Harry Potter rose for his normal (now quite boring) run around the castle. He tried to tell himself that he didn't miss Snape's hounding (or pouncing). He couldn't even convince himself of that, though. He found himself leaping over places with bad footing (and with his arms tucked in, so he could flail away a hard landing).
Harry was done venting, and really could use a sounding board. The only problem was, there was nobody he could talk to.
Oh, he could just imagine the look on Ron's face. You-He? He's turned you into a traitor the greasy git."
And then Harry would respond, "He's a spy, not a dark lord"
"Yes, but he's turned you to HIS side!"
... except that was kinda sorta maybe true. It had seemed so simple, when Snape had asked him to find a way to get the houses talking to each other. Forming the DA had been fun, too.
It had to be when Snape had split a gasket over the newly-reformed Illicit Defense Club.
Harry'd made a decision without even knowing it. It had felt good to be useful, to be doing something - for the war? Harry hadn't even asked what his assignments were for, come to think of it. Knowing Snape, it wouldn't just be for a fucking prank.
At least there was that.
Oh, Harry thought, his stomach twisting He could try telling Hermione. Except Hermione would just hex him silly, for what he'd done. Not that Harry wouldn't deserve it, but ... Hermione was the one who had stolen Snape's books off Madame Pince's desk. She'd seemed so proud of herself, too.
And Harry didn't really know anyone else that well. Except Neville, or Luna, or Ginny.
And Ginny would flip out. Her temper was legendary - and Harry felt that getting Snape hexed was probably not a good way to increase his life expectancy.
Neville was still afraid of Snape, at least a little bit, and Harry didn't want any hero worship because he'd done something Completely Boneheaded.
Luna would listen, but she never seemed wholly in this world in the first place.
Or, if Harry REALLY wanted a laugh, he could have a go telling Draco Malfoy. Oh, boy, that'd go over well. "Oh, yes, this is really what you were asked to look up!" and furthermore "Your Head of House has been playing you for a bigger fool than I am."
Malfoy wouldn't hex. He'd use poison.
Harry was dressed and ready, earlier than usual. He shook the rest of his roommates awake, and they tumbled out of bed, looking rumpled or dog-tired AND frazzled.
"Wha-?" Ron managed.
Neville, always a little more clearheaded in the mornings, asked, "What's wrong?"
Harry stood, like a drill sergeant, "Malfoy says Snape's turning the screws on this Defense Club of ours."
"And you believe him?" Dean, of all people, asked. Harry hadn't been expecting that. Dean was quieter than Seamus, and Neville was more inclined to doubt Malfoy in particular. Had more reason too.
"I do. He didn't need to give me the heads up."
"Why you?" Neville and Ron asked at once - Ron looking strategically, and Neville just honestly confused.
Seamus, being Seamus, asked, "I figure it's because they're necking..."
Harry grabbed a pillow off the nearest bed, and flung it at Seamus. Then a second, and then the bedsheets and blankets at once, until Seamus was entirely buried under them, and flailing to get out. "Just no," Harry said, firmly.
"Ideas, spit em out." Harry said, trying to act like he knew what he was doing. In reality he was just aping various Military Movies Uncle Vernon and Dudley liked to watch.
Either way, it seemed to work.
"Malfoy's got the prefect level and higher students..." Neville started.
"And we've got third years in the mix," Ron said, 'That should be our first priority. Finding ways to keep them out of trouble."
Harry asked, "How about we all keep out of trouble."
"Twenty Gryffindors stay out of trouble?" Seamus asked, with a guffaw. "Not likely!"
"Let's see about spreading the word, and coming up with what ideas we can." Harry said.
Neville quietly asked, "Why aren't you asking Hermione."
And that, that was a good question. Not that Harry had an answer, but one fell into his head as he starte d to think. Handy, that. "If I asked Hermione, we'd get one solution. I want all the solutions, so let me tell Hermione, okay?"
Neville nodded.
Ron asked, "You don't think her solution will be better than the rest of ours put together?"
Harry smiled briefly, "Yes, and no. She'd find a comprehensive solution. But that's just what I don't want. I want us all thinking, planning, coming up with new ways of solving this problem. Because relying on any one person is very, very dangerous." Harry knew that all too well, as the supposed Chosen One. Abruptly, he steered his thoughts away from there.
"Let's go, but remember, you've got till Monday. Plenty of time to barnstorm up some ideas." Harry said, and without waiting for anyone else, plummeted down the staircase, letting the pounding of his feet tell people to get out of his way, as he more fell than ran, just using his feet to steer. It was nearly as good as flying.
It was easy to keep Harry's mind off things, if he had enough to do. Sadly, that Friday morning heading down to breakfast, he didn't have enough to do. Thinking about what he'd done hurt. It was almost instinctive, the need to avoid that. Also, nearly instinctive, was the frustration, the very very real desire to bash his own head into the wall until he just stopped thinking.
That wouldn't really fix anything, though it felt nice to think about.
Some way to just turn his thinking off.
Harry even had his Potions homework done, and that was a miracle forged by honest hard work, as Uncle Vernon would put it, if he could ever consent to say that about Harry Potter.
It hurt that Harry hadn't done this impulsively. He'd thought over the question, again and again - it popped up oddly, when he wasn't trying to think about anything at all.
No, this had been a Made Decision, not an impulse, not a brief momentary bout of idiocy.
Snape had talked about trust. He'd been beyond angry, beyond fury, into a cold sort of crystalline vibration, that might explode at any minute.
Harry closed his eyes, thinking back. His actions had hurt Snape. Snape, a man who liked to pretend he couldn't be hurt, by anything.
Had surprised Snape, too. That wasn't a comforting thought, like it would have been under other circumstances.
Harry heard giggles, found pretty young girls coming at him from above and below.
There. A landing just out of reach.
Harry jumped, and kept running, using his out-of-balance momentum to speed his progress. He ducked into a secret passage (beneath a tapestry), and bent over, catching his breath. If anyone asked, he wouldn't have admitted he'd been crying.
By the time Harry emerged, halfway through breakfast, he was smirking.
Silver linings, and all of that jazz.
He needed Ginny. She was going to like this.
By the time Harry slid into his seat, he was piling food faster than Ron generally did, which was saying something.
Snape's eyes glared heavily from the High Table.
Harry pretended not to see.
Minerva McGonagall eyed Snape with the same expression that a cat eyes a snake.
People kept wanting to talk with Harry, slip him secret messages. Hermione was getting increasingly frantic, as he'd been too busy eating to tell her anything (and wonder of wonders, Neville hadn't cracked). Harry just wanted to slide into the role of perfect (well, decent) student. It wasn't working, because everyone else refused to let it work. Even Ron wouldn't back off, not without Harry saying something. Which he wanted to avoid.
Potions class was worse than usual, and Snape was generally in a stew of a temper (with occasional thunderclaps), so that was saying something.
Snape actually rescued one of Neville's potions from causing a disaster.
This would have been swell, except that by saving Neville's, he'd thoroughly trashed Harry's, which had been fine before Snape had roughly jostled his elbow (with his lower back), and Harry had added three extra eyes of newt. The only bright side about Snape (as opposed to the Terribly Dumb Twins) sabotaging his potion was that Snape didn't believe in causing disasters large enough to require his effort in fixing them.
The potion was supposed to be actinic blue, and viscous. Harry's was black, ashy, and clumpy.
"That will be a zero for this assignment Mister Potter. If you persist in working without doing your homework, you will only get more of the same." Snape sneered, his eyes flashing as they bored into Harry's skull.
Well, then.
"Gin," Harry said, and Ginevra Weasley looked at him, with those big eyes of hers. "I need to talk with you."
Ginny crossed her arms, and said, "Well, I'm right here."
"Not... now. not ... here." Harry said, struggling to find some way to express what he wanted.
"O-oh," Seamus said, pushing his head in between Harry's and Ginny's, his hands on their shoulders. "Someone wants a word in private." Seamus' grin was just this side of mocking, or maybe angry, "Better ask Dean first."
Ginny crossed her arms, and even Harry knew that was a bad sign. "I don't need to ask my boyfriend before talking to Harry, Seamus."
Seamus raised his eyebrows, and said, "Whatever you say..."
From down the table, Romilda Vane tittered, looking up at Harry. If there was one person Harry wasn't going to date, it was Romilda Vane. She was a pest, an annoyance, and downright traitorous to boot.
She hadn't rejoined the Defense Club, which was probably for the best. Apparently this year she'd had more of a crush on Malfoy than on Potter, and Harry was glad of that.
Not that she knew either of them well enough to really like them. She just liked the fantasy.
Harry was very much trying not to pay attention to Snape glaring at him. He just knew if he looked up that Snape would -somehow- be looking away before he said anything.
Harry needed to talk with Hermione, too and he really wasn't looking forward to that.
It was after dinner before Harry got a chance to get Ginny alone, taking her halfway to the top of the Astronomy tower before he was relatively sure that no one was hanging about.
"Harry, what is this?" Ginny said, smiling as if she was flattered.
Harry's green eyes sparkled like the devil, as he started to explain.
"I can tell him, right?"
"If you can make it so only he can hear, sure..." Harry said, smirking.
"Done!" Ginny said, smiling broadly. She took three steps down the stairs, before she realized Harry wasn't following.
"You coming?" she asked, her face doing broad calculations on What Was Wrong Now.
"Nah, I want some fresh autumn air." Harry said.
"Off to sulk then?" Ginny said, and Harry made a face at her.
"Sure, because sulking's what people do on top of the Astronomy tower." Harry said smoothly.
Ginny snickered and said, "Ten galleons says you don't meet anyone up there tonight."
Harry just laughed in response, and Ginny ran off, ponytail bouncing behind her. Harry let his eyes follow her - not necessarily to admire her fine figure, but because it made a convenient excuse to attempt to pierce any illusions nearby.
Satisfied, he headed upstairs.
He needed a better argument before talking with Hermione.
Oh, and equilibrium.
He'd need that too.
Harry Potter had a goal, for sitting on top of the Astronomy tower. He wanted to figure out how to tell Hermione that she wasn't the sole source of answers, and though hers were wonderful, she needed to let other people take a turn sometime, even if their right answer was different from hers.
That wasn't really what Harry was up here thinking about He was stewing, worrying his own fingernails into his thighs. Harry had been watchin Snape these last couple of days. It wasn't all that unusual for Snape to study Harry, come to think of it. It had been part of what had prompted Harry and his friends to think Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher's stone**, after all. Those had been glares, the hard eyed stare that reminded Harry not of Uncle Vernon, but of Aunt Petunia's icy gaze. He'd felt just as much outrage because of it, too.
Over the summer and through the fall, Harry had found Snape giving him considering glances. Thoughtful, interested. Still watchful, the quiet of someone truly listening, even when Snape was at the high table, and couldn't possibly hear Harry without some sort of charm. Not that Harry would put that past Snape - Mr. Nobody Talk To Me I'm Eating.
Harry, however, was distinctly more uncomfortable with the glares Snape had been sending him.
Shit. Harry found the framework slotting into place. Those were the looks Snape had shot the Marauders. And Harry was certain Snape had thought of them as despicable cowards.
It had been cowardly, hadn't it, not just asking Snape?
Harry wanted to bury his head in his hands. He'd ruined something, and for what?
Worse, he well remembered Snape's words about Snape needing something to tell the Dark Lord.
How.
How was Harry supposed to tell Snape, NOW?
He'd be lucky to get to see his heart, before Snape finished murdering him.
Why hadn't he said something then?
Snape would, at the very least, just slam the door in Harry's face. Harry wasn't going to be able to get him to open up. Not even for critical information.
Harry needed to do something... Maybe, maybe if he gave Hermione a note...
He was still pondering thoughts when he fell asleep.
Harry woke to Flint, the ugliest lad in Hogwarts. He tried to simply sit up, not scootch away in fear.
"Mister Potter. Apparently you lack the common sense to sleep on your downy bed, and instead have decided that flagstones make a wonderful place to nap."
"Erk." Harry managed, still fuzzy around the edges as he rubbed at his glasses.
"Up you get." Flint said gruffly, "You're after curfew, but seeing as though you haven't encouraged anyone else to aid in your lawbreaking... Which is rather refreshing I might add. I think if you go straight back, I'll let you off with a warning."
"Thank you," Harry said.
"Straight back or you'll regret it," Flint said.
Some things happen that you get used to, without even knowing it.
It was a perplexing thought, and Harry didn't like perplexing thoughts (Maybe Luna did).
He'd come down to breakfast, after a morning run, and it seemed like everyone Gryffindor wanted to talk with him. With some chagrin, Harry thought, "that's what I get for giving them a puzzle."
That wasn't what he was used to, no. Those little tugs on his attention were like tapping a top, standing upright. It would fall to the ground, except that everyone kept pushing it.
Snape was missing from the High Table.
Again.
Harry's half-gotten used to those glares, in the past - half week, was it?
Snape's absence left him wary, concerned. Troubled. In a way that he couldn't, didn't communicate with everyone else.
Every so often, his eyes would flick up there. Still not there.
Nearly at the end of breakfast, Harry's eyes lightly alit on Draco Malfoy - who was talking with his friends, and avoiding the flirting of Pansy Parkinson (Harry deemed said flirting not serious, but he couldn't tell even himself why).
Through the morning, Harry tried to keep his mind off Snape's absence. It wasn't impossible he'd just slept in. It wasn't impossible the Dark Lord hadn't called him. Many things weren't impossible, but they were all far less plausible than Snape simply Dropping off the Board.
Harry'd buried his face in potions books (Snape's assignments were always twice as long as everyone else's, so Harry could be assured of enough work to keep himself busy). It wasn't working well - something like a creeping feeling, which - rather than being watched, was actually the absence of being watched. Which just made it creepier.
Hermione was delighted to help him, when she tumbled into the library. Which was good, not because Harry was having trouble with the assignment, but because he was having trouble with his concentration.
Talking helped. Somewhat.
The vague sense that something was wrong, however, just seemed to twist tighter in his guts.
Lunchtime.
Snape wasn't at the High Table.
That meant something was ... off.
Probably gone wrong.
Harry's nerves were tight as a violin string, and felt like they'd break at any minute. It was lucky he'd already scared off the Hufflepuff girls, because he really didn't want anyone in tears in the Great Hall.
What. Was. Going. On?
Harry clenched his jaw so hard that his sinuses started hurting. Calm. Steady.
Don't look at the lily.
Harry looked - it was striped, goldenrod and crimson. Whatever that meant.
A voice - not his own, sounded inside his head, Leave what you can't fix behind. Focus on your objectives. It sounded like a peculiar mix of Moody, Dumbledore and Snape - Dumbledore's kindness, and Moody's practicality, along with Snape's illtempered curtness.
It was good advice, even if his own brain was starting to develop split personalities.
The humor helped, rippling the emotions into a steadier, calmer state.
Harry thought. Snape isn't here. What do I know? He looked carefully around the Great Hall. Malfoy sat there, in the midst of his followers at the Slytherin Table. He looked utterly unconcerned. Does he know what's going on? I hate to ask, but... Harry continued to stare, and eventually Malfoy caught his gaze, raising a superior eyebrow questioningly. Nope. He knows nothing. May not have even noticed that Snape's just... gone. Oddly enough, it was a creepy, dreadful thought for Snape to be gone. At least with Sirius, it had been a battle. He'd been there, seen it. Had a chance to fix it.
Harry shook his head, Snape's been gone before. He's moved back onto the board. No reason to think he's smiling.* Carefully, Harry looked up at Albus, busy chatting with Flitwick as McGonagall shot them a vaguely disapproving glance. It's harder to tell with Albus, Harry thought carefully, But with him, I might actually get answers if I asked.
Harry collected himself, tried to tamp down the desperate yearning for an Explanation! Do I dare? Harry, eventually, shook his head. He doubted Dumbledore knew about half of the games Snape was currently playing (Oh, sure, Harry thought, suppressing the wild urge to grin, Dumbledore knows about his Death Eater games).
Harry concentrated on his breathing, turning his breath in and out into a form of meditation. Assume the positive. Harry harshly told himself, trying for an icy voice. He managed about a Lupin, which was mildly hilarious.
Harry remembered the last time Snape came back, skeletal thin - and more alarming than that, too tired to teach. He hadn't recovered from that, even mostly, for a week. With a bite of trifle on his fork, he closed his eyes, remembering back... Over the summer, Snape had left - every week. He'd come back gaunter, but Harry hadn't dug into it. Prying's still a ridonkulous idea. Harry thought back further, realizing that even at the start of the summer, when they'd all been in Grimmauld Place, Snape had come and gone... and there had been times when he'd seemed stricken, almost. As if by some sort of wasting disease.
Patterns meant problems.
Opening his eyes and eating the bite of trifle, Harry decided to put off talking to Hermione for another day. In the meantime, he had research to do.
Harry Potter had watched Hermione Granger research - she worked like a magpie, grabbing up one thing after another, reading it a little before tossing it into Promising or Put Back piles. She'd later curl up with each, savoring it like a dragon did gold.
Harry wasn't like that with research. He approached research like most people approached a punching bag. Hit it until it submitted.
So, Harry's idea both took more time, and less, than Hermione's way of doing it.
He'd woken early in the morning, and taken a run, using the time to get his thoughts into place. He'd wolfed breakfast, so quickly that he even managed to surpass Ron - ignoring everyone with that "uh huh" that he knew most people took to be him brooding. He'd ignored especially the stares from the Slytherin table. He didn't want to know that he was troubling them. Harry hated to trouble people, hated to be scrutinized like a bug - as if he was about ready to explode, or shrivel up, or both.
Up to his room, again, pulling the curtains on his bed shut, nevermind it was broad daylight and a Sunday to boot. From the open window, he could hear the Quiddich pitch (Ron was captain, from what he'd osmosified).
No distractions. Harry needed focus. He pulled out the crumpled bobs and bits of parchment... and wrapping paper... and butcher's paper, god knows where they'd got that.
The twins writing was replete with details, spurious details, intriguing details, useful details. But it was all told as a story, and thus was embroiled and embroidered with laughter.
Harry couldn't quite suppress a smile at the Twins turning green-faced (literally), as their gas-inducing latest product came out their other end. They'd intended it to help with burping contests.
Harry skipped lunch.
There were miles of parchment, here, Harry thought, as he flopped down on his back, tilting the paper up towards the ceiling as he kept reading.
I know it's here, somewhere...
Harry dared not skip dinner, even as he dodged the questions Ron and Hermione asked. Afterwards, as he retreated towards Gryffindor Tower, Malfoy proved even easier to dodge - Harry darted around Romilda Vane, with a whispered, "He likes you."
As Harry disappeared inside Gryffindor, he heard Malfoy's disbelieving voice, asking, "And you BELIEVED him?!"
With a smirk on his face, Harry got back to work. Maybe it hadn't been this year at all, maybe it'd been last year, or the summer...
Harry Potter ran and continued to run, as he went around Hogwarts. It was quite a bit more boring than if Snape was there. Harry wondered, grimly, if Snape would ever be there again. He focused his breathing on his steps, and started to think through his research, each page the equivalent of ten paces.
Harry Potter came to breakfast Monday morning, nearly in the exact middle of breakfast. He spared the high table one glance - enough to confirm that Snape was there, looking just as emaciated as predicted.
Harry dug into his food with gusto, nodding vigorously whenever someone tried to involve him in conversations he didn't care about at this moment.
He still had more to read. He had the glimmer of an idea, but he had to find facts before he could make plans. His mind was more on those notes up in his room, those fantastical letters.
Harry stole one glance up at the High Table as he left, relieved to see that Snape had not managed to fall over, or otherwise look completely wasted. The man looked like a wraith already. Harry would have considered offering to help, except that would actually count as suicide. Harry was not looking forward to Defense - he well knew what it took to be professional while teaching (though Harry had to concede he often wasn't, himself) - and Snape was looking spectral as it was. (Harry was briefly distracted by the idea of a rainbow shining through Professor Snape, before his horrified brain told him to leave the Great Hall while he was still able to walk).
Snape's slitted eyes burnt black, as he looked at himself in the mirror. He was gaunt - emaciated. Absently, he tugged at his robes, muttering, "Poppy's always on me to lose some weight." Poppy had never said any such thing, and tended to press more food on him than he was capable of eating (at least it wasn't the "Home Cooking" of Molly Weasley). Snape sat at a table in his private quarters, eating a simple breakfast of salsa and chips. It was the most he could stomach, and it made his hair glint with sweat.
Snape strode into the Great Hall with an odd premonition - something had changed. Ever disciplined, Snape sat stiffly and poured himself some black coffee. Then he let his eyes rake the Slytherin table - Malfoy was boasting, but that was nothing new... At the Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang and Terry Boot were having a civilized argument. If only my house would be content to argue with words alone. Normal. Snape's eyes barely glanced at the Hufflepuff table - it had been years since chance came from that quarter. Snape's eyes reached the Gryffindor table. Specifically, Potter, who had managed to sit at the most crowded part of the table, yet didn't seem to be listening to a single word anyone said. Being Gryffindors, they hadn't noticed the difference. Snape sent a whitehot glare at Potter, as he continued to watch - Potter was eating quicker than usual, which meant that he had something on his mind.
It was only after Potter left that Snape realized Harry had only looked his way twice. That was disturbingly eccentric.
Minerva kept looking at Snape, whose eyes were well past scalding hot, as they glare down at Potter for most of dinner. If this didn't resolve itself soon, she was going to have to step in herself. The lot of the assistant headmaster. Fixing all the petty little fights.
Harry was early to Defense, and realized, with a bit of an electric shiver, that most people were actually later than usual.
Had Snape's students started to look forward to his class? Oh, if he only knew. Harry thought wryly. Harry couldn't decide whether he'd storm off, smirk smugly, or let out a harsh, warm laugh - the kind that comes from a throat not used to it. Maybe not used to it... anymore.
Students began to file in, Slytherins first, and Harry caught more than one of them looking at each other with just a trace of concern on their faces. As much as Harry wanted to help Snape, who looked like he had more than a foot through death's door - he realized that approaching the Slytherins would be a mistake. Slytherins hated showing weakness, and expected if they did, that it would be pounced on by the nearest predator. That applied, in some strange way, to Slytherin House as a whole, of which Snape was Head.
What, did they really think Harry would manage some type of prank because Snape wasn't capable of chasing him down? Harry's mind helpfully supplied, "Or maybe they think you'd get yourself in trouble, and Snape would kill himself trying to save you." That thought was uncomfortable. Harry wanted away from that thought. He was better now, stronger, more capable. If he got in trouble, Snape wouldn't need to come running, because he'd fix it himself.
Quietly, as if inside a great silence, Harry heard Snape's words about him going into battle, "You'll be a good soldier, if you can survive the first few fights. Not that I expect you to." Most people - even, perhaps, Professor Dumbledore - would have expected that to be some measure of concealed, twisted truth. Harry'd heard it though, and he heard the unvarnished honesty of it. That wasn't a man who'd jump through hell and high water (or, at this rate, a ford), to save Harry. Obscured though his feelings were, Harry felt a little glad of that, proud even.
The class itself was nearly boring. Snape strode in - Harry privately suspected he'd do so even if blood was spurting out of his mouth... or other orifices. Dignity meant a lot to Snape, it seemed. Perhaps if it hadn't been that specific memory, Harry'd not have had several potion implements and glass objects thrown directly at his head.
Snape, eschewing the podium for once, simply strode through everyone, turned around and leaned his back on the wall, "Your assignment for today is to find five ways to defeat a Yeti."
Harry opened up his book, starting to look at the Table of Contents. Shielding, Defense, Wordless Casting, Wandless Casting... nothing about anything to do with creatures of any sort. His eyes left the page, finding Hermione already reading about thewee beas
Harry had a sudden thought, flipping through his papers until he found Snape's syllabus. He'd hardly glanced at it, when a voice sounded from what seemed miles above his shoulder. "Well, Mister Potter, has your arrogance grown so much that you feel entitled to not complete the assignment?"
Harry looked up, trying for innocent wide eyes, "I'm just consulting the syllabus."
"And what does that have to do with completing your assignment?" Snape asked, his hand landing suddenly on Harry's shoulder and squeezing visetight. Harry would normally have suspected "taking out anger on Harry's person", except that Snape's skeletal hand served to reemphasize that Snape might fall over at any minute.
"I'm trying to find what chapter to read." Harry said, though he was really doing no such thing.
"I'm afraid that you'll be disappointed, then," Snape said snidely. Before he could remove his hand from Harry's shoulder, Harry's quick hand caught his wrist. Harry gave Snape a glare, one that said, "I know you're making this assignment up right now."
As if Harry's hand wasn't even there, Snape said, "The point of this assignment is to consult your classmates and create a working picture together."
Harry mentally translated, Tell truth from lies and superstition. Harry smirked, After all, Snape couldn't teach them everything.
Harry Potter was about to discover that he should have done many things over the past three days that he hadn't done.
It is a sad yet timeless truth that poor oblivious souls need dire shocks to return them to rapt attention.
So it was with the young Potter, today.
Harry Potter had been so busy thinking that he'd just kept walking, not only skipping dinner, but somehow walking up until he'd managed to walk down, continuing until he'd wound up deep in the guts of the Slytherin dungeons, which somehow always seemed danker and gloomier than the Hufflepuff ones. He'd have to ask how that worked, it seemed like a useful affect. If you wanted people crept out, that is.
Harry Potter was rudely yanked from his daydreaming by a shrill shriek. That is to say, Ginny Weasley, launching herself at full tilt into Draco Malfoy's (quite surprised, yet still gallant) arms, and thence to smooching him, in a sort of full-body tackle sort of way, though Draco'd kept his feet. Oddly enough, Malfoy's face seemed to cheer up, when Ginny whispered in his ear.
However, this was not to be borne by one Pansy Parkinson, who responded with a warcry of her own - her ravenblack tresses streaming behind as she bolted towards the inappropriate, or possibly unacceptable couple. Responding as if she had eyes in the back of her head, Ginny leapt off (presumably to protect Malfoy, who hadn't been manufacturing a fight, for once).
Harry was so busy watching them fight - with slaps and heels of the hand, and grabbing of hair, no punches necessary, that he almost missed them heading out of the dungeons.
"I got this," Harry hollered - and that was odd, as there weren't any Gryffindors about to hear.
Draco Malfoy, once Harry's footsteps had faded, smirked, slow as molasses.
The game's afoot.
*Referencing a Chelsea Grin. Because Harry's sense of humor is morbid, obviously. As he notes, the humor helps.
**I am American. We will be using Proper Names here, not stupid made-up things like Sorceror's Stone. Hmph!