the onlookers began to file quickly out of the stadium, and Harry waited until Cormac McLaggen (who had done second best as Keeper but who also seemed to possess both a nasty temper and the idea that Harry had not given him a fair shot) had stomped off to the castle, aiming a kick at one of the benches as he went, before making his way over to Ron and thumping him on the back.

"Well done!" said Harry fervently, slightly hoarse from all the shouting he'd had to do. "Really great, Ron, that last save – "

"Thanks," said Ron, grinning ear to ear. "Almost thought I'd missed it, did you see – "

"Congratulations, Ron!" Hermione was running toward them, and when she reached them, she leaned up quickly, kissing Ron on the cheek. A second later, she seemed to realise what she had done and stepped back quickly, blushing and looking everywhere but at Ron's face. Ron's ears turned red as he stared, dumbstruck, at Hermione, then touched his cheek lightly where she had kissed him, beaming. Ginny, who had just walked up with the rest of the new team, caught Harry's eye and they both looked away quickly, trying not to laugh.

After consulting everyone's timetables, the first full practice was fixed up for the following week.

"You were all brilliant," Harry congratulated them, and for a second he felt a true glow of pride as he looked around at them all.

Katie smiled at him fondly. "You too, Mr. Captain, nice job."

The last stragglers were leaving the Quidditch pitch, and as Harry shook Ritchie Coote's hand, he glanced away, inadvertently catching Romilda Vane's eye. She gave him a little wave then turned back to her friends, their tinkling laughter fading as the little group strolled away.

Ron's enthusiastic re-telling of his third save faded to a buzz in Harry's ears as he stared after them. He dropped Ritchie's hand, his skin crawling…his head throbbed like a heartbeat…his arms were beginning to itch again….

"Gonna go put these up, be right back…." Harry said mechanically, and kicked shut the lid of the crate containing the Quidditch balls, scooped it up, and headed toward the equipment shed. He quickly stowed the crate and glanced back at his friends. No one was watching, and he felt safe slipping away to the changing rooms.

Harry stopped just inside the door, pulling it closed and looking around. His eyes drank in the long benches, the pads and gloves hanging on the walls, the section leading off to the showers.

He loved this room.

He still remembered the first time he had sat in it before an actual Quidditch game, how nervous he had been…he saw himself quite clearly as he imagined it, his tiny little eleven-year-old self in those scarlet robes, trembling and anxious and so very, very excited….

Harry locked the door and went around to the showers. He wanted to rinse off, he felt sweaty and gross, but as soon as he turned on the tap, he remembered that Ron and Hermione would be waiting for him…they had planned to go down to Hagrid's after tryouts…Harry reluctantly switched off the tap. He wandered over to the lockers, running his hand along the metal doors until coming to the one that had first been his, five years ago…it wasn't his anymore…George had switched his and Harry's as a joke in third year and they had never bothered to swap back…Harry turned around and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His wrists tingled more intensely and he scratched them one at a time, digging his nails in, prying out the itch.

He felt…odd.

Like how he imagined it might feel to stand at the edge of a cliff and look down, and feel no awe, or anticipation, or fear.

He was satisfied with his performance as Captain today, and truly happy for Ginny and for Ron for making the team, but it was like all that was buried underneath a massive, solid layer of…nothing.

The headache that had been developing all morning, since the moment he'd seen Romilda, gave a particularly intense throb…something was pulsing at the back of his mind like a tumor, begging to be examined –

"…did you like your present?"

– and Harry did not want to touch it, but it was like being in the room with a dead body, and you didn't want to look at it, but it was so awful it drew your eyes against your will….

There was a knock at the door.

"Harry?"

It was Ginny.

He stared across the room. He wanted to call out to her, to go back out and join the others and talk about Quidditch like it was the only thing that mattered, but his mouth and body had disconnected from his brain, and Ginny's voice felt very far away, and he stared.

"Are you in there?"

In his mind, he inched closer and closer to that ugly, red, pulsing mass, and he wanted very much for someone to yank him back, to stop him, this did not belong in his head –

DON'T!

He reached out, and touched it, and his mind burst open –

– it felt like acid was leaking into his brain –

"Are you lost, Harry?"

His head was swirling with an artificial confusion, he felt dazed, he felt wrong, and then there was darkness –

"This is a broom cupboard…."

– his body was frozen, he was helpless, he couldn't do anything to protect himself, and there was –

Sweet, sickly syrup sliding down his throat –

He could taste it now, like he was being forced to drink it all over again, and he gagged, retching –

"Harry?" came that nice voice again, and it was louder, and not so calm, anymore.

There was a boiling, raging heat inside him, nothing but heat, heat, heat, and he was burning up…she was beautiful, so beautiful you couldn't see what was hiding underneath –

"There's a good boy."

He could feel her hand on his face, as surely as if she were sitting next to him, and he wanted to jerk away, but he was paralysed, he couldn't move, and then her phantom lips were pressing against his, forcing them open, and her tongue was in his mouth –

Stop her, or you won't like what comes next – stop her, you sorry little –

There were other voices outside the door now.

Help me.

"I love you."

Those words were everything, they were the only important thing in the world, and she had taken his first ones, all for herself –

There were hands all over him….

He couldn't breathe. His head fell back and hit the locker behind him with a metallic bang. He lifted his head and slammed it back again, and again –

"Get out of my head!" Harry gasped into the empty room.

"You're so gorgeous, Harry, hasn't anyone ever told you?"

A hand slipping into his pants –

Harry's whole body jerked and he kicked out, his foot slamming into one of the wooden benches. It toppled over with an almighty crash –

The door was pounding now, pounding like the inside of Harry's head.

"Harry Potter, open this door right now, or I swear – "

She was pulling his clothes off, and then they were both naked, and she was on top of him –

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

DON'T. PLEASE.

There was the shout of a spell, and the door burst open.

Someone shrieked.

"Oh my God! Harry!"

There was a clatter around him, and voices….

He was so cold.

"Harry, stop!"

Hermione….

He sensed a body kneeling down beside him, and a hand closed over his burning wrist –

Harry startled at the contact, his eyes still shut tight, and he jerked away from it violently, his shoulder banging painfully into the lockers, and the hand released him. He still couldn't breathe….

"Harry…." Her voice was trembling. "Harry…open your eyes…."

Harry forced himself to focus, his breath coming fast and sharp. He concentrated all his willpower on slowing his racing thoughts, shoving the images of her face, her hair, her hands back through the door in his mind he never should have allowed himself to open in the first place – he pushed as hard as he possibly could – the door slammed shut…the too-real sensation of Romilda's hands on his body began to fade, her voice draining out of his ears…when Hermione told him again to open his eyes, he obeyed on instinct.

Ron and Ginny were standing over him, their faces stricken and pale. Hermione knelt next to him, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes wide, her hands held up in front of her as if to show she meant no harm…one of her hands was covered in blood….

Harry stared at the bloody hand in consternation. Why was she bleeding…? His shoulders were hitching with the force of his breath, which was still coming too fast and shallow, his head was swimming….

"Ginny, quick, go get help, Hagrid's closest – " Hermione said frantically.

"No!" Harry croaked, hardly knowing what he was saying, and grabbed her wrist, his breath stuttering. "N-no…pl-ease…."

"Harry, you need help, you're hurt!" Hermione said shrilly.

Harry blinked at her, confused, and his eyes fell to the hand he had wrapped around her arm. His wrist was torn open and raw, dripping blood down his arm, onto her skirt…Harry released her at once, mortified, and looked down at himself. His other hand was in a similar state, and there were drops of red spattered across his shirt….

"I don't…." he panted. "W-what…what happened….?"

"You don't remember?" Ron asked tensely, his eyes raking over Harry's face. His freckles stood out starkly in his bloodless face.

Harry shook his head slowly, trying to think. He'd been scratching his wrists (had to get the itch out), he remembered that now…had he done this to himself? He hadn't felt it….

Ginny knelt down on his other side. "You need to breathe, Harry," she instructed, and her voice was steady despite the white-knuckled grip she had around her own knees. "In and out, come on."

Harry tried to obey. He focused on the hair framing her face, admiring its colour, even in the dim lighting of the changing room…it reminded him of the Burrow…of sunny days spent playing Quidditch in the apple orchard, and Mrs. Weasley humming to herself while she cooked supper…Mr. Weasley reading in his worn, patched armchair…Harry's heart rate began to slow, and he managed to take several deep breaths.

Ron had been hovering uncertainly, apparently debating whether to run and fetch help after all. But as Harry's breathing slowed, he sank down onto his knees next to Hermione so they were all on the same level.

A heavy silence fell over the four of them as Harry calmed, and he looked down at his mangled hands, drawing them close against his body, and refused to look at anyone. Nobody said anything for what felt like an eternity; then Hermione reached out tentatively, giving Harry time to refuse her touch if he wanted to, before resting her hand gently on his arm, careful to avoid his injuries.

"What happened, Harry?" she prompted gently.

Harry thought about that for a minute, his brain feeling sluggish and slow. He shrugged hopelessly, still not looking at any of them. "I don't know…I…I was thinking, and then I just…I dunno, blacked out, I guess…."

Exhaustion was setting in fast, dragging at Harry's bones, and he thought he would like nothing more than to roll over right here and sleep for a week.

"You mean like…a vision?"

Harry wanted to say yes: here was a ready-made excuse for this…episode. An excuse that relieved him of all guilt for making them worry, for making them break down a door and find him collapsed on the floor of a locker room, covered in his own blood…but he could not bring himself to do it. And besides, if they were put under the impression that a vision from Voldemort had affected him this badly, they would want him to go straight to Dumbledore.

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"You don't have anything to apologise for," said Ginny softly.

A pause. "Where're the others?" Harry asked, hoping the rest of the Gryffindor team weren't standing outside, that they hadn't heard….

"They went back up to the school, before I came looking for you," Ginny told him, and Harry felt a bit better at that.

"What were you thinking about, that made you...?" asked Ron suddenly, as though he wasn't sure whether he should, and Harry glanced up at him. His expression was clouded.

Harry shrugged again. "Something stupid. It doesn't matter." And it didn't, Harry decided, because was never going to go there again, was never again going to open the door in his mind that made him lose control like that, ever….

Ron's eyes did not leave Harry's face. "You hurt yourself."

Harry bristled, and said a little defensively, "I didn't do it on purpose, I told you, I blacked out."

"Yes, well – " Hermione said, her tone taking on some semblance of its usual briskness as she wiped the tears from her face. "We've got to get you up to the hospital wing – "

"I don't need the hospital wing," said Harry, and was shouted down at once.

"Harry – "

"Are you mad?"

"Yes, you do!" Hermione insisted heatedly, and they were all looking at him as if he'd grown another head. "You're injured, Harry, and probably you need something for shock, too…."

"I'm not in shock," Harry growled, climbing to his feet, and the three of them scrambled to stand as well. "And it's just a couple of scrapes, Hermione, I'm fine –"

Though this statement lost something of its merit as Harry wobbled uncertainly and Ron reached out to steady him. Harry did not fancy the idea of traipsing through the school covered in blood, he could imagine the rumours it was bound to start. He just wanted to lie down, and for Hermione, Ron, and Ginny to forget this had ever happened….

"Look," he said tiredly, looking around at their determined faces. "I'll let one of you lot have a go at healing me, if you want, but I'm not going to Madam Pomfrey, and I'm not changing my mind."

"We can't do that, Harry, we're not qualified!" said Hermione. "What if something goes wrong? Besides, I don't know those kind of healing spells…."

"I do," Ginny said quietly, and they all looked at her.

"You do?" asked Ron, nonplussed.

"Mum taught me."

"How come she never taught me?" Ron demanded, looking put out.

"I asked her," said Ginny, giving him a look.

"Oh."

"But I still reckon we should take you up to the school, whether you like it or not," Ginny said, turning back to Harry. There was a hard, blazing look on her face, and for a brief second Harry's resolve weakened and he almost considered going.

But he shook his head, looking into her eyes. He hesitated, and then held his ruined hands out to her. "Try? Please?"

Ginny held his gaze for another second, then sighed, pulling out her wand.

Hermione covered her eyes for a brief moment, shaking her head. "Unbelievable," she whispered, and then fixed Harry with a glare. "Don't you think you'll be doing anything other than going straight to bed, when we get back up to the castle…."

"Fine by me," Harry said wearily.

And then Ginny, very gently, took one of Harry's hands in hers. Ginny's skin was warm against his, and Harry's belly performed a pleasant little flip, but that thing in the back of his mind into which he had vowed not to look loomed larger as she touched him, and he had to fight the urge to pull away.

"Tergeo," she said quietly, siphoning off the dried blood, then tapped her wand gently to his wound and the ravaged skin started to knit itself back together as Ron and Hermione watched. Hermione was still looking very worried, but fascinated, too. Harry could practically see the gears of her mind turning, trying to work out the mechanics of the spell, and he would have smiled under different circumstances. Ginny repeated the process with Harry's other hand, and then pointed her wand at Harry's shirt, said "Scourgify!" and Harry's clothes were suddenly blood-free.

Harry held his hands up, inspecting them. They were not quite good as new; the skin had closed up completely but was raised and slightly pink, like it was in the final stages of natural healing. But they were loads better than they had been, and Harry was more than a little impressed.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Ginny smiled at him, a little sadly, and said, "You're welcome."

Harry swallowed and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest and hiding his newly-healed hands from view. He nodded awkwardly toward the door and said, "Erm – guess we'd better be getting back then…."

"Harry – " Hermione started significantly, but Harry walked quickly past her and out the door before she could say anything else.

Plunk.

Plunk.

Plunk.

Harry pulled two more dead flobberworms apart and tossed each one into a bowl. He glanced at the clock behind the desk where Snape sat, bent over a stack of paperwork, and groaned inwardly.

He'd only been at it for half an hour. He had another whole hour left….

Snape looked up ominously at the pause in plunking sounds, and Harry grudgingly dug his hands back into the giant barrel of flobberworms he was sorting into rotten and not-rotten for use as Potions ingredients.

Hermione and Ron had been furious at him when he had announced he was leaving the common room to serve his detention with Snape as planned. Ginny too. And she had looked so much like Mrs. Weasley as she'd threatened to hex Harry back into bed that even Ron had recoiled under the strength of her glare.

The three of them had tried to convince Harry to tell McGonagall or Dumbledore what had happened so he wouldn't have to attend this detention, but honestly, Harry thought grimly, as he dumped the bowl of rotten flobberworms into the rubbish bin and continued sorting, it was almost a relief to be down here up to his elbows in slimy dead worms with only Snape for company instead of up in the Tower with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

Harry had gone straight to bed like he'd promised after the…fiasco…that morning. But when he had tried to lie down, he found he was too jittery to rest and made his way back down to the common room to ask Ron if he was up for a game of chess. Ron had kept shooting Harry highly anxious looks, however, and after their match Harry had gone right back up to bed. And on it had gone all afternoon, back and forth, bed, common room, bed, until Harry thought he'd go stark raving mad if he had to spend another second in Gryffindor Tower. So at half past eight he had been more than glad to depart for the dungeons, if only to get away from the oppressive pall of his friends' worry and his own jumpy, restless nerves.

Harry peered up at Snape again through his fringe. Snape didn't teach in the dungeons anymore, of course, his office was up on the second floor now, but perhaps Snape missed his old stomping grounds, and that was why he had insisted on dragging Harry all the way down here to stock Potions ingredients, just like old times.

It was odd, Harry thought, that he felt no misgivings about spending time alone with Snape, when the idea of being alone with Slughorn had nearly sent him into a panic….

Then again, Harry considered, throwing away another flobberworm. Perhaps it was not so odd after all.

Snape was safe.

Well, maybe 'safe' wasn't exactly the right word. Harry knew Snape wouldn't mind hurting him, given half the chance. He could still vividly recall the feeling of Snape's fingers digging into his arm the day Harry had accidentally viewed his memory in the Pensieve, holding him in a vicious, biting grip, shaking him, throwing him to floor….

Harry'd had those bruises for two weeks, though he'd never shown anybody, not even Ron and Hermione.

Old habits, he supposed.

But that was just it, wasn't it? Snape was predictable. He hated Harry. Despised him. And Harry returned the feeling with interest. Harry knew Snape was capable of hurting him, that Snape even took great pleasure in his misery and pain. But Snape did not like to touch Harry if he could help it. The ways he could choose to hurt Harry were expected, and obvious, and to the point.

Snape was like the Dursleys.

And Harry gleaned a small measure of bitter comfort from the unfailing certainty of that fact.

Because he had started to think, somewhere behind that door in his mind that he couldn't ever touch again, that maybe it was the less obvious ways of getting hurt that could really mess a person up. The ways you didn't see coming. The ones that slithered in, disguised as something else, something nicer…something prettier….

Maybe, he thought, looking down at the damaged skin of his hands, the worst bruises did not come from fists, but flowers.

Author's Note:

Again, to my guest reviewer - Thank you. Just. Thank you. Your kind words are so encouraging, and meaningful, and I feel so humbled that I get to hear them. It blows my mind that my story has already had such an effect on someone. I know what you mean, about wanting to share it and yet also keep it to yourself, because I've experienced that with other stories, too. "Your writing is lovely, and fragile, too, but with so much strength in it, just like Harry." - this, honestly, means so very much to me. And what a truly accurate description of Harry. Brave boy. I, too, crave stories in which he gets to heal. He wasn't given that chance in canon, not really, and I want so badly for him to be able to stop, and break, and be put back together again. Those are the stories I treasure the most, and the ones I'm always looking for. I like what you said about the other love potion story you came across, about how in it Hermione was not 'granted the right to struggle with it.' Because that's the thing, isn't it? That's the point. Recovery is a struggle, and sometimes there isn't a definitive point where you can suddenly say, "I'm done, I've recovered." It's more about taking the first steps, and the ones after that, and after a while looking back and getting to see how far you've come, and how much better things are, even if they aren't perfect. Thank you so much for reading, and taking the time to share your thoughts. I feel honored to hear them.

And thank you, sincerely, to everyone who has reviewed so far! It truly does wonders for motivation.