Chapter 2: Bedsheet Memories

He was cold. Too cold. Harry shivered, feeling the press of linen against his body. When his eyes opened, he saw white walls and a row of spartan beds. The hospital wing hadn't changed a bit since last year. He could hear Madam Pomfrey in the distance, bustling about straightening bed sheets and plumping pillows. Idly, he wondered what the point was. School wasn't starting for another week. Most of the pupils would be at the world cup right now, like he was – he sat up, suddenly, and tried to speak. His throat was dry, and only a harsh spluttering came out, but it was enough to draw Hogwarts' resident Healer's attention.

"Lie down," exclaimed Madam Pomfrey, reminding Harry of nearly every time he had been in this same room. She would always make sure that he was back to full health before letting him go, and she did a fine job of patching him up after his various escapes, but she was overbearing almost to the point at which he would willingly walk on a broken leg for three days before coming to see her. Almost. He wondered if she was close to Molly Weasley. Exchange her cooking for Pomfrey's curing, and the two women were very alike.

Harry tried to ask why he was here, at Hogwarts, when he'd been attacked so far away, but the words couldn't make their way past his dry throat. Pomfrey saw that he wanted to ask a question, but gave the answer to a different one instead. To be fair, it was the one that Harry asked upon waking most of the time when he was in her care. He could remember the first time he had asked, towards the end of his first year. He'd been worried about missing the end-of-year feast, and asked her how long he'd been asleep. "You've been here for five days, dear. Term is starting after the weekend."

With a few noncommittal grunts and a shake of his head, he was able to convey his question. He guessed that after years of working with bedridden students Pomfrey had developed the ability to sometimes understand what they were saying, even if unable to speak. Of course, she had the ability to turn spontaneously deaf when the students had no desire to take their potions, as Harry knew. He had particularly bad memories of a run-in with skele-gro. Snape must have brewed that specially for him, wearing a broad grin the whole time. It was lucky that most potions used by the hospital wing were bought cheaply from the same supplies used by St Mungos. He dreaded to think of the state he'd be in by now if his healthcare was entrusted to Snape's brewing. Chances were that he'd be drinking poison more often than not. "You were just exhausted, and bound to wake up at any time. We didn't know if you'd be up and about in time to catch the train, so you were brought here."

Trying to sit up properly, and not just be propped up on the pillows, Harry met with an expected obstacle in the form of Madam Pomfrey's hand. Her bony fingers pressed into the centre of his chest made quick work of his attempts to rise, pushing him back down.

She gave him her sternest expression, and pulled a small vial of potion out of nowhere. Harry suspected that she carried some variants on the traditional sleep potions around with her everywhere so she could ambush students when business was low. He worried that he was going paranoid at times, but usually his fears came true at about the time he started to believe he was imagining things. Perhaps Madam Pomfrey would be the culprit of the fourth annual plot to do him in. The thought made him laugh to himself, but his mirth was interrupted by a foul tasting liquid being forced down his throat. Soon, he was consumed by the world of sleep.

The sun was high in the sky when Harry woke. A calendar on the wall said that the day was Saturday, emblazoned in vivid purple writing. As he watched, numbers beneath it changed, displaying the time. A shrill voice coming from the calendar had woken him.

"-ven of the clock. Have a pleasant day!" Harry grimaced. His day would be considerably better were it not for an untimely awakening. It was still the holidays – and a weekend. He felt quite strongly about the inappropriate way that clocks had the dual functions of AM and PM. Whoever designed them was wholly deserving of a few well-placed insults. It was probably Snape, he thought darkly.

"About time yeh got up," said Hagrid. Harry jumped, and looked for his oversized friend. He wasn't exactly hard to miss, but he didn't see him until a chuckle came from behind him. "Jumped like a rabbit there. Everythin' alright, Harry? Heard yeh've bin here for a coupla days." Hagrid sat on th bed behind him. Beneath his figure it seemed more like a cushion covered stool than a mattress atop a bed. Thick bandages covered his bulky arms, and a few scratches could be seen on the small part of his face not covered by his unkempt beard. They looked suspiciously like bites. Harry hoped that Hagrid wasn't attempting to raise another dragon – or worse.

"Hagrid! What happened to you?" asked Harry, gesturing towards the worst of the bandages. Hagrid just grinned. Harry had never known him to be fazed by any of the wounds he sustained in dealing with the various creatures around the Hogwarts grounds. Some of them were quite vicious.

"Ahh, it weren't much. Aragog's lot is gettin' restless. He's no feelin' that great, an' more'n a few o' his brood keep wantin' to expand their colony. He's keepin' most of 'em in check, but every now an' then a couple scuttle outta the forest," said Hagrid, standing up. The top of his head came dangerously close to brushing the ceiling, high as it was, and the bed creaked in an alarming manner when his weight left it. "On'y came in here to see how yeh were doin'." Harry looked again at Hagrid's bandages. A sort of yellow-grey pus was seeping from behind one on his forearm, and dark stains showed where blood had been soaking through.

"Hagrid, isn't Acromantula venom poisonous?" asked Harry, remembering an encounter with the eight-legged monsters. It was only through a mixture of luck and an enchanted car that he escaped being bitten himself.

"Nah, it was only a little 'un. Couldn'ta been more'n seven, eight feet legspan. They don't get really deadly until they're past ten." Harry stared at Hagrid, gobsmacked. No matter how many times he had seen Hagrid's love for the furry and fanged, he was still surprised by his ability to overlook his bestial companions' terrifying nature. Anyone sane would consider one of his so-called pets to be very different from his opinion of them as cuddly. "Not tha' I'll have much time for Aragog this year, what wi' everythin' that's happening."

Harry remembered how shifty the elder Weasleys had been acting at the Burrow. They had been dropping a number of steady hints that something was going to happen this year at Hogwarts. It was only through Percy's obeisant attitude that Ludo Bagman had been prevented from telling him, Ron, and Hermione outright at the world cup.

"What's happening this year?"

After a long pause, Hagrid gave in, and shrugged. With that ungainly motion, he accidently knocked over a vase standing on the bedside table. Harry winced when it shattered on the floor.

"I s'pose it won't do any harm to tell yeh now. The Triwizard Tournament is bein' brought back."

"What's that?"

"Well, there's these three tasks, see," said Hagrid. "And in 'em the champions are gonna have to –" He broke off suddenly, seeing Dumbledore standing in the doorway, looking amused. He strode over to Harry, and clapped a hand on his shoulder, blue eyes twinkling.

"Don't give away all our secrets now, Rubeus. There's no fun in spoiling the surprise before time."

"Sorry professor, I was jus' tellin' Harry what the tournament is, see?"

"I see. Perhaps I can explain that a little better, hmm? Just wait a few days until the feast and I'll be telling everyone. Can you wait that long, Harry?" Harry was completely unabashed by his obvious attempt to wheedle information out of Hagrid.

"But what is it, Professor?" he asked, eager to know more. Dumbledore smiled, peering at Harry over his half-moon glasses.

"I believe that the official word of the Ministry is that the Triwizard Tournament is an event designed to – what did they say? – Ahh, yes. To promote international co-operation and goodwill among witches and wizards of all ages. Personally, I'm under the impression that Ludo Bagman was bored and fancied dabbling his hand in something other than Quidditch, but to each his own. It should be a nice change of pace from normal. I'm sure you'll enjoy the events we have planned." Harry looking derailed for a moment, having gained yet another of Dumbledore's vague answers. The man was adept at not letting slip anything more than he wished. A pity he wasn't so easy to get things out of as Hagrid.

"What?"

"We'll be having some visitors this year, Harry." Harry opened his mouth to ask more, but Dumbledore interrupted him before he had the chance. "Enough about the future – we mustn't neglect the present. How are you feeling?" He was about to automatically answer, but Dumbledore shook his head. "How are you really feeling?"

Harry tried to think back, but most of the time since he'd passed out in the woods had been time spent asleep. Despite that, he felt as if he should still be sleeping. His limbs were heavy and stiff, as if he'd been exercising heavily all day.

"A bit...stiff," said Harry. Dumbledore nodded. Harry wasn't sure where this was going – he thought that it was only natural to be a bit rigid after spending so much time in bed, but Dumbledore seemed to be reading something more into it.

"No wonder, by the looks of you," said Dumbledore. "You've grown a lot over the summer." Harry shook his head. He couldn't be more than half an inch taller than he had been at the end of his third year. He had always been short and skinny for his age, and didn't expect that to ever change.

"Not really," said Harry. Dumbledore only relied by pointing at a mirror beside the bed. Harry stood, and moved half a pace towards it. "I was still nearly a head shorter than Ron when –" His voice faded, and he stared at his reflection. He still wasn't as tall as Ron, but the difference wasn't very big. He gave Dumbledore a quizzical look, and the headmaster returned it with a faint smile.

"I don't think you will be much shorter now. Tell me, when you encountered the veela, did they use their rather unique ability on you?"

Harry couldn't remember much about his time in front of the veela. At the cup itself, he could remember a desire to impress them, and a need to do something that really stood out. Within the clearing was an entirely different matter. Everything was so intense, so powerful, and so confusing. He felt a stray tickle in the back of his mind, and things started sliding into place. He had felt nothing more than a desire – a need – and an urge to protect them. In that moment, they were more precious than anything else. He couldn't really understand why he had felt that way, despite knowing that it was the effect of the veela. It was just too much to take in.

"You mean their charm?" he asked.

"That's one way to put it, yes," said Dumbledore. It was an understatement, Harry thought, but feelings like that, so intense, could not be put into words. Neither love nor lust, it was something else. Something deeper, and darker, buried in the crevasses of his mind, in places where he had not gone before.

"They did." Harry came back from the mirror, and sat on the side of his bed, smoothing the white linen coverlets. He was tired of these sterile beds in the hospital wing, and made up his mind to leave as soon as he got the chance. He wanted to be back in the Gryffindor tower. The dormitory there was the only place where he had ever really felt to be in his own room, no matter that he shared it with four others.

"It seems to have had a considerably exaggerated effect on you, Harry. Your extreme overexposure to such strong emotions triggered a burst of hormones that, well, accelerated certain physical properties of your growth." The aging headmaster's expression was still fairly jovial, and eyes twinkled behind his glasses. Harry had rarely seen him with a truly serious expression – and of those few times, most had been in this same room, when he was supposed to be asleep. He thought that the safety of his students was one of two things that the headmaster took seriously – that and Lord Voldemort.

"I...I don't..."

"Understand? Of course not. In layman's terms, you grew older in a short span of time. You've been asleep because your body simply didn't have the energy for you to stay awake." Having heard of nothing whatsoever like this ever happening before, Harry accepted Dumbledore's words. This was his fourth year in the magical world, and every year the thing that he learned over and over again was that he knew far less than he could about magic. The only impossibility he'd found so far was for things to be impossible.

"So...I'm not fourteen any more?" It sounded too bizarre to be true – but Harry had heard of aging potions, and knew that magic could do strange things if channelled in the right ways. Especially when he was involved.

"No, you're not. Not just fourteen." He did wonder how old he was, but Dumbledore pre-empted his question. "I would say that your body is that of a fifteen year old. Perhaps even sixteen. As far as your mental age goes, I couldn't comment. You'll probably be a little older up here than many of your classmates, but with Miss Granger for company, I'm sure that your friends won't see that as a bad thing. Even were you my age, I doubt you'd be able to surpass her in terms of maturity." The headmaster stopped speaking, and his eyes took on their characteristic twinkle. "Which may or may not be a bad thing." Harry stifled a laugh. Despite being the oldest person he knew, Dumbledore often seemed younger than many of Harry's fellow students.

Hagrid fidgeted beside Harry, and Dumbledore's faint smile grew a little in amusement. Despite the fact that he was now a teacher at the school, Hagrid still thought of Dumbledore of an omniscient figurehead of authority, and himself as an errant schoolboy. He was still naive in many ways, but he was a good friend. He had been the one to rescue Harry from the Dursleys, and that had never been forgotten.

"Is that going to be a problem?" If he was really older, there were a hundred different ways that it could become troublesome. He hoped that he wouldn't have to move up a year to keep up with his appearance. Some of the spells he had seen fifth years performing were far above the standard he could cast at. In transfiguration he hadn't even begun attempting to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion. Even Fred and George had been transfiguring raccoons for a while now.

"No, not at all. If anything, you'll find schoolwork a tad easier, and your magic may be more powerful." Harry let out a relieved breath. This might not be a bad thing. A few benefits of being a little older were lurking around in the corners of his mind. "Perhaps not by a huge amount, but it may give you an advantage in a few simple spells. Best to put it out of your mind, I would say."

"Alright. I can do that."

With a swish of his robes, Dumbledore turned to leave the hospital wing, leaving behind him a slightly confused Harry, and a mildly agitated Hagrid.

"Good day, Harry, Rubeus." Hagrid cleared his throat, making a noise like a creaking sawhorse, and Harry noticed his awkward, fidgeting stance.

"Could I have a word Professor?" asked Hagrid. Harry then knew what he wanted. He'd always been hesitant to ask for help, preferring to be the one to offer it. It was a sentiment that Harry shared.

"Of course," said Dumbledore, gesturing for Hagrid to join him. The two walked out of the room together, Hagrid's voice a low rumble that Harry could still hear clearly as they walked away until they turned a corner, and vanished from sight.

"These Acromantula, see? There's gettin' to be far too many of 'em for the forest. I was thinkin' tha' maybe we could see about gettin' some moved into a new home where there'd be more room for 'em. Not in their nature to be confined, and having 'em try to expand their territory will cause a lotta trouble for the other creatures in there."

When Hagrid's voice had completely faded away, Harry lay back on the bed, staring at the plaster ceiling. He had a lot to think about.

A little while later, he had given up trying to understand what had happened to him, and started wondering why his spell had been so unusual. His patronus had been...different. Somehow strange. Harry thought back to his lessons with Lupin, and struggled to recall any mention of a darker kind of patronus. On the other hand, Lupin hadn't really said much about a patronus taking on a physical shape, either. Maybe that was just the next step up from the patronus he had cast by the lake last year, to protect Sirius.

Harry frowned. Perhaps that was the connection. He had cast that patronus to protect his godfather, and the strange one to protect the veela. A patronus was supposed to be a protector, after all, and as a guardian, it stood to reason that it would be more powerful when it had a greater need to protect. He thought about it for a while; every patronus he had ever conjured had been to protect someone, even when it was just himself. He resolved to ask someone about it as soon as he got the chance. There seemed to be something more to his magic guardian than a spell to drive Dementors away.

His thoughts were interrupted by Madam Pomfrey coming over, a tray covered in bottles held before her. Harry winced at the sight of it. He didn't want any more potions. There was nothing wrong with him – he just wanted to get out of this bed.

"Now then, how are we feeling?" she asked, setting the tray down on his bedside table. He tried not to eye it warily.

"Tired of sitting here. Can I go?" Pomfrey clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and Harry resigned himself to another night in the hospital wing. She saw his disappointed expression, and gave in.

"Oh, all right," said the school Healer, pouring a thin stream of viscous liquid into a small metal cup. Harry began to wonder why it had to be metal, and then decided he didn't want to know. Better just to swallow it and hope that it wasn't anything unpleasant. "Be sure to drink this before you go."

Harry took the cup from her, and waited for her to pick the tray up, and move away. He sniffed at it suspiciously, and eyed the contents. Colourless and odourless, it could be anything from truth serum to water. Pomfrey turned back to face him. Sometimes she seemed to have an instinct for when he wasn't taking his medicine.

"You could stay here, if you prefer," she said, threateningly. He tried not to swallow it too hurriedly, and pulled a face. The sharp taste burned his tongue and left a grimy feeling on his teeth, as if he hadn't brushed them in days. Which, he realized, he hadn't.

The nearest bathroom was up on the second floor. He just hoped that its regular occupant was not at home. The bathrooms were kept supplied with a good number of toothbrushes and all the usual dental cleaning equipment – all of muggle make, of course. Not that anyone recognized it, with the exception of the muggleborn students. Harry suspected that Dumbledore had begun supplying them with these items so alien to the wizarding world for the sake of making them feel at home. Like Harry, most muggleborn students preferred to brush their teeth properly than to use the quick spells practised by most witches and wizards. Harry had always felt that his teeth weren't cleaned properly if he cheated and used a spell. Besides, he liked to really scrub away the grim at times like this. The effect might be the same as the spell's, but it made his mouth feel a lot fresher.

Pushing the door open a crack, Harry thought that his luck was in. No pools of water covered the floor, and there were no doors being slammed open and shut. Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. Of course, being a ghost, that meant nothing. He edged over to the row of sinks – making sure to stay away from the one with tiny snakes on the taps – and began to brush his teeth.

"You haven't been to see me in ages!" Almost choking, Harry swallowed a mouthful of foamy water, and spluttered indignantly, tiny drops of water appearing in the corner of his eyes. The aftertaste of the potion was bad enough, but coupled with minty water hitting the back of his throat; it felt as if he had swallowed a handful of chilli peppers whole. He rinsed his mouth out before answering, wishing, not for the first time, that ghosts at least made the noise of footsteps.

"Myrtle! Don't sneak up on me like that."

The bathroom's resident ghost pouted. On a normal girl it might have looked endearing – cute, even, but on the ghost it was a little disconcerting.

"I'm sorry. But I've been so..." She flew overhead, and settled on the wall of one of the cubicle doors, fiddling with a plait hanging down beyond her shoulders. "Lonely. You promised you'd come see me sometimes!"

"I will this year, I promise." Harry hesitated, not wanting to upset her. He knew how touchy the ghost could be, and didn't want his feet soaked in a rising layer of icy water. "I just had a lot on my mind last year." He waited a moment, hoping that she wouldn't call his bluff, and blinked in surprise when she let out a small giggle.

"I like your clothes, Harry," said Myrtle. Harry looked in the mirror set above the sink, and flushed. He berated himself for it – she wasn't even a real girl! It only seemed to encourage her, and the giggles continued. He was still wearing one of the overlarge nightshirts from the hospital wing, and resolved to find a change of clothes as soon as possible. His trunk was always brought up from the train at the start of term; maybe it was already in his dormitory, since he had arrived early? He certainly hoped so.

He left the bathroom as soon as his teeth were free of their slimy covering, his pace quicker than normal, and Myrtle's laughter still ringing in his ears. The cold flagstones in the corridor outside seemed chillier than before, and when he looked down, he saw that he was wearing no shoes. He really did need to get to the Gryffindor tower soon. Even if his trunk wasn't there, at least the common room had a carpeted floor and a fire.

His feet were chunks of blocky ice by the time he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. He stood before her, and tried to remember the password from last year. She shook her head, not unkindly.

"Sorry, but you'll need the new password to get in," said the Fat Lady. Harry sighed, wondering what to do. "I'd try Professor McGonagall if I were you. She's the one who sets them, after all."

His head of house's office was not too far away, but Harry's feet were aching by the time he reached it. It was ever so slightly ajar, but he knocked carefully on the door jamb anyway. A tabby cat sauntered out, peering up at him. It turned, and went back into the office, pushing the door open wider to let Harry in. It was as good an invitation as he was going to get. The cat leapt up onto the chair set behind the desk, and its features expanded outwards, forming the stern-looking Transfiguration professor.

"And just what are you doing here, Potter?" she asked, taking her hat from on top of the desk and placing it over her steel-grey bun.

"I was in the hospital wing, and –" Professor McGonagall cut in, talking over Harry. It was something she was fond of doing, and yet would bite the nose off any student who dared to interrupt her. Most teachers were a bit like that, in Harry's experience, but at least McGonagall was one of the fairer ones. She didn't play favourites, or dock points for nothing at all, although she would not hold back on punishment for her Gryffindors any more than she would for the other houses. Then again, she washed her hair from time to time. The difference, Harry thought, was all in the grease.

"Yes, yes, I know why you're at Hogwarts," said the professor "But why are you here, in my office?" Her gaze met Harry's unflattering attire, and he shifted uneasily. It wasn't his fault that he had been trussed up in this outsized nightshirt against his will. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Madam Pomfrey let me go," said Harry, wishing yet again that he at least had a set of robes and shoes to wear. "And I was trying to get into the tower to get some clothes, but I don't know the new password."

"Balderdash." Harry blinked, momentarily taken aback.

"I'm sorry?"

McGonagall tapped her fingers on the desk irritably, and Harry noticed the odd shape of her nails. They curved inwards a little, just like a cat's claws.

"It's the password."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling stupid. He made as if to leave, but the Transfiguration professor called him back, and pulled a slip of paper from a desk drawer, which she handed to him.

"This is your class schedule for this year. Make sure that you do not lose it. And I hope that you'll be able to improve your grade in my lessons soon. If you continue as you have been, you may not even scrape an Acceptable in your OWL." Harry winced. He knew that he didn't pay as much attention in class as he should, but had never thought that he was in danger of failing – Divination and History of Magic exempted, of course, along with Potions. Oh, and Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid's lessons were very entertaining, but Harry wasn't sure whether some of the beasts he introduced them to were relevant to the exam. With a sinking realization, Harry recognized just how far below par his academic life was.

"I didn't realize how far behind I was," said Harry, wondering if he'd be able to catch up even with Hermione's help.

"No doubt. I'm sure that you'll be able to pick up the pace this year, as Quidditch won't be consuming quite so much time." Startled, Harry simply stared at her, wondering if she was proposing to remove him from the team. He was not the best student, but the Weasley twins were on the team too, and they were far worse. He opened his mouth to complain, but shut it again when McGonagall continued speaking. "Due to certain events taking place, the Quidditch pitch will not be accessible for much of the year."

"You mean the tournament?" asked Harry. McGonagall gave him a stern look, and Harry remembered that he wasn't supposed to know about it yet.

"Yes. How, may I ask, did you – no matter; you have a habit of knowing things that you shouldn't. Might I suggest that you make the most of this opportunity to catch up with your studies? There will be some...irregular lessons taking place that I could place you into. The majority of the other students are a little older than you, but that won't be a problem."

Harry wondered if she was talking about his new condition for a moment, curious to see if Dumbledore had been sharing his speculation. "How much do you know about the tournament?"

"Nothing, really. Only that's it's supposed to be about international friendship...or magical co-operation...or something," said Harry. McGonagall nodded.

"Three schools, as the name suggests, participate in the tournament, each selecting a representative who – well, Professor Dumbledore will explain things when the rest of the school arrives. One of the other schools, Beauxbatons, is situated in France, and has a rather different system of exams than we do. They do not sit OWLs, only a single set of exams similar to NEWTs, after six years rather than the Hogwarts seven. A large portion of their sixth year is taken up by revision sessions, where they go over material from previous years. The students from Beauxbatons will be taking these sessions during the time that they stay at Hogwarts for the tournament. I can arrange for you to attend the appropriate lessons, covering material up to and including the spellwork that we will begin working on this year, if you so wish."

Harry considered the offer. He didn't want to fall out of Hogwarts – it was the only home he had, and after a taste of magical life he could not bear to return to the Dursleys. He knew that Hagrid's wand had been snapped when he was expelled. If the same happened to him, he would have no way of using magic to escape.

"I guess...I could give it a go," said Harry. He felt a bit apprehensive at the thought of being taught with a group of foreign students that might not even be able to speak English well. It wouldn't be as bad as having to endure lessons alone with the Slytherins, but it wasn't a pleasant prospect.

"There is one other student who will be joining you. I haven't heard from him personally, but his grandmother assures me that he's willing to attend. Personally, I believe that he shouldn't be given a choice, he needs it that much." McGonagall sniffed loudly in disapproval, and began to shuffle some of the papers on her desk. Although he was fairly certain of who it was, Harry decided to check. Being landed with Vincent Crabbe by not checking the fine detail would be worse than a repeat performance of Lockhart.

"Who?"

"Neville Longbottom."

Harry nodded, and was halfway out of the door when the professor next spoke.

"Have you eaten yet, Potter?"

"No, I haven't," said Harry, who had been hoping to find something to chew on at the bottom of his trunk.

"I'm afraid that there are no meals in the Great Hall during the summer, as there as so few of us here. We simply order our food from the kitchens as and when we desire. Do you know where the picture of a bowl of fruit is, on the ground floor? Tickle the pear and it'll let you into the kitchens. Ask the house elves working there and they'll be happy to give you a meal."

Soon, Harry was at the portrait of the Fat Lady once more, and this time she swung open. He'd see his friends in two days, but for now he had the run of the castle. Wondering what he could do to fill his time, he picked his way up the stairs into the familiar sight of his dormitory. He was right – his trunk lay at the bottom of his bed.

Once he had dressed, and the cold was no longer distracting him, Harry's stomach began to rumble. The kitchens seemed very appealing right now.