Well, here we are, I've gone and done what I didn't want to do at all - promised updates and then didn't deliver. Life got in the way, said every fanfic author ever, and I tried to write (I PROMISE LOL) but I just didn't have the energy to pull it off. Things are looking a bit brighter, though, and I hope you all are having lovely summers (or whatever season it is where you are)! I suppose to take the pressure off I shouldn't promise weekly updates, but know that I am constantly thinking about this fic and working on it whenever I can!
And now finally, hopefully, enjoy. :)
Chapter 6: Lightning in a Bottle
Dear Harry,
Is it much colder there yet? It's freezing here, I'm afraid, and I must confess I'm eager to be home.
How are you? I hope your classes are going well. It's difficult to believe it has already been nearly a month that you've been back, and regrettably two since we last met – forgive me, I had hoped to see more of you over the summer holidays. Molly and Arthur have invited me to spend this coming Christmas at the Burrow, and I look forward to seeing you again.
If there's anything, at all, you wish to talk about, I want you to know you can contact me at any time. Please take care of yourself.
– Remus
Harry stared at the letter, an odd squirming sensation in his gut. He sank down to perch on the edge of the windowsill, elbows resting on his knees, and quickly scanned the page again. He wondered where Lupin could possibly be, to complain about it being colder than Britain.
Hedwig, who had set to preening herself as soon as Harry had let her in the window and relieved her of the little roll of parchment, edged up to Harry's side and nuzzled her snowy head against his ribcage. Harry's hand moved without thought to pet her reassuringly as he took in Lupin's neatly-written words again.
'I want you to know you can contact me at any time….'
Harry's stomach tightened again with a pleasant sort of thrill.
A bit of the warm glow drained away, however, as he ran his fingers slowly down Hedwig's back…Lupin's sudden concern that Harry might have something to talk about seemed a little suspicious the more he thought about it. He wondered, with an alarm he couldn't explain, if Ron or Hermione had maybe said something to him. Harry's stomach dropped like a stone – he wondered if they had told him about what Harry had done in the changing rooms. Unless he was talking about Sirius….
A trunk thudded closed across the room and Harry looked up as Neville made his way towards the door. Neville smiled at Harry as he passed, then did a brief double-take and paused, his forehead scrunching as he looked at Harry.
"Alright?" Neville asked.
Harry smiled back at him, hoping it didn't look too forced. "Yeah. Just a letter from Lupin," he said, waving the piece of parchment slightly in explanation.
Neville's eyes brightened. "Oh, how is he? I haven't seen him since – " He broke off awkwardly, his eyes darting to the ground then back up at Harry.
'Since the Ministry' hung heavily in the air between them – Neville hadn't seen Professor Lupin since the Ministry, when the man had practically had to wrestle Harry to the ground to keep him from following Sirius through the Veil.
Harry cleared his throat. "He's fine. Actually, he told me to tell you 'hello' from him," he said, only just remembering one of Lupin's earlier letters and feeling a bit guilty for forgetting.
Neville beamed, and Harry thought he looked more than a little relieved at the change of subject. "Thanks! Tell him I said 'hello' back…."
"I will," said Harry, giving him another perfunctory smile and dropping his gaze back to the letter in his hand. After a second or two, he could tell Neville hadn't moved and he glanced up again. Neville shook himself slightly, as if only just realising he'd been staring. He grinned at Harry with a little more sympathy than Harry thought was strictly necessary, and quietly left the room.
Harry let his head fall back against the window with a dull thunk. Hedwig fluttered onto his lap and turned her head to the side, fixing him with one beady eye.
"Oh don't you start, too," Harry grumbled, chucking her gently under her beak.
Hedwig nipped at Harry's finger fondly before drawing her wings a little tighter against her body and turning her head away pointedly. Harry sighed and stowed Lupin's letter in his pocket, making a mental note to ask Hermione about it later.
Not quite sure how to answer Lupin for the moment, Harry sent Hedwig off the owlery and followed Neville down into the common room. He fell into an empty sofa as far away from the other students as possible – even after only a few seconds, all the noise started to set his teeth on edge. He briefly considered heading back upstairs to attempt some of his homework assignments, before conceding that he didn't really have the energy.
Hermione and Ron were off performing prefect duties (though truthfully Harry hadn't been listening too closely when Hermione had told him where they were going) and a listless boredom had begun to set in. Harry stared across the room, unseeing, and let his thoughts wander…he wondered vaguely what Malfoy was up to at that very moment. If, being a prefect, he had been summoned to duty like Ron and Hermione, and if he had shown up like he was supposed to…Harry itched to check the Map, but he'd left it upstairs in his trunk.
So preoccupied was he with thoughts of Draco Malfoy's potential wrong-doing that he nearly jumped out of his skin when somebody plopped down next to him on the sofa.
His hand was already around his wand before he even knew what he was doing, but he looked round, saw that it was only Ginny, and let go immediately.
"Blimey, Ginny, make a noise or something, you can't just sneak up on a person like that," Harry said indignantly, settling back into his seat.
Ginny drew a leg up onto the cushions and rested an elbow on the back of the sofa, smirking. "Maybe you just have to be more observant," she shot at him, winking, but her smile softened, taking the sting out of her words. "What's up?"
Harry shrugged noncommittally. Ginny pulled her hair around to rest on one side of her neck, and a pleasant, familiar floral scent drifted faintly through the air. She held an open bottle out to him. "Pumpkin juice?"
"No, thanks," said Harry automatically, and as if on cue he suddenly became aware of how very hungry he was. Harry thought he saw a brief flash of some indefinable emotion in Ginny's eyes, but she shrugged indifferently and took a swig herself.
"What are you doing over here alone, why don't you come sit with me and Neville?"
Ginny nodded over to a far corner, and Harry followed her gaze to see Neville poking cautiously at a tiny spiked plant resting in the palm of his hand. As Harry watched, one of the miniscule spikes lashed out suddenly, pricking Neville's finger, and Neville whipped his hand back, frowning at the small plant in disapproval. Harry felt a smile tug at his lips.
"I reckon it's a miracle he's not been strangled to death by one of those things yet," he mumbled.
Ginny laughed, and Harry looked at her, smiling for real this time at the sound of it. Her eyes seemed to light up as she laughed, and Harry appreciated for the first time what a nice shade of brown they were. Harry stared at her as she glanced over at Neville again.
She was, genuinely, very pretty and it was really no surprise, he thought, that half the school wanted to date her. Dean Thomas was a lucky bloke….
One of Ginny's friends passed by their sofa and Ginny said something to her that Harry didn't catch before sticking her fingers up in a rude gesture. Ginny laughed again, and Harry noticed that her lips were slightly chapped, like a lot of Quidditch players'. That half-pleasant, half-queasy feeling swooped through him again, and he suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss her –
A lump of lead seemed to slide down Harry's throat into his aching stomach as his brain caught up to him. The realisation of what he had just been thinking washed over him like a bucket of icy water:
He'd wanted to kiss Ginny Weasley.
All at once it tumbled into place like a landslide, his strange and sudden antagonism toward Dean, whom he had absolutely no reason to dislike. Why he always felt oddly guilty when Ginny and Ron were in the same room, why it was always her turning into Romilda when he had those weird dreams….
Ginny turned back to him, and the grin slid off her face. "What's wrong?" she asked, her eyebrows scrunching together.
But Harry's throat seemed to have closed up. He stood abruptly, making Ginny jump. His head swam for a moment at the sudden motion, and he furtively clutched the arm of the sofa for support, hoping Ginny wouldn't notice. He opened his mouth and then closed it again as she sat up a bit straighter and stared up at him in concern. He cleared his throat. "I- nothing…." he said finally. "Nothing, I just…I have to go…."
The clock over the fireplace chimed eight o' clock, and Harry suddenly remembered with enormous relief that he really did have to go.
"Detention. With Snape. See you later," he said shortly, jabbing his thumb toward the portrait hole and backing away.
"Harry, wait – " Ginny insisted, moving to rise off the couch, but Harry turned away from her, nearly bumping into two different people as he hurried toward the door.
When the portrait closed behind him, Harry ducked quickly behind a statue, his mind racing as he listened to the Fat Lady and her friend Vi gossip about a painting of nuns down on the fifth floor. Several seconds passed, and when it became clear that Ginny was not going to follow him, Harry sagged against the tower wall in relief. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and ran a hand over his face.
How could this possibly be happening?
He, Harry, fancied Ginny Weasley. And he'd been so absolutely thick about it that it had crept up behind him and practically clubbed him over the head.
Harry groaned, and he would have liked to have sunk down onto the floor and stayed there only he had a detention to get to, so instead he forced himself away from the wall and stalked off towards the stairs.
He hadn't liked anyone since Cho, and that whole situation had turned out to be a complete disaster. Ginny was his friend, they'd practically grown up together. She was Ron's sister, for heaven's sake! Harry didn't even want to think of Ron's reaction if he ever found out….
Or her parents' for that matter, Harry thought, his spirits sinking even lower.
Why did it have to be her? he thought in frustration, walking a bit faster. Why now, after he had just recently decided that he'd be quite content never to kiss another girl as long as he lived?
And there was no avoiding her. He had to see her, in the common room, at meals, during Quidditch practice…god, Quidditch practice. Harry felt like groaning again, and he ran a hand distractedly through his hair.
Harry's flustered thoughts stumbled over each other, spiraling higher into something resembling panic, and he was just thinking about the fact that Ginny had six strong and healthy older brothers, all bigger than he was, when he ground to a halt, realising that he had come to Snape's office door. Harry stared blankly at the grain of the wood, distantly aware that he had at least a few minutes before he really had to go in.
As he studied a particularly dark knot on the door's surface, another thought came to him, bright and clear, closing off his developing panic like a thick curtain. A soothing, peaceful sense of calm came over him as sanity returned:
He didn't have to do anything about his feelings.
He couldn't do anything about them.
It was unthinkable.
Ginny already had a boyfriend, for one thing, and for another, there was his friendship with Ron to consider.
Most of all, Harry knew, deep down, that Ginny could never really be happy with someone like him – a boy with a target painted on the back of his head and enough baggage to fill several entire compartments of the Hogwarts Express….
Feeling suddenly much lighter than was usual for someone about to experience a detention with Severus Snape, Harry squared his shoulders, raised his fist to knock, and forcefully pushed all thoughts of Ginny from his mind.
"Potter," Snape said without preamble as soon as Harry had entered. "Don't bother getting settled, you will be serving your detention in the dungeons this evening."
"Yes, sir," said Harry, doing his utmost to hide his disappointment as Snape gathered books and papers from his desk; it might still only have been September but the dungeons were already far colder than the rest of the castle.
Snape swept by Harry without looking at him, and Harry followed him silently down through the narrow, damp passageways to a disused classroom where Snape pointed to a pile of filthy, crusted cauldrons.
"You will clean all of these – without magic," Snape informed him, his lip twitching slightly, and Harry could tell he was trying not to smirk. "You have two hours. If you have not scrubbed out every single cauldron, or have not cleaned them to my satisfaction, you will be…provided the opportunity to finish the job in another detention. On Saturday," he finished, and this time he did smirk. "Well? Get to it."
Harry doubted very much whether any of the cauldrons he washed that evening would satisfy Snape, but he clenched his jaw tightly to keep from saying this. Without a word, he retrieved a bottle of cleaner and a scrub brush from the supply closet and set to work as Snape seated himself behind the teacher's desk, burying his large, crooked nose in a giant, very boring-looking book.
Harry sank to his knees and delved into the first cauldron with a grimace – there was a thick layer of what looked (and smelled) like solidified vomit coating the bottom and sides, and Harry resigned himself to a long evening of holding his breath and attempting not to gag.
Harry painstakingly made his way through the pile, the muscles in his arms and back protesting as he scrubbed. As the minutes dragged on he started to feel increasingly lightheaded, but he didn't dare pause in his cleaning; he could feel Snape's eyes on him from time to time, watching him like a hawk. And anyway, he wanted this detention over with as quickly as possible. He had Quidditch practice on Saturday, and his homework situation was becoming rather desperate. He couldn't afford another detention this week.
When he'd got most of the way through the pile, Harry dropped his brush, stretching out his aching fingers, and moved to gather up some of the smaller cauldrons to take over to the storage shelves. As he climbed to his feet, however, his vision fogged over and he staggered a bit drunkenly, feeling suddenly weightless. He accidentally dropped one of the cauldrons with a loud clang, the sound startling him much more than it should have done, and he shook his head forcefully, trying to clear it.
"Problem, Potter?"
Snape's voice was quiet. Dangerous. Harry raised his head, squinting, to find the man staring at him, his book closed and marked with a finger, virtually no expression upon his face apart from one quirked eyebrow.
Harry felt overwhelmingly hot all of a sudden, which seemed mildly absurd to him given how cold he'd got used to being lately, and he fought to steady himself as an empty nausea rolled through him. The cauldrons in his arms felt like they weighed a ton.
"No, sir," said Harry, and he was relieved to hear that his voice sounded much more solid than he felt.
Snape stared steadily at him a moment longer, and then went back to his book without another word. Harry sucked in a ragged breath as silently as possible then bent down cautiously to retrieve the cauldron he'd dropped. He was just thinking, gratefully, that his head seemed to be clearing, when he straightened back up, heard a loud rushing in his ears, and promptly lost consciousness.
When Harry came to, he knew immediately he had only been out a few seconds, for the clatter of cauldrons bouncing and rolling across the floor was still echoing in his ears, and Snape's chair was scraping back against the stones. Harry instinctively tried to sit up, but it seemed to him that he had lost the bones in his arms and legs. His head felt like Dudley had just used it for boxing practice.
Snape swam into view and knelt down, a big black mass looming ominously over Harry as his head gave a particularly nasty throb. Harry bit down on his lip to keep from moaning in pain.
"Potter. Can you hear me?" Snape demanded, his too-loud voice bouncing painfully around the inside of Harry's skull.
Harry tried to nod, but discovered that was a bad idea. "Yes…." he mumbled.
"Don't move," said Snape shortly and pulled out his wand.
Harry couldn't help but flinch as Snape pointed it at him. Snape waved his wand silently over Harry's body, his expression unreadable. He paused as though focusing on something Harry could not see, and then stowed his wand again.
"You are not concussed," he informed Harry without sympathy. "Though no doubt you will have a nasty headache."
He seized Harry by the arms and hauled him to his feet where he stood, swaying, his head pounding, Snape's thin fingers curled uncomfortably around his bicep. Harry could feel a knot forming at the back of his head where he'd hit the ground. There was silence for a moment during which Harry clutched his aching skull. He tried to pull away, but Snape did not let go.
He was staring at Harry, his eyes narrowed slightly, and after a beat he spoke again. "When was the last time you ate something, Potter?"
Harry's head jerked up in surprise, the motion making the pounding double in intensity. He schooled his features into what he hoped was pure confusion, his insides squirming uncomfortably with nerves and something that felt very much like guilt.
He wracked his brains for something he'd eaten that day. "I dunno…." he muttered, a little resentfully. What did Snape care, anyway? "Lunch," he lied.
Snape's hand around his bicep tightened, and his black eyes bored into Harry's.
Harry realised, suddenly, what Snape was doing, what he was going to do, but he seemed unable to look away, and panic crawled up into his throat as he attempted futilely to brace his mind against Snape's invasion.
He thrust all thoughts of Sirius, and his recent discovery of his feelings for Ginny, and everything that had happened in the past few weeks away from the surface of his mind, shoving it all back where he hoped Snape wouldn't see. Harry tried hastily to clear his mind, to think of nothing, but he had never been very good at that, and as Snape's cold, narrowed eyes looked into his, an image of himself throwing away the crumpets Ron had given him swam before he eyes, followed swiftly by others –
Lying curled over in bed at night, his stomach constricting with hunger…Hermione scolding him for not cleaning his plate…her voice, just days ago, as she and Ron confronted him in the dormitory:
"You aren't eating…."
Snape's eyes narrowed even further, his grip on Harry's arm painful now.
Silence stretched between them for what felt like ages. Then finally:
"You fool," Snape said softly, his lip curling, and released Harry.
He looked at Harry a second more, then nodded curtly toward the remaining dirty cauldrons. "I believe you have a job to finish."
And he turned away, striding back to his desk.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, alarm and astonishment racing around his brain, not daring to breathe. He felt exposed and vulnerable, like he'd just been ushered on stage without his clothes on. He knew with dreadful certainty what Snape had seen in his head, but he wasn't sure what he had expected Snape to do with the information.
Call Dumbledore, or McGonagall? Tell Madam Pomfrey, send him to the hospital wing? Give him another detention for being mad, and difficult, and stupid?
But Snape was not doing any of that.
Harry watched numbly as the man settled himself in his chair and picked up his book once again. Snape was not paying him the least bit of attention. His body seemed to unfreeze. Snape did not seem at all shocked or disturbed by the dirty little secret he had just wrested from Harry's mind….
The man hadn't even shown enough concern to give Harry anything for the raging headache he'd got from passing out cold on a dungeon floor.
Of course he hadn't.
Snape didn't care if Harry had a little headache, and he didn't care if Harry skipped a few meals now and then. What was it to him? Snape was glad to see Harry miserable. Harry's breath returned to his chest as relief flooded through him, and he turned back to rest of the grimy cauldrons, grateful, for the first time in his life, that Severus Snape totally and utterly hated him.
"Orange juice?"
Ron held up the pitcher, gesturing questioningly at Harry's cup.
Harry glanced up, chin resting in his hand, and shook his head. "Nah…thanks…."
Ron shrugged one shoulder and set the pitcher down, returning to his own breakfast.
Harry watched him for a moment, then looked over at Ginny, who, much to Harry's chagrin, was sitting right beside him. She took a bite of toast before tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning over to add another set of letters to a crossword puzzle she was working on. She looked up abruptly, perhaps sensing his eyes on her, and gave him a small smile.
Ginny hadn't asked him why he'd got so upset before he had left for detention on Thursday, but Harry could sense it was still bothering her.
Harry's stomach turned a small somersault. He briefly returned her smile and looked away towards Hermione, who was now deep in a debate with Ron about whether ketchup counted as a vegetable ("Hermione – it literally is made of tomatoes." "A tomato is a fruit, Ron."). Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny go back to her crossword.
Harry considered the three of them, frowning. They – Ron, Hermione, and Ginny – had all got into the strangely coincidental habit over the last few days of offering him something to drink at random opportunities, even when he was perfectly capable of getting it himself.
It was usually juice. Or tea. Sometimes water.
Never coffee.
And he was developing a niggling suspicion that they had all got together at some point, and that he, Harry, had been the subject of discussion.
Irritation flared in the pit of his stomach at the thought. He did not know why they would have abruptly and collectively decided to try and pump him full of fluids, but he was beginning to find it annoying and he wished he could find a way to tell them to cut it out without sounding slightly paranoid. Harry bitterly pushed his fried tomatoes around on his plate.
He'd started to absolutely dread meals in the Great Hall.
He knew he'd been skipping too many for Ron and Hermione's comfort, and he was aware he was treading on dangerous ground, as evidenced by the little chat they'd seen fit to have with him, so he'd started showing up for more of them, and tried to eat enough to keep their anxiety over his dining habits under control.
Harry looked briefly up at the staff table where Snape was seated, a small burst of nerves exploding in his belly. But Snape, like the other night, was paying him absolutely no mind.
Harry's stomach chose that moment to growl unhelpfully, and Hermione glanced at him before turning back to Ron. Harry stabbed one of the smaller bits of tomato and brought it to his mouth, chewing till it was nothing more than mush and swallowing reluctantly.
Harry didn't know whether it was because he was so tired and irritated all the time now, or if the house elves in the kitchens had changed their recipes, but the Hogwarts food had acquired a strange taste, as if it was all made from the same substance. Like sawdust. Or cardboard. The texture of the meat made Harry's stomach turn over. He seemed to have lost the taste for things he used to like. Sweets didn't taste as sweet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a piece of treacle tart….
Even though he'd gone off the food a bit, he found himself thinking more and more about it.
Harry knew he couldn't eat whatever he wanted. That was just a plain, simple fact. His brain never shut up about it anymore. He knew if he ate what he used to eat, what Hermione and Ron and everyone else would say he was supposed to eat, he would feel ghastly…feel weak and angry and awful.
But that hadn't stopped him from wanting everything he could get his hands on.
He'd started having random fantasies about Mrs. Weasley's cooking (puddings, especially), which would surely taste far better than whatever the elves were producing these days. He had even woken up from a bizarrely delightful dream in which he'd managed to eat a full five helpings of roast beef and mashed potatoes covered in melted chocolate and marshmallows, the combination of which, of course, had made perfectly logical sense in his dream.
Harry thought with a pang of all those days and nights he had spent as a kid with a locked cupboard door standing between him and relief from his hunger. He wondered ruefully what his younger self would think to see Harry now, escaped from the cupboard, surrounded by enormous dishes of food, and still going hungry...
"Harry, will you please tell your friend that ketchup is a condiment!" Hermione burst out, pulling Harry from his brooding.
"Wha- ? Oh. Right," he agreed vaguely, twisting his fork. "Yeah."
Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron sniggered, but Harry's gaze wandered to Hermione's left, where he'd just noticed the unmistakable blond head of Draco Malfoy bent over whispering to Crabbe.
Malfoy's eyes flicked up to meet Harry's and he smirked. Harry looked stonily back at him, but then Malfoy glanced over at Ginny and leaned over to Crabbe again, laughing. Harry felt a hot flood of anger and a sudden, fierce flash of protectiveness. His fist clenched on his knee….
Malfoy's gaze swept further down the Gryffindor table, and though Harry couldn't be sure, he thought it rested upon Demelza Robins and Jimmy Peakes for a second before the Slytherin turned his attention back to his own housemates.
Harry continued to stare for a while, trying to decide what to make of this odd behaviour, but Malfoy did not look at him again, and it wasn't until Ginny tapped him on the shoulder that he realised it was time to head down to the pitch for Quidditch practice.
Never in a million years would Harry have thought he'd be disappointed that Snape hadn't assigned him an extra Saturday detention. But as he walked down to the Quidditch pitch between Ginny and Ron he couldn't help but feel that he'd rather be anywhere else.
His arm kept brushing against Ginny's, and though she seemed not to notice, it was taking every ounce of Harry's willpower to keep walking calmly next to her instead of taking refuge on the other side of Ron like a spineless git.
Not that Ron's presence, of course, was making things any easier.
Desperate for a distraction, Harry struck up a conversation with Ron about their Herbology essay, and nearly felt like sighing in relief when the entrance to the pitch loomed up ahead of them. The sun was still hanging low in the sky and the three of them had to shield their eyes as they made their way into the changing rooms where the rest of the team already sat waiting, lacing up boots and gloves and chatting amongst themselves.
To Harry's mild surprise, Dean Thomas was also waiting, just inside the door, to greet Ginny before finding a seat in the stands to watch her practise. They exchanged a less-than-chaste kiss, and Harry turned away to his locker, wondering whether to feel vindicated in his decision to shut down his feelings for Ginny, or to tell Dean to go ahead and find somewhere else to wait next time.
Ron made a strangled sound beside him, and Harry glanced over to see a vague look of disgust on his face, his eyes trained determinedly on the Keeper's gloves in his hands. Dean left, nodding to Harry and Ron on his way out, and Ginny came over, pulling on her own gloves.
"D'you have to do that in public?" Ron asked her brusquely, shutting his locker and settling down on a bench to pull on his pads.
"What, snog?" Ginny barely spared him a glance as she sat down next to him, facing the opposite direction. "If you don't like it, you don't have to look," she said coolly.
Ron pulled a face at her back as she turned away to talk to Demelza.
Harry shut his own locker and steadfastly avoided Ron's eye as he addressed the group. "We'll be doing position practice today, so just start out with the partners you had last week and we'll switch halfway through, alright? Everyone ready? Let's go."
Harry watched his team file out ahead of him, then heaved a deep breath, seized his Firebolt, and followed them, closing the door behind him with a sharp snap.
He hadn't walked ten steps onto the pitch before he knew something was very wrong.
Katie Bell was knelt down thirty feet away, examining the grass, the rest of the team huddled around her, their confusion palpable even from where Harry was standing. He took a step toward them, then stopped and looked down in bewilderment as the grass crunched noisily under his foot. Squinting against the still-blinding sun, Harry copied Katie and crouched down, running his hand over the ground. The grass was badly charred, the blades crumbling under his fingers. Frowning, Harry looked around quickly at the surrounding field. Most of the grass had been left untouched – the burnt section stretched away in a thick line on either side of him like a foot path, toward the team on the right and shooting off to the far goal posts on the left.
Harry straightened up, raising a hand to shield his eyes, and noticed that the line branched off about halfway down the pitch. Movement off the side caught his eye, and he looked over at the stands where Dean and several others who had come to watch the practice were gathered, murmuring and pointing at the blackened field.
Katie and Ginny jogged over to him, matching looks of worry on their faces.
"What do you think happened?" Katie asked, anxiously tightening her pony tail. "Somebody must have done it on purpose, it looks like a pattern…."
Ginny seemed to pale as she looked at Harry. "You don't think it's…cursed, or something….?"
Harry stared back at her, his brain zooming into overdrive. Cursed….
He turned abruptly, his eyes darting back and forth, surveying the whole field, a sick dread climbing up his throat. "Wait here," he told the girls, then mounted his broom and kicked off from the ground, hard.
The wind whipped across Harry's face as he shot into the air, zooming toward the far end of the pitch and climbing higher and higher until he was even with the tops of the goal posts. He wheeled about sharply, his back to the sun, and felt the breath freeze in his lungs as he stared down at the grassy field in horror.
He could see the tiny forms of his teammates milling about the ruined ground, like insects. And surrounding them, burnt into the ground and filling nearly the entire breadth of the pitch, was the enormous, ugly image of a skull with a twisting snake spilling out of its mouth like a tongue….
The Dark Mark.
"D'you reckon someone's really been, you know…killed?" Ron asked for the umpteenth time.
Harry wished he wouldn't. "Doubt it," he grunted, "we'd have heard about it by now, wouldn't we?"
Ron's only response was to kick impatiently at the ground again. Harry glanced back at the pitch entrance.
As soon as Harry had confirmed his suspicions about what had been carved into the Quidditch pitch, he had sent Jimmy up to the school to fetch Professor McGonagall. She had shown up with Dumbledore and Madam Hooch not five minutes later, her face grim, and ordered all students off the pitch and back up to the school immediately.
Harry had remained behind, however, determined to know what was going on, and Ron and Ginny, who seemed just as anxious to know as he was, had stayed with him. They had planted themselves just outside the arena and were now waiting anxiously for the teachers to finish up their examination of the field.
"Ron, will you sit down?" Ginny demanded, plopping down next to Harry on the grass. "You're making me nervous."
Ron ignored her and punted a small rock pointedly across the lawn.
Ginny rolled her eyes and snapped off a thick blade of grass, twisting it between her fingers. She propped her forearms on her knees in a reflection of Harry's position and gently nudged his elbow with hers.
"How are your hands?" she asked him.
At the edge of his vision, Harry saw Ron still, as if listening for Harry's answer.
"Better," Harry said, tugging his sleeves down over his wrists self-consciously. He decided not to mention the fact that he'd accidentally scratched some of the wounds back open since she had healed them. "Thanks, again, for that…."
"No problem. Water?" She pulled a bottle out of her robes and offered it to him.
Harry looked at it, an automatic 'no, thank you' on the tip of his tongue, before his brain caught up to him. Water was safe. It usually helped, actually.
"Thanks," he said again, taking the bottle from her. He lifted it to his lips and sniffed at it surreptitiously, though he knew he was being stupid. Ginny would never slip something into his drink. But he couldn't help himself.
Harry took a couple of swigs and handed it back to her. She took a drink herself, and as she stowed the bottle back in her robes, she said, "Are you feeling alright?"
Harry looked at her for the first time. Her face was open, her bright brown eyes searching his. "Yeah," Harry said, his mouth going dry. "Why?"
Ginny gave a little shrug, still looking at him. "You just seem…tired, lately."
For one suspended, frightening second, as they looked at each other, Harry found he wanted to admit to Ginny that yes, he was very tired. And hungry. And felt like he was going just a little bit mad, maybe. But then he glanced away, and it passed, and what he said was: "Nah, I'm fine. Just had a lot of homework."
Harry thought he saw Ron make a sharp movement out of the corner of his eye.
Ginny, beside him, said nothing.
"'Course you'd know about that by now," Harry went on, determined to move away from the subject, "you've got O.W.L.s this year, has McGonagall given you her lecture yet?"
"Which one?" Ginny laughed as Ron finally settled down beside them, and the three of them spent the next few minutes arguing good-naturedly over whether the fifth or sixth years had it worse.
"Oi! What are you lot doin' out here?"
Harry, Ron, and Ginny jumped and looked round at Hagrid, who was climbing towards them up the sloping lawn.
Harry clambered to his feet, grinning, as Hagrid reached them. "Hi, Hagrid," he said happily, craning his neck to see the giant's face as he dusted himself off.
"'Hi' yerself," Hagrid said gruffly, clapping Harry on the back and nearly sending him tumbling back onto the grass. "Back at school a month, an' yeh haven't bin ter see me, eh?" But his beetle-black eyes were crinkled in a smile behind his bushy beard.
Harry shrugged a bit sheepishly, rubbing his smarting shoulder. "Sorry," he said sincerely. "Been busy."
"We were going to come visit after Quidditch tryouts, but – " Ron broke off abruptly, shifting his weight, and glanced at Harry.
"But they went on forever, and then I had a detention with Snape," Harry covered, grimacing for good measure. Liar, a voice whispered into his mind, and the scratches on his wrists gave an itchy throb. Ginny hummed vaguely behind him.
Hagrid seemed not to hear her, however. "Aren' yeh supposed to be practisin'?" he asked, eyeing their brooms laying on the ground.
"We're waiting for Dumbledore and McGonagall," Harry explained, and he told Hagrid all about the skull burnt onto the pitch.
"A Dark Mark!" Hagrid burst out, his giant head swiveling to stare at the walls of the stadium in horror. "At Hogwarts! But no one's bin killed, have they?"
"That's what we were wondering, but I don't think they have," Ginny said calmly. "It wasn't a real Dark Mark, not one of those green smoky things in the sky…."
"Still," Hagrid insisted darkly. "Doesn' bode well..."
At that moment, Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall emerged from the pitch entrance. Harry's stomach jumped instantly, and he snatched his Firebolt off the ground and hurried over to them, Ron, Ginny, and Hagrid trotting along in his wake.
"I believe I told you to return to the castle, Potter," McGonagall said as Harry skidded to a stop, looking at him sternly over the tops of her square spectacles.
"Yes, sorry, Professor," Harry said quickly. He glanced at Dumbledore. The headmaster said nothing, but his moustache twitched in the barest trace of a smile as he looked down at Harry. "I just wanted to know what happened."
"Of course you did," McGonagall replied dryly.
"No one's hurt, are they?" Ron asked uneasily, and she looked around at the rest of the group.
"I don't believe so, no," she assured them, and they all relaxed a little. "There has been no such report from either the school or Hogsmeade village. The Mark itself does not appear to be cursed or jinxed in any way – it seems to be nothing more than a prank of some kind."
"A prank?" echoed Harry incredulously.
"Someone drew You-Know-Who's sign on Hogwarts grounds, Professor!" Ginny blurted, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude for her.
"Yes, a prank," McGonagall said firmly. "A highly distasteful one, unquestionably, and we will certainly be looking for the person responsible…."
Hagrid turned to Dumbledore. "Are yeh sure, Professor? Everyone's alrigh'?"
"Oh yes, quite sure, Hagrid," Dumbledore said reassuringly, reaching up to pat the giant's arm. "Our Madam Hooch is entirely confident she can restore the field to its former glory by tomorrow. At which time," he added, turning to Harry, "you will be free to reschedule your practice."
Harry nodded. He shifted his broom in his hands and bit his lip, debating.
"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore was watching him closely.
"Sir, do you…do you think whoever did this was the same person who wrote all that stuff on the second floor?" Harry asked carefully.
The headmaster paused. "Yes, I believe that is a possibility."
"Why?" asked McGonagall sharply. "Do you know something about this, Potter?"
Harry resisted the urge to glance at Ron. "…no, Professor."
"Very well, then," she said briskly. "It is nothing I would worry yourself about, any of you." She gave one last firm look to Harry, Ron, and Ginny before nodding to Dumbledore. "If you'll excuse me, I've still some paperwork to finish…."
"Of course, Professor," said Dumbledore, and McGonagall strode off across the lawn toward the castle.
Hagrid exchanged a few more words with Dumbledore and then ambled away in the direction of his hut, waving and calling over his shoulder to Harry and Ron. "See yeh soon!"
Ron and Ginny turned to make their way back to the school, and Harry started to follow them, but Dumbledore stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Wait a moment, please, Harry," he said quietly, and Harry watched as the headmaster withdrew a tightly-furled scroll from his robes. "Our next lesson," he explained upon seeing Harry's questioning look. Harry's heart leapt, and he took the scroll gratefully, stowing it away in his own robes.
"Thank you, sir," Harry said. The burst of adrenaline and nerves he'd got from seeing that Mark spread out on the Quidditch field like a death omen still lingered in his system – he was practically itching to get back to their lessons, to be able to do something useful, and he hoped the date Dumbledore had set wasn't too long from now….
Harry looked up to find Dumbledore watching him intently, those piercing blue eyes giving Harry that familiar sensation of being x-rayed, like Dumbledore could see straight inside him. Harry fought the impulse to squirm.
"Have you been looking after yourself, Harry?" Dumbledore asked evenly.
The hand on Harry's shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly, and Harry was seized by a sudden paranoia that Dumbledore could feel all of his bones through his clothes –
"Yes, sir," Harry said, very quietly, and forced himself not to look away.
Dumbledore was silent for a moment as he studied Harry over his glasses.
"That's good to hear," he finally said softly, then released Harry, patting him on the shoulder. "I think I shall go and assist Madam Hooch – your friends seem to be waiting for you." He nodded at Ron and Ginny, who had stopped about twenty feet away.
"Yes, sir," Harry said again, and walked away quickly without looking back.
"What was that about?" Ginny asked curiously when Harry had joined them.
Harry shrugged. "Nothing, really, he just asked how I was," he lied.
He caught Ron's eye, giving him a significant look that said 'I'll tell you later,' and the three of them headed back to the castle, Harry feeling uncomfortably all the while as though his shoulder were burning beneath his robes.
"What?" Hermione practically shrieked, accidentally blotting her parchment with a few fat drops of ink.
As soon as they'd got back to the common room, Harry and Ron had wasted no time in telling Hermione all about what had happened at Quidditch practice.
"Is everyone alright?" she asked urgently, forgetting her homework. "What did McGonagall and Dumbledore say?"
"They said it some sort of prank…."
"Well of course it was a prank, if no one was hurt, but it's still quite serious – "
"Oh so now it's serious?" Harry questioned irritably. "Malfoy can write whatever he wants about Muggle-borns on the walls, but he has to actually put up a Dark Mark before anyone takes it seriously – "
"You don't know it was him, Harry."
"Yeah, I do," he said flatly, thinking of the way Malfoy had laughed with Crabbe at breakfast.
"Merlin's bollocks…." Ron muttered wearily under his breath as Harry and Hermione frowned at each other. "Harry!" he exclaimed in a fake-bright voice that was clearly meant to change the subject. "Didn't Dumbledore tell you something you'd like to share with the class?"
"Oh, yeah!" Harry said quickly, forgetting about Malfoy for the moment and searching around in his robes for the scroll Dumbledore had given him. He pulled it out and undid the little ribbon. "He said it was about our next lesson…." He flattened out the parchment and scanned Dumbledore's slanting handwriting eagerly, then felt his heart sink. "It's not for two more weeks…."
"Well it's not that far off," Hermione encouraged him. "And anyway that gives you more time to focus on your schoolwork."
"Yeah, I s'pose," said Harry gloomily, shoving the note back in his pocket.
"And you'll tell us what he teaches you this time?" Ron asked with a hint of exasperation.
But Harry did not get a chance to respond, for at that exact moment, a piercing screech resounded from the staircase leading up to the girls' dormitories, followed by the sound of hurried, stomping footsteps, and then Romilda Vane emerged at the bottom of the stairs, a thunderous look on her face, which had been dyed a vivid, shimmering purple, her equally discolored hands planted on her hips as she glared around accusingly at the packed common room.
There was a deafening second of stunned silence as everyone stared at her, and then a great eruption of laughter as people rolled around in their seats, falling against each other in hysterics, tears of mirth streaming down their faces.
"WHO DID THIS?" Romilda shrieked, her eyes wild.
Harry gaped at her as all the students around him howled and roared.
He felt oddly frozen.
A triumphant laugh was threatening to bubble up into his throat, but he looked around in shock, wondering what reason someone else might possibly have for playing a practical joke on Romilda.
What if someone knew about…?
But no one was looking at him, or giving any hint that they'd had anything to do with Romilda's new shiny purple skin, and Harry relaxed a bit, letting himself give into laughter for the first time in what felt like ages.
Hermione stood up, stifling her own giggle, and tried to call order. "Alright, alright, it's not funny, now let's have it, who's responsible for this?" But no one was paying her any heed. She turned around and tugged at Ron's arm. "Come on, you're a Prefect too, we have to find out what happened – "
But Ron was bent over double, face buried in his arms, quaking with silent laughter, and Hermione gave him up as useless.
"Oh come on, Hermione," Ginny laughed from the next table over. "Who cares? Everyone knows Romilda's a rotten, spoiled harpy!"
Hermione crossed her arms, and frowned disapprovingly down at Ginny, Ron, and Harry.
But Harry couldn't bring himself to feel the least bit badly as Romilda stamped her foot furiously, gave another wordless shriek of indignation, and stomped back up the stairs, her outraged friends jumping up out of their seats to accompany her.
That night, Harry climbed the stairs to bed feeling better than he had in weeks. Romilda was refusing to show her face in the common room until she was cured, the Gryffindor team had all confirmed they were free to practise next day, and he had his next lesson with Dumbledore to look forward to. He had even managed to get through some of his homework, finishing two of the essays that had been giving him trouble.
"Lucky for you," Ron grumbled as he pushed open the door to their dormitory. "I still haven't even thought of a topic for mine. Maybe I'll ask Hermione tomorrow…."
"What am I, a troll?" Harry demanded, holding a hand to his chest in mock-offense.
"Yeah, maybe," Ron chuckled as he tossed his wand on the bedside table. "I mean, if it looks like one…."
"Oi!" Harry exclaimed and he seized his pillow, whipping it at Ron.
Ron ducked and grinned, snatching up the pillow and chucking it straight back at Harry, who caught it effortlessly with one hand. Ron shook his head, still grinning, and delved into his trunk to fish out a pair of pyjamas.
Neville stumbled into the room, waving tiredly to Harry, and went straight for the bathroom.
Feeling pleasantly light, Harry pulled his wand and Cloak out of his pocket and tossed them at the head of the bed, plopping his pillow back on top of them before shedding his robes and lobbing them into the laundry in the corner. He tugged his t-shirt over his head and threw that in the laundry too, yawning, his mind already turning fuzzy with the anticipation of sleep –
Ron swore loudly behind him, and Harry wheeled around, startled, expecting to see a spider, or Ron nursing a stubbed toe….
But Ron wasn't looking at a spider, or a toe.
He was staring at Harry.
His eyes were wide, his mouth open very slightly as he took in Harry's bare torso, his gaze sweeping over Harry's collarbones, his shoulders, his ribs.
Harry flinched away instinctively under the examination, his body angling to the side, his shoulders hunching unconsciously forward. He steadfastly avoided Ron's eyes.
"You're skinny." There was an odd mix of astonishment and accusation in his voice.
Harry glanced down at himself.
He hadn't lost that much. No more than he usually did over the summer, anyway. He gave a jerky shrug, crossing his arms over his chest. "You sound like your mum…." he tried with a tense chuckle, glancing at Ron's face.
Ron did not smile.
"Shit, Harry…I…I didn't know it was this bad…." he said faintly, almost as if he were talking to himself. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard.
"Nothing's bad," Harry frowned, bristling. "I just haven't been very hungry…."
A muted thump came from the direction of the bathroom and Harry and Ron both looked over to see Neville in the doorway, gathering up the towel he'd dropped. "Er – sorry," he told them softly as he straightened back up. He was looking at Harry, too.
Flushing, Harry stalked around to his trunk, snatching up the first t-shirt he could find and pulling it roughly over his head. Realising he was still wearing his jeans, he grabbed a pair of pyjama bottoms and headed for the bathroom, walking around Neville without a word, and kicking the door closed.
When he came back, Neville and Ron were both sitting silently on their beds.
Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Harry cut him off.
"I'm fine, Ron, just go to bed."
"Harry – "
"I'm going to sleep," Harry bit out, taking off his glasses and climbing into bed. He yanked his hangings closed against Ron and Neville's worried expressions and punched his pillow into shape, rolling over to lie stiffly on his side as he listened to the other two settle into their own beds.
Harry stared into the darkness, running his fingers along his bony wrist, scratching lightly at one of the blisters, heart thumping heavily in his chest. Ron's shocked expression swam before his eyes no matter how hard he tried to block it out. He thought of Dumbledore's piercing, studious gaze, and Lupin's letter….
If there's anything, at all, you wish to talk about….
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling suddenly as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, and tried to picture Romilda's furious purple face. But after a while he had to admit that even that wasn't enough to make him feel better, and he opened his eyes and drew his legs up to his chest, reluctantly resigning himself to another sleepless night as he swallowed down the burning lump in his throat.
A/N: I suppose at this point I'll have to stop replying to the guest reviews without names as there are so many of you now (:D) but thank you so much to all of you, you're all so sweet and I adore you!
Gingersavaya: FFNet cuts out anything with a '. com' in it so your review deleted both of your e-mail addresses and I couldn't respond! But hopefully you've seen this update, and trust me, I'm nowhere CLOSE to giving up on this story, I have too much invested in it.
Lost: There's a little Lupin for you in this chapter and he will definitely be showing up in person later! Tonks will also feature - not as much, perhaps, as other characters, but this is going to be a very long fic and she will have her moments. I love her dearly, so there's no way I could exclude her. ;)