*Revised 2/17/18

Harry woke up early the next morning, as usual, lounging in his comfortable four-poster bed, listening to the snores of his dorm-mates. Ron, seen as a tuft of red hair poking out from a tangled sea of blankets, was particularly loud. He glanced at the clock, seeing it was two minutes to six.

Sighing, he got up and dragged himself to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, relieving himself, and stepping into the shower. He turned the hot water on, planning to take as much time as he needed. However, as the water hit his back he hissed, flinching out of the stream. He ran his hand over his back gently, hissing again as the pain returned. He was confused. His back seemed perfectly fine, skin smooth and unbroken, but it hurt like heck. Cautiously he edged himself back into the water, suppressing flinches as pain flared from unknown wounds. He'd had worse, he wouldn't be a baby about something as insignificant as a bit of pain. Yet as the droplets hit his right arm he jolted again, immediately turning it over to inspect. His brows furrowed as no discernible source of the pain was shown. Shaking his head agitatedly he set about soaping himself down, purposefully ignoring the pain. At least he didn't disappear this time.

Eventually the pain dulled and his tense muscles relaxed into the comforting heat. He leaned up against the side of the shower, closing his eyes wearily. He was used to being tired: it was a constant companion from life at the Dursleys', but this was worse than usual, even for him. He could only hope that today's classes wouldn't need much concentration.

He had gotten out of the shower and dressed by the time the first of his dorm-mates came in. A sleepy Neville mumbled hello to him and Harry greeted him in return, making half an attempt to tame his unruly hair (the mirror gently telling him it was a lost cause), before making his way back to his bed. He gathered up his school things and crammed them all into his bag, not knowing what subjects he would have today.

He glanced at the clock, shocked to see it was five to seven. He never took showers that long! Well, as long as he was at Hogwarts he might as well enjoy it.

He glanced over at Ron, who was now mumbling something about chocolate, a thin trail of drool dangling from his lip. Amused, he decided to wake him.

"Ron!" he yelled, "Get up! Hurry, get up! You'll miss breakfast!"

Ron awoke with a snort, looking around wildly. He spotted Harry's grinning face and scowled.

"Bloody hell, Harry," he mumbled, annoyed, "don't scare me like that..."

Chuckling, Harry replied, "You will miss breakfast if you don't start getting ready soon, Ron. I'll wait for you down in the common room."

Ron always took the longest of the boys to get ready, mostly because he was prone to falling back to sleep in the oddest places. They had found him snoring, slumped over the sinks once. They hadn't let him forget about that for a good long time.

Smiling, Harry made his way down the staircase to the cozy common room, taking his usual chair by the fire. He glanced out a window at the beautiful scenery: blue-gray mountains in the distance, dark against the clear, pale gray sky, the leaves on the trees in the Forest just starting to turn hues of gold and red, as if in honor of Gryffindor. He sat staring for a while and had gone into a world of his own, when a sudden hand in front of his face jerked him back to reality, flinching.

He looked up at the culprit, seeing Hermione's worried face.

"You okay, Hermione?" he asked curiously.

"Harry... I've been calling you for a minute now," she said with concern, biting her lip slightly. "Are you okay?"

He smiled to ward off her concern, though he could tell she wasn't entirely convinced. However, he was a bit worried. He didn't usually zone out that much. If he had been anywhere else he might've been in trouble; he wasn't naive enough to think that Voldemort wouldn't be targeting him this year.

"Yeah, I'm fine Hermione, just a bit tired," he said offhandedly.

"Well, if you're sure..." she trailed off, seeming torn between dropping the subject or pursuing his health.

Fortunately Ron came down at that moment, eager as always to get to breakfast. He must've zoned out longer than he thought...

When the trio entered the Great Hall the first thing they saw was Draco Malfoy, surrounded by a large group of Slytherins. He seemed to be entertaining them with a very funny story. As they passed, Malfoy did an exaggerated impression of a swooning fit, accompanied by a roar of laughter from his audience.

"Ignore him," Hermione said from behind him. "Just ignore him, it's not worth it..."

Normally he would've listened to Hermione, but for some reason he really needed to take Malfoy down a peg today. He opened his mouth to heatedly reply, shocked when the words that came out were very different from what he planned.

"Malfoy! How's your arse from last night? Still sore?" his voice asked mockingly. His face was numb, but he felt it curl into an expression of false sympathy.

Malfoy's cheeks tinged slightly pink but he ignored the comment, instead smirking at Harry (with more malice than usual) and enacting another dramatic swoon, pleading, "Oh, the dementors! Somebody save me!" He plastered a ridiculous look of terror on his pointed face.

The Slytherins all laughed in unison, sneaking sly glances at him to gauge his reaction.

Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl with a face like a pug, stepped forward, shrieking, "Hey, Potter! Potter! The dementors are coming, Potter! Wooooooo!"

He spoke again, as if from a dream, "Oh yeah? I heard that there's going to be a crackdown on stray animals this year. Let's hope you get a collar before then! Maybe you could be Malfoy's pet, if you're lucky!" He felt his face turn pitying. "Oh wait, I forgot." His lips pulled back in a smirk. "You're already his bitch, aren't you?"

Parkinson seemed frozen in shock, but Malfoy was now glaring daggers at him, hand clenched around his wand that seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

He laughed, or rather, this other him did. It was a short, sarcastic laugh, so unlike his usual boisterous, happy guffaws.

He felt his deadened limbs move, turning his back on Malfoy and steering him to the Gryffindor table, where he took a seat next to George Weasley. Malfoy sneered some insult after him but his fuzzy mind couldn't comprehend it, too shocked at had just happened.

Hermione seemed at a loss for words, for once in her life. She was staring at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron gaped, "Where did that come from?"

Feeling returned to his body and he blinked rapidly, stunned at the words that had just left his lips. What the hell was that? He opened his mouth, turning to answer Ron, before shutting it again, unable to find words to properly describe what had just happened. He shrugged, hoping that passed for a reply.

"What's up with you, Harry, Ron?" George asked.

Harry jerked his head at Malfoy, who seemed to have gone back to reenacting Harry's encounter with the dementor, albeit with more force than necessary, and shooting glares at Harry.

"That little git," George said calmly, rolling his eyes. "He wasn't so cocky last night when the dementors were down at our end of the train. Came running into our compartment, didn't he, Fred?"

"Nearly wet himself," said Fred, casting a contemptuous glare at the blonde.

"I wasn't too happy myself, mind you," George said. "They're horrible things, those dementors..."

"Sort of freeze your insides, don't they?" Fred finished.

Finding his voice again, Harry asked quietly, "You didn't pass out, though, did you?"

"Forget it, Harry," George said, placing a supporting hand on his shoulder. "Dad had to go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred?"

Fred nodded, continuing the story, "He said it was the worst place he'd ever been, he came back all weak and shaking..."

"They suck the happiness out of a place, dementors," George said solemnly. "Most of the prisoners go mad in there."

"Anyway, we'll see how happy Malfoy looks after our first Quidditch match," Fred grinned. "Gryffindor versus Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?"

The only time Harry and Malfoy had faced each other in a Quidditch match, Malfoy had definitely come off worse. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Harry reached to help himself to sausages and fried tomatoes. The second he looked at what he was about to put in his mouth, however, his stomach did a sickening belly flop. He settled for a slice of plain toast instead, nibbling on a corner. He saw Hermione shooting him a concerned look out of the corner of his eye but George came to his rescue, holding out papers to them.

"Here," George said, "new third-year course schedules."

Hermione immediately began pouring over hers, smiling excitedly. Both she and Ron seemed to have forgotten his scene with Malfoy. Or, more likely, they simply had no idea how to address it. Much the same happened whenever the topic of Harry's relatives came up. He would briefly mention that they didn't like him, there would be an awkward pause, Hermione would make some excusing comment and then Ron would change the subject, usually to Quidditch.

"Ooh, good! We're starting some new subjects today!" Hermione gushed happily.

Ron groaned, looking over her shoulder. Suddenly a confused, incredulous look came over his face.

"Hermione," he frowned, "they've messed up your schedule. Look- they've got you down for about ten subjects a day. There isn't enough time."

"I'll manage," she replied curtly, "I've fixed it all with Professor McGonagall."

"But look," Ron laughed, disbelieving, "see this morning? Nine o'clock, Divination. And underneath, nine o'clock, Muggle Studies. And-" Ron leaned closer, confusion plain on his face, "look- underneath that, Arithmancy, nine o'clock. I mean, I know you're good, Hermione, but no one's that good. How're you supposed to be in three classes at once?"

"Don't be silly, Ron," Hermione replied shortly, "Of course I won't be in three classes at once."

"Well, then-"

He was cut off by Hermione, who said, annoyed, "Pass the marmalade."

"But-"

"Oh, Ron, what's it to you if my schedule's a bit full?" the bushy-haired girl snapped. "I told you, I've fixed it all with Professor McGonagall."

Just then Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was wearing his long moleskin overcoat and absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one enormous hand. His black eyes glittered happily.

"All righ'?" he asked eagerly as he came to the trio, pausing on his way to the staff table. "Yer in my firs' ever lesson! Righ' after lunch! Bin up since five gettin' everythin' ready... Hope it's okay..." He grinned dreamily. "Me, a teacher... hones'ly..."

He shot another huge grin at them before heading off to the staff table, still swinging the polecat.

Ron looked worriedly after him. "Wonder what he's been getting ready?" he said with a hint of anxiety.

The hall was starting to empty now as people headed off to their first lesson. Ron checked his course schedule.

"We'd better go, look," he said, pointing to the block labeled Divination, "Divination's at the top of North Tower. It'll take us ten minutes to get there..."

Ron looked down at his plate again, intently focused on shoveling food into his mouth as fast as possible. Harry picked at the remnants of his toast, pointedly ignoring Hermione's concerned stare. He just wasn't hungry, that's all. Malfoy must've put him off breakfast.

After they finished the last morsels of their breakfasts the trio bid goodbye to Fred and George and walked back through the hall. As they passed the Slytherin table Malfoy, still glaring, performed yet another reenactment of Harry's fainting fit. They ignored him, but the shouts of laughter followed them into the entrance hall.

The journey through the castle to North Tower was a long one. Two years at Hogwarts hadn't taught them everything about the castle, and they had never been inside the tower before.

"There's- got- to- be- a- shortcut," Ron panted as they climbed their seventh long staircase and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of grass hanging on the stone wall.

Harry was feeling distinctly unwell after the trek, nauseous and lightheaded, a headache blooming between his brows, but he didn't want to worry his friends by complaining. After they arrived at class he'd feel better. He brushed the sweat from his forehead and was surprised at how clammy his skin felt. He hoped he wasn't getting sick again, after what had happened at the Dursleys. He hadn't been sick at Hogwarts yet and he planned to keep it that way.

"I think it's this way," Hermione said, peering down the empty passage to the right.

"Can't be," Ron frowned. "That's south, look, you can see a bit of the lake out of the window..."

Harry's eyes were pulled to the painting as a fat, dapple-gray pony ambled onto the grass and began grazing nonchalantly. Harry was, by now, used to the subjects of Hogwarts paintings moving around and leaving their frames to interact with one another, but he always enjoyed watching it. A moment later, a short, squat knight in a suit of dented armor clanked into the picture after his pony. By the look of the grass stains and dirt smudges adorning his metal knees, he had just fallen off.

"Aha!" he yelled, seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

Ron jumped slightly, caught off guard by the sudden noise, before casting an annoyed glance at the painting.

"What villains are these, that trespass upon my private lands!" the knight continued. "Come to scorn at my fall, perchance? Draw, you knaves, you dogs!"

They watched in astonishment as the little knight tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in rage. But the sword was too long for him; a particularly wild swing made him overbalance, and he landed face-down in the grass.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, moving closer to the picture.

"Back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!"

The knight seized his sword again and used it to push himself back up, but the blade sank deeply into the grass and, though he pulled with all his might, he couldn't get it out again. Finally, he had to flop back down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop his sweating face.

"Listen," Harry began, taking advantage of the knight's exhaustion, "we're looking for the North Tower. You don't know the way, do you?"

"A quest!" the knight shouted enthusiastically, his rage seeming to vanish instantly. He clanked to his feet and yelled, "Come, follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or else shall perish bravely in the charge!"

He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and failed to mount the fat pony, gave up, and cried, "On foot, then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!"

And he ran, armor clanking loudly, into the left side of the frame and out of sight.

They hurried after him along the corridor, following the sound of his armor. Now and then they spotted him running through a picture ahead.

Suddenly Harry stopped in the middle of the corridor, his gaze drawn to a plain wooden door along the left wall, unremarkable from the rest of the many doors within the school. For some reason he had the most pressing feeling that they should go in instead of following the clumsy knight.

Ron and Hermione stopped, looking back at him curiously. He shrugged at them and walked over, trying the doorknob. It was locked. Normally he would've just left it be and gone on with his friends, but for some reason he felt that he needed to go through the door.

The knight returned, popping his head into a portrait of a statuesque woman in a garden.

"I say," he said, brandishing a fist, "there be no time for distractions! Our quest awaits, good sir! Come! Come!" He clanked back out of sight, assuming they would follow.

Harry, however, was still fixated on the door. There were many different ways to open doors in Hogwarts. Some had to be asked nicely, while others you had to tickle in the just the right place. Then, others were simply locked, requiring an unlocking spell. Some weren't even doors at all but merely walls pretending to be! Harry decided to go with the first option. For some reason it just felt right.

"Er, could you please open?" he asked the door, feeling ridiculous.

He should've been surprised when it creaked open, but he wasn't. He knew it would.

The knight had reappeared again, to the annoyance of the portrait's occupant, who was pointedly ignoring him.

"What mysteries await beyond yonder door, good sir? Perhaps a tool to aid us in our quest?" the knight asked with bravado.

"I think this way is faster," Harry answered truthfully. He really did feel that this was the right way to go, though if someone asked him why he couldn't give them a reason.

"Ah!" the knight exclaimed excitedly. "A hidden passage! I shall lead the way, brave sir, lest we meet some great peril!" And the knight ran out of the picture, his clanking preceding them down the narrow, upward-slanted, windowless hall.

"Are you sure this is the right way, Harry?" Hermione asked, stepping into the dark hallway. She then whispered, "Tempus ostendo," with a small flourish of her wand, the time appearing in faintly glowing roman numerals suspended in the air. They had only five minutes before class started.

"Yeah, I'm sure," he replied, heading after the metallic clanks of the painted knight.

His friends hesitated a moment before following after him. As they emerged from the door at the top of the hall they found themselves at the bottom of a narrow spiral staircase. The knight reappeared in front of an alarmed group of women in crinolines, whose picture hung on the wall of the staircase.

He pushed up his visor and grinned at them, saying, "Good show, sir! You have pushed us nearer to our goal!" His visor flopped back down and the knight struck a powerful pose, during which he overbalanced and nearly fell over. He straightened himself up again and commanded, "Be ye stout of heart, the worst is yet to come!" running out of the painting and up the stairs, leaving the women flustered.

Harry, Ron and Hermione hurried after the quick knight, up the spiral staircase. As they climbed they grew dizzier and dizzier, and Harry abruptly had to stop in order to keep his meagre breakfast from making a second appearance. He panted shallowly as he struggled to control his nausea, leaning against the wall. Ron and Hermione stopped also, shooting him concerned looks. The sounds of the knight's armor faded away as he kept on without them.

"You all right, Harry?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just gimme a minute," Harry replied, voice softer than he wanted.

"I told you you should eat more, Harry," Hermione chided, worrying her lip.

She opened her mouth to say something else but Harry cut her off, saying, "Look, I'm fine Hermione. I just got dizzy is all."

He pushed off from the wall, swiping a hand across his moist forehead, once again surprised at its clamminess. He hoped he didn't look sick, or Hermione would never get off his back. He trudged up the tight staircase again, his friends lagging behind slightly.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity to Harry's roiling stomach, they reached the top of the stairs, greeted by a slight babble of voices. It seemed most of the class had already arrived.

"Farewell!" cried the knight, popping his head into a painting of some sinister-looking monks. "Farewell, my comrades-in-arms! If ever you have need of noble heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!"

"Yeah, we'll call you," muttered Ron as the knight disappeared, "if we ever need someone mental."

Their classmates were all lounging around and talking on a tiny landing at the top of the stairs. There were no doors off this landing, but Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on it. Scrolling letters spelled out "Sibyll Trelawney, Divination Teacher." Harry wondered how they were supposed to get up there.

He looked around, and as none of the other students were doing anything to try to reach the classroom, he stepped back and leant against a wall. Hermione shot him another worried look and he replied with an annoyed one. Fortunately, she decided not to pester him again.

After a few minutes of waiting, within which a few remaining absentees trickled in from the stairwell, the trapdoor suddenly opened, a silvery ladder descending right at Harry's feet. Everyone got quiet, looking at it curiously.

"After you," Ron said, grinning, so Harry climbed the ladder first.

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he had ever seen. In fact, it didn't look like a classroom at all, more like a cross between someone's attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small, circular tables were crammed inside it, all surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs. The curtains at the windows were all drawn, and many lamps were draped with dark red scarves, drenching everything in a dim, crimson light. It was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning under the crowded mantlepiece was giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large copper kettle. The shelves running around the circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a huge array of teacups.

Harry had a sinking feeling that anything that happened in this classroom would be distinctly unpleasant.

Ron appeared at Harry's shoulder as the class assembled around them, all talking in whispers.

"Where is she?" Ron asked in a low voice.

A soft, misty kind of voice suddenly emanated from the shadows. "Welcome," it said. "How nice to see you in the physical world at last."

Harry's immediate impression was of a large, glittering insect. Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight and they saw that she was very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were encrusted with bangles and rings.

"Sit, my children, sit," she said, and they all climbed awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat themselves around the same round table.

Harry's ominous feeling grew exponentially, and wouldn't diminish for the remainder of the lesson. After giving out a few vague, frightening prophetic statements, she set them about interpreting tea leaves. Both Ron and Harry were doing horribly. Harry would've thought her a fraud from her overly-dramatic demeanor and eccentric adornments, among other things, if she hadn't predicted that Neville would break his first teacup and been right about it.

"...that looks like an animal," Ron said, squinting into Harry's cup, "yeah, if that was its head... it looks like a hippo...no, a sheep..."

Professor Trelawney whirled around in a clatter of beads as Harry let out a snort of laughter.

"Let me see that, my dear," she said reprovingly to Ron, sweeping over and snatching Harry's cup from him. Everyone went quiet to watch.

Professor was staring into the cup, magnified eyes bulging, and rotating it counterclockwise.

"The falcon... my dear, you have a deadly enemy."

"But everyone knows that," said Hermione in a loud whisper. Professor Trelawney stared at her.

"Well, they do," Hermione continued. "Everyone knows about Harry and You-Know-Who."

Harry and Ron stared at her with a mixture of astonishment and admiration. They had never heard Hermione speak to a teacher like that before. Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered her huge eyes to Harry's cup again and continued to turn it.

"The club... an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup..."

"I thought it was a bowler hat," said Ron sheepishly.

"The skull... danger in your path, my dear..."

Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and then screamed.

There was a tinkle of breaking china; Neville had smashed his second cup. Harry briefly wondered why the Professor didn't just fix them with magic. Professor Trelawney sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at her heart and her eyes closed.

"My dear boy... my poor, dear boy... no... it is kinder not to say... no... don't ask me..."

"What is it, Professor?" said Dean Thomas at once. Everyone had gotten to their feet and slowly they crowded around Harry and Ron's table, pressing close to Professor Trelawney's chair to get a good look at Harry's cup.

"My dear," Professor Trelawney's huge eyes opened dramatically, "you have the Grim."

"The what?" Harry asked, confused.

He could tell he wasn't the only one who didn't understand; Dean Thomas shrugged at him and Lavender Brown looked puzzled, but nearly everybody else clapped their hands to their mouths in horror.

"The Grim, my dear, the Grim!" cried Professor Trelawney, who looked shocked that Harry hadn't understood. "The giant, spectral dog that haunts churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen – the worst omen – of death!"

Harry's stomach lurched as his memory flashed back to the book in Flourish and Blotts, the giant dog on the cover... the dog in the rosebushes on Privet Drive... A cold sweat broke out on his forehead again. It seemed that his premonitions about this class had been correct.

Lavender Brown clapped her hands to her mouth too. Everyone was looking at Harry, everyone except Hermione, who had gotten up and moved around to the back of Professor Trelawney's chair.

"I don't think it looks like a Grim," she said flatly.

Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with mounting dislike. "You'll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I perceive very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future."

Seamus Finnigan was tilting his head from side to side.

"It looks like a Grim if you do this," he said, with his yes almost shut, "but it looks more like a donkey from here," he finished, leaning to he left.

"When you've all finished deciding whether I'm going to die or not!" Harry said abruptly, even catching himself by surprise. Now nobody seemed to want to look at him.

"I think we will leave the lesson here for today," said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice. "Yes... please pack away your things..."

Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor Trelawney, packed away their books, and closed their bags. Even Ron was avoiding Harry's eyes. This avoidance would remain throughout the beginning of Professor McGonagall's transfiguration lesson, in which Harry barely heard her lecture on the topic of Animagi (wizards who could transform at will into animals). After Professor McGonagall transformed into a tabby cat with spectacle markings around her eyes, to which the class had little response, and back into herself, she addressed the class's apathy.

"Really, what has got into you all today?" Professor McGonagall asked, staring around at them all. "Not that it matters, but that's the first time my transformation's not got applause from a class."

Everyone's heads turned toward Harry again, but nobody spoke. Then Hermione raised her hand.

"Please, Professor, we've just had our first Divination class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and-"

"Ah, of course," said Professor McGonagall, suddenly frowning. "There is no need to say any more, Miss Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this year?"

Everyone stared at her.

"Me," Harry stated, after a pregnant pause.

"I see," Professor McGonagall said, fixing Harry with her beady eyes. "Then you should know, Potter, that Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them have died yet. Seeing death omens is her favorite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues-"

Professor McGonagall broke off, and they saw there her nostrils had gone white. She went on, more calmly, "Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and Professor Trelawney-"

She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "You look in excellent health to me, Potter, so you will excuse me if I don't let you off homework today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand it in."

Hermione laughed. Harry felt a bit better. It was harder to feel scared of a lump of tea leaves away from the dim red light and befuddling perfume of Professor Trelawney's classroom. Not everyone was convinced, however. Ron still looked worried, and Lavender whispered, "But what about Neville's cup?" Though, he was surprised that the Professor thought he looked well. He would've thought, from the nausea still turning his stomach and the cold sweat on his brow, that he would look at least a bit unwell. He shrugged it off. It wasn't like he was sick or anything.

However, Harry continued to feel worse throughout the lesson, his white-knuckled hands gripping the desk as he fought back nausea. By the time Transfiguration had ended he knew he had to find a toilet fast. He excused himself from his friends, attempting a cheerful smile as he told them he would join them later during lunch. Hermione looked concerned again, but went with Ron after he nudged her softly.

He quickly turned around, making his way to the bathroom in a usually-empty corridor somewhat near the Transfiguration classroom. He had barely stumbled into an empty stall and latched the door when he fell to his knees, retching into the toilet and shivering violently. The bitter acid stung his throat as he coughed up a disgusting mess. His stomached heaved again and again, even after it was fully emptied of its contents. Eventually, though, it ended, leaving Harry feeling weak and shaky, his limbs like limp noodles. He grabbed some paper and wiped off his mouth, leaning back against the cool stone wall. But this only served to increase his shivering so he bent forward again, hugging his knees and breathing in shallow gasps. Maybe the toast he had eaten this morning had been off, he thought. It was the only real explanation he had.

Just then he heard a firm knock on the door, making him flinch violently.

He jumped up, flushing the toilet and running a hand through his hair as he attempted to look presentable. But his body still trembled and his breath came in short gasps: there was nothing he could do about that. He reached to open the door when the voice he least wanted to hear softly drifted from the other side.

"Are you alright in there? Do you need the nurse?" Malfoy's voice said. He actually sounded concerned, a tone which Harry had never heard coloring his silky voice before.

His hand paused on the latch. Why did it have to be Malfoy of all people to hear him spewing out his guts in the bathroom? He considered hiding in the stall until he left, but then where would be his Gryffindor courage? No, he would face him head on.

He unlatched the door and flung it open with what little strength he had, glaring into the shocked face of his rival, Draco Malfoy.

"Shove off, Malfoy," he said, his voice pathetically weak.

Malfoy recovered from his shock and narrowed his eyes at Harry.

"Why in Merlin's name aren't you in the Hospital Wing, Potter? I'm sure you'd love to be pampered with get-well cards and gifts from all your little fans," he sneered.

"I'm not sick," Harry replied angrily, or rather, he tried to. He really just sounded tired.

Malfoy gave a sarcastic laugh. "Sure you're not." His eyes lit up maliciously. "So scared of the dementors that you're sick and shaking, Potter? I would've thought fainting was enough."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry replied, trying to push past him. Malfoy held in place easily, smirking at him.

"Poor little Potty, so scared of the mean old dementors... Going to cry to Mudblood and Weasel?" Malfoy drawled.

Harry clenched his fist reflexively, but was too tired to form a response. "Get out of the way," he grumbled.

"Don't think so," the blonde smirked.

He sneered something else but Harry didn't hear him, as a strange ringing in his ears kept growing louder and louder. He blinked, a black haze creeping into the edge of his vision. He came to the sudden realization that he was about to faint, having experienced the phenomena before when the Dursleys worked him too hard and forgot to feed him, or simply didn't care to. He dropped to his knees, forgetting about Malfoy for the moment. He rested his head in his hands and drew deep, uneven breaths until the feeling passed.

He looked up to find Malfoy's incredulous face a few inches from his own.

"Like hell you're not sick," he drawled.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy," he said weakly.

Malfoy shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, Potter," he sneered. "It's your funeral."

With that Malfoy turned and strutted out of the small bathroom, kicking Harry's book-bag on the way out. That was surprising: usually Malfoy milked something for all it was worth, and more. Harry vaguely wondered why he'd been in the abandoned corridor in the first place.