Chapter Twenty-Seven: Caught
"Get up, Potter."
Harry was shaking slightly, and his knees were aching from hitting the floor so hard, but he slowly got to his feet as the Potions Master instructed. Severus Snape was standing across the desk from him, his dark eyes narrowed, his wand held at his side. Harry thought that he never hated Snape more in all his years of being at Hogwarts. If only for what he had just seen in Harry's mind…
"Who did the dog belong to?" Snape asked quietly, referring to the snippet of memory he had just seen of Harry being chased by the vicious bulldog Ripper up a tree, all while Dudley and his Uncle Vernon laughed their plump faces red.
Harry's jaw was like a vise. "My Aunt Marge…"
There was a pause in which the boy and the man were silent and their dislike for one another was palpable.
"You cried out very loudly. I suggest," uttered Snape silkily, "that you spend less time shouting and more time closing your mind. You are allowing me access to these memories too easily. You are not trying, Potter."
"I am trying," Harry said through clenched teeth.
"Not nearly hard enough!" the professor snapped, scowling and reaching over to rub the red welt that was forming on the back of his wand hand. "Did you intend to produce a Stinging Hex?"
Harry blinked, his scar beginning to throb tightly. "I'm not sure. No."
The wizard raised an eyebrow at the boy. "Have you ever used one before?"
"Er…no." He tried not to think of Malfoy dropping to his knees on the Quidditch pitch, holding his hands to his eyes and moaning.
Ever since he had been informed in Sirius' kitchen at Grimmauld Place that he was to take Occlumency lessons with Snape this term, Harry had been dreading it, not only because there was nothing he could think of that could be more miserable than having to be in Snape's company alone every Monday and Wednesday for perhaps the rest of the year. The relief he'd felt at discovering that the Potions Master had not come to Grimmauld Place to expel him was short-lived, for the second Snape explained to him what exactly they would be doing, his heart gave a shudder and he knew he was doomed. He could only imagine the repercussions if Snape stumbled upon the memories Harry had of the duel. Hermione had tried to make him feel better by insisting that the lessons were meant for him to learn to protect his mind from penetration, but Harry could not help dwelling on the penetration part. And, as he had feared, here he was: Snape was pulling images and memories from Harry's head as easily as if he had pulled the cork out of a tub full of water—they drained out of him so fast and so vividly that it was wholly overwhelming and he couldn't summon the proper concentration to defend himself.
Snape stared at Harry for a moment and then pulled his crisp white cuff down so that it partially covered the welt on his hand.
"A hastily thrown hex suggests to me that you acted more out of blind anger that I was seeing those things than anything else. This is not what we want. We want: willful—closing—of—the—mind." Harry hated it when Snape spoke to him as if he were an idiot, which was often. He understood what the objective was, but Snape wasn't showing him how to reach said goal. He spoke this aloud. "I was told you showed a promising aptitude for resisting the Imperius Curse last year, Potter," the Potions Master sneered. "The same principles apply, to an extent. You will resist me the way you resisted that curse. Make yourself ready, now."
Harry tried to push everything incriminating to the back of his mind; tried to block it out by mentally draping it with a black shroud. He barely had a chance to, though, because Snape had raised his wand and said clearly: "One—two—three—Legilimens!"
For the third time, Harry saw the small office they were standing in wash away and all of a sudden a huge black dragon was whipping its tail at him, puncturing his flesh with its long thorns…his mother was smiling serenely at him through an enchanted mirror...Sirius was aiming his wand viciously at Wormtail in the Shrieking Shack…Angelina was touching his hand, moving it down the length of her curved body, her eyes burning…
No, Harry thought, his whole body stiffening as this memory drew nearer. You're not watching that-it's private, you can't see it! But Angelina was moving his hand still lower, and then under her skirt…
"STOP IT!"
Harry heard glass shattering and Snape's growl of surprise. He had fallen over backwards to the floor, but when his vision came back again he looked up to see Snape eyeing him angrily from his position slightly to the left of where he had been standing before. There was a glistening, slimy substance running down his shoulder. Harry could see now that several jars sitting on the shelves behind Snape's desk had burst open, and the Potions Master had moved out of the way just in time to narrowly avoid being submerged in the nasty-looking stuff they contained.
"I don't recall 'stop it' being the incantation for the Reductor Curse, Potter…" Snape said hotly. He Scourgified the slimy mess from his robes and repaired the broken jars. "If mastering Occlumency were not still beyond you, I would suggest that you learn how to control your emotional magic…"
Harry hadn't realized he'd broken the jars simply by becoming angry at Snape for seeing his memory of Angelina, but he wasn't surprised—he had done things like that before. A fleeting image of Dudley being trapped inside a snake enclosure at the zoo came to mind. He did not feel the slightest bit of remorse for breaking the jars—in fact he was very glad he had done it. He had a bad feeling that after Angelina would've come Draco and himself on the Quidditch pitch if Snape had dug any further.
"Get up." Snape ordered, and Harry got to his feet once again. "We will try again, and this time I want you to empty yourself of that anger I can see clearly etched into your insolent little face." Harry opened his mouth, his nostrils flaring defiantly, but Snape cut him off. "I do not care what you do alone with Miss Johnson, Potter. It may come as a shock to you, but I do not spend one second of my day wondering how the two of you manage to pass the time together, is that clear?"
Harry wanted so much to set the greasy git's robes on fire, but he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing. Again he used the time in which Snape raised his wand to try and push back any memories that would end up with him back at Privet Drive five months early. Snape told him to empty himself of emotion, but it was no use. He was angry and embarrassed. All the things that loathsome, spiteful, sneering bully of a professor had seen…
"Legilimens!"
….a hundred Dementors were closing in on him as he shook Sirius' unconscious form on the bank of the dark lake…he was stepping on Pavarti Patil's foot as they danced at the Yule Ball…Uncle Vernon was hammering the letter box shut and Dudley was snickering gleefully on the stairs while Harry felt hot tears sting his eyes…Cedric—Cedric's eyes zapping to large hollow pools of nothingness behind a flash of green light…No! Harry's mind screamed for the second time. No, please, not that! I—don't—want—to see—that! Cedric was dead, staring up at Harry with those horribly blank eyes and the crowd at the maze task was swelling around them….
"NO! No, no, no, no!"
He was on his knees again, whimpering, holding his head in his hands. Harry's scar throbbed painfully and his mind felt stretched like taffy; he was shaking all over as if he really had just watched Cedric die for the second time.
"Get up!" Snape barked. "Get up, Potter! You are not trying! I have seen these things as easily as if they were my own memories; that is unacceptable! Make an effort, you silly boy! In the hands of the Dark Lord, memories like that of Cedric Diggory's death can be used as weapons against you! Get up, now!"
Harry leapt to his feet, his wand hand tightening until his knuckles hurt. "I am trying! Do you think I want you to see those things?"
"You are arrogantly displaying your contempt for me like a badge, Potter; that is foolish. And fools wear their hearts on their sleeves, wallow in sad memories, and allow themselves to be provoked this easily. Weak people, in other words, become swift prey for the Dark Lord."
"I am not weak! You may think I'm a fool, but I fought Volde-!"
"I told you, do not say the Dark Lord's name! Now again! Legilimens…"
….Harry was now running down a long corridor with Mr. Weasley…they were late for his hearing and they hurried along…drawing nearer to a familiar-looking black door…but instead of walking through it as Harry so wanted them to, they turned sharply and sprinted down a set of stone steps…
"THAT'S IT! I'VE FOUND IT! I KNOW WHERE-!"
For pity's sake, he was on all fours again in Snape's office and the feeling of triumph was draining out of him quickly. Snape stood regarding him with a look of slight surprise, and Harry understood that upon hearing what he'd been shouting, the professor had lifted the spell. He got shakily to his feet, a thick knot of purpose developing in his throat. "What did you mean by that, Potter?" He was watching Harry very intently.
Harry panted, licking his lips. "I've just realized…"
"Realized what?" Snape asked sharply, his tone of voice like the one he used when he suspected Harry had said something disrespectful under his breath.
Harry blinked at the man, wondering if he should divulge what had just dawned on him: that the place he had been dreaming about for months—the door he had been racing towards and desperately trying to open, rested in a real location. And Harry knew exactly where it was, now.
He took a deep breath, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and asked flatly: "What's in the Department of Mysteries?"
Escaping Snape's office with his academic standing at Hogwarts still in tact, Harry went straight for the library where he knew Ron and Hermione were plowing through Umbridge's tedious D.A.D.A. homework.
He felt wobbly on his feet, and his knees still hurt from hitting the floor so many times, but he walked with purpose and hardly stopped to speak to any of the various D.A. members who tried to corner him on the way. They wanted to know when the next meeting would be, despite their having only been back from Christmas break for a day.
Harry's head felt as if his brain had swollen several sizes too big for his skull; it throbbed painfully and his scar was stinging. When he passed a trophy case in the hall near where the library was, he caught sight of his reflection and noticed that he looked terrible. He was pale and sweat was glistening slightly on the edges of his hairline under the glow from the torches lining the hall.
Hermione immediately asked him how his first lesson with Snape went when he found them at a table near a window and sat down opposite them. "It went very badly, but never mind that…" and he told them what he had deduced upon Snape's last Legilimens spell.
They talked about this discovery in hushed voices the rest of the time they were in the library.
Ron told Harry that his father called the people who worked in the Department of Mysteries "Unspeakables" because no one knew what exactly they did there. It was a top secret branch of the Ministry, and only those who worked directly under Fudge had any real idea what went on in that department. They all agreed that whatever weapon the Order feared Voldemort might get his hands on was probably kept there, in some form or fashion. And Harry had been dreaming about it for months…
"So I take it since you're still with us that Snape didn't see anything about the duel?" Ron asked on their way back to Gryffindor Tower.
Harry shook his head, feeling slightly feverish. "No…but I fully expect him to on our next lesson. I might as well start packing my things, now."
"Did Snape give you anything to do to prepare for the next one?" Hermione asked conscientiously, frowning a little as she watched Harry stumble over his dragging feet. "Like mediation or…?"
"He said to empty myself of emotion every night before I go to bed, and to master myself, whatever that means."
"I means stop getting angry so quickly," Hermione said at once, but upon receiving his dirty look she added: "I was only saying…"
"Has anyone seen Angelina?" Harry asked, a bit annoyed, as they stepped through the portrait hole.
The first thought Harry had when he stepped off the Knight Bus the morning before was that he could not wait to see Angelina. Granted—there were many things that he was not looking forward to at all, Snape's Occlumency lesson being the first and a host of others following: seeing Malfoy again, placing himself once again under Delores Umbridge's watchful eye, and mountains of homework as exam time drew nearer among them. No Quidditch…
Also there was the fact that he was leaving Sirius behind again to poke about Grimmauld Place with no one but Kreacher and Buckbeak and those gloomy records for company. Sirius had given him something right before he stepped out of the house; a poorly wrapped parcel that he shoved hastily into the boy's hands before Mrs. Weasley noticed. "I want you to keep this safe, Harry."
Harry had frowned at the parcel and then looked curiously up into his godfather's face. "What is it, Sirius?"
"Shh, don't let Molly see. Use it to let me know if Snape abuses you in any way during those lessons, understand?"
"Okay…" But Harry knew he wouldn't—the argument between the two wizards that occurred in the kitchen the night before was obviously still fresh in Sirius' mind, judging from the look of bitter resentment in his dark eyes. Snape had accused Sirius, in so many words, of being a coward who purposefully risked getting himself spotted so that he wouldn't have to lift a finger to do anything important for the Order. Harry did not want to be the reason for Sirius' reckless behavior on any account, no matter what Snape did.
Sirius had given him something else, too. "It's your present. Sorry it's so late; I was trying to finish it before you all had to leave. It's not much, but…"
And he handed Harry a wooden stag that he had carved himself. Apparently he had been up to more than moping when he'd been locked away in Buckbeak's room. "Wow, Sirius. You made this?"
The older man shrugged and fingered the top of the stag's head, avoiding Harry's gaze. "Yeah, well…I-I wanted you to have something meaningful, you know. Something personal that didn't come from a shop. I asked Molly to get the wood and tools for me, but...d-do you like it?"
Harry smiled as his godfather finally met his eyes. "I love it. Thank you."
Harry had the overwhelming urge to say more—to tell Sirius not to worry about Snape; that he was, in Harry's eyes, a descent and brave wizard with more courage in his little finger than Snape had in his whole rotten body. He wanted to tell Sirius that he loved him, and that he'd had the best time possible at Grimmauld Place this Christmas—that he would come back, and they could carve wooden animals everyday if he wanted to. Just so long as he knew that he was not useless.
But there was no time; Tonks swept him up and shooed him out, and Harry had that feeling again as he parted ways with his godfather—the feeling he'd gotten as they lay side by side on his bed on Christmas Eve night. The here and now being what it was, and Sirius was no longer looking at him, speaking to him, giving his shoulder a paternal squeeze. He was now in the dark of his family's house, now disappearing as the unplottable building squeezed itself to nothingness between numbers 11 and 13.
Harry clutched the little wooden stag protectively the whole way back on the Knight Bus, feeling as if he were clutching at Sirius somehow. "Take care of yourself, Harry…" he had whispered gravely. "And don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything—anything at all."
For some reason Harry could not stop thinking about those words. They were standard enough—Sirius was worried about Snape mistreating him, but still…they weighed on him.
Hermione shrugged her shoulders in answer to Harry's question as they set their things down at a table in the crowded and rowdy common room. Fred and George were at it again—this time they were demonstrating Headless Hats. "No, no I don't think she's arrived yet, Harry."
He had not seen Angelina at all since arriving back from Grimmauld Place. Seventh years were allowed an extra day for break if so requested, which was no doubt how Fred and George found the time to put the finishing touches on their latest product. Harry had forgotten this, though, and it disheartened him a great deal to learn from Katie Bell that Angelina's parents had requested the extra day when they planned the trip to Cannes back at the beginning of the first term. He had hoped that she might be back before dinner, but when he didn't see her his heart sank. There had been no time to check the common room for her arrival after that; he had to go to the dungeons to meet Snape.
Now Harry looked around the room, trying to search her out, but he didn't find her and he had to close his eyes as he got a hot stab of pain in his scar. Ron saw Harry wince and frowned, midway through opening his Potions book. "You all right, mate?"
"No…I don't like Occlumency much…" Harry replied quietly, his eyes still closed.
"Well having Snape pawing at my brain over and over again would probably make me a bit shaky, too…" Ron muttered empathetically.
Hermione reached over and touched Harry's arm gently. "You don't look well, Harry. Perhaps you should go and lie down?"
Harry nodded, sliding his eyes open very slowly. "Yeah, I don't think I can do this tonight," he agreed, referring to the Potions homework he had been about to try and look at.
"Ooh, put it in your homework planner!" she said encouragingly, and Harry made a half-hearted scribble in the thing while it sang at him that he shouldn't leave it till later if he didn't want to be a second-rater. If it weren't for her feelings, he thought as he gathered his things and trudged up the stairs to the boys' dorms, I would chuck that thing in the fireplace…
Harry had been on the verge of being more than annoyed with Angelina's parents for keeping her away from him as he ascended the cool, quiet steps to his room. He stepped inside, threw his school bag on the floor next to the furnace, and then his world tipped violently.
Harry felt an invisible blade slice right through his scar; the pain was so unbearable that he lost all conscious thought for a moment. There was nothing about the reality he had been in seconds before that remained—not the time of day, where he was, or even who he was—only relentless, horrible pain. And then there was mad, cold laughter ringing in his brain, echoing loudly and rippling through him as he suddenly felt the wonderful surge of triumph seize him. He was happy! Happier than he had been in a very long time. He felt truly pleased; this wonderful thing had happened and it made him almost giddy to know that soon, very soon (especially with this new development) he would have what he had been trying to get his hands on for so long…
"Harry? Harry, stop it, it's me!" He felt a hard slap across the face. The laughter that had been echoing wildly in his head now stopped abruptly and he realized as he slipped out of this horrible vision that it had been coming out of his own mouth. He had been rolling around on his back, and he stopped that too, his eyes focusing on Angelina's concerned face hovering over him. "I'm sorry I slapped you…" she said in a small voice. "Harry what happened to you?"
"He's really happy." Harry panted, allowing her to pull him to his feet. "Happier than he's been in years…"
Angelina looked as if she didn't understand, and then it dawned on her and she gasped, "You-Know-Who?"
Harry nodded shakily, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. "Something's happened. Something he's been hoping for." It unnerved him just saying it, and he had to sit down. Angelina helped him to his bed where she sat next to him and rubbed his back.
Ron came hurrying in just then, followed closely by Hermione. They had apparently decided to abandon their studies to take a few moments to chat with Harry and Angelina, but now both looked alarmed. "What happened?"
Harry's head felt heavy; too heavy. "Voldemort…" he uttered, causing Ron and Angelina to wince. "I just got—he's happy about something."
Hermione and Ron exchanged looks. "What's he so happy about?" Ron asked, swallowing. He sat with Hermione on the edge of his own bed. "Did he attack someone else?"
Harry shook his head, though it hurt him to do so. His brain felt loose, like it was rolling around in his skull, hitting the sides when he moved. It was a very unpleasant feeling. Angelina rubbed his back still, and he suddenly became aware that she was there with him. "Angelina…" he leaned into her and closed his eyes, feeling sick but relieved. He inhaled. Her hair smelled like crisp wind. She must've just gotten in seconds after he'd given up looking for her and gone upstairs. "You're back."
"What's going on, Harry?" she asked him, concern clear in her voice.
"Occlumency…" Harry muttered, leaning over and laying his head in her lap. Seconds later he felt her cool fingers in his hair, massaging his head gently, "…with Snape."
Angelina looked to Hermione as Harry fell into slumberous silence on her lap. "Occlu-what?"
"It's the study of protecting the mind from intrusion," Hermione informed, bringing her legs up and crossing them on Ron's bed. She reached over and started absentmindedly playing with Ron's hand as she explained to Angelina that because Harry could sometimes feel Voldemort's emotions, he was to study Occlumency with Snape this term.
"Oh wait…" the seventh year frowned, still stroking Harry's jet black hair. "I think I've read about that-so they've finally decided to do something about this?" Angelina asked. "He told me about it a while ago and I always wanted him to go to Dumbledore. But Snape? He hates Harry, from what I've heard and seen—why is he teaching Harry this stuff?"
"Well…it's a little more complicated than you think, Angelina." Hermione gave Harry, who was now fast asleep, a beleaguered look before continuing. "You see…well you and Harry have become very close, now, so I don't feel bad telling you this." She took a deep breath. "Harry had a dream about Voldemort—Ron, please—attacking Mr. Weasley through his pet snake, and that's why everyone knew so quickly. Except it wasn't just a dream or a vision. Harry said he felt like he was inside the snake, a-and well you can see how that is cause for concern." She went on explaining some of their theories on why this was happening to Harry, and about Snape informing the boy personally that he would be mentoring him in Occlumency.
Angelina listened, feeling more and more worried for Harry by the second. She had been informed by Professor McGonagall about Mr. Weasley's attack that following morning when she woke to discover that all of the Weasley siblings plus Harry had gone. Hermione begged off skiing with her parents, but Angelina could not very well ditch going to France. She had wanted to send an owl to the Burrow, but the professor informed her that it would do no good—they weren't staying there. She would not, however, divulge their alternative location and suggested that Angelina send something to St. Mungo's instead. The note was short, simply saying that she hoped everything would be all right, but she didn't hear back from anyone and as a result she spent the days leading up to Christmas preoccupied and glum.
Then her mother brought her the parcel that contained the present from Harry. Her spirits were lifted considerably when she unwrapped the simple, leather-bound journal with the word "Angel" engraved in gold. She had started writing in it immediately, deciding to treat it more like a diary than anything else. She already had a new playbook, and it was just a shabby notebook that Fred had bewitched to burn the fingers of any intruders. She spent the days leading up to her return to Hogwarts writing her thoughts in her new journal when she wasn't sight-seeing with her parents. They stayed at a gorgeous estate just outside the city that her great-uncle owned and one of Angelina's favorite activities was to watch the snow fall lightly over the grounds. The majority of her entries, one needn't have to guess, concerned Harry.
There was no return address on the parcel, so Angelina hoped that he had gotten her present that she sent to the Burrow earlier. Looking now, she could see the rectangular wooden box sitting on his nightstand.
He was snoring faintly in her lap. Angelina stroked his hair, Hermione having finished the tale, thinking. "If these lessons are to protect him from visions like that, then what was this all about? How come he knows that You-Know-Who is happy right now?"
"She has a point," Ron said as they both looked to Hermione again.
"I-I don't know…" the girl shrugged, truly at a loss. "I can only think that maybe Harry's finding the whole process very weakening right now, and it was only his first lessons after all. Maybe it just takes a while to…build a resistance."
There was a pause in which they all regarded Harry silently.
Neville came in a second later, saw them all sitting there, and avoided looking at them as he crossed to the furnace to gather his towel before turning and leaving the room, probably headed for the boys' showers. Angelina thought she saw Ron and Hermione exchange looks again. Sighing, she gave Harry's hair one last gentle stroke before attempting to shift her weight so that she could stand. "I guess I should go unpack."
"Hrrmmm….don't go…" he mumbled sleepily, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her gently back down again.
"Or not." Angelina resumed her position and Harry absentmindedly rubbed his cheek against her legs, his eyes still closed. A second later his rhythmic breathing started up again and she knew he was asleep. Angelina decided to ask the question she'd been wondering about the whole break: "Where were you guys?"
"Um…" Ron started, looking at the floor. "We stayed, eh…with a friend of the family."
Angelina raised an eyebrow at Hermione's forbidding look to the ginger-haired boy. "What friend? Why couldn't I just send my owl there? McGonagall wouldn't tell me the name or address…"
Hermione made a sound like she wanted to say but knew she couldn't. "It's-it's, well, it's kind of complicated, Angelina." The fifth year girl attempted.
"I'm listening." Angelina could not escape the feeling that they were hiding something from her.
"Maybe we should tell her?" Ron spoke, shrugging.
Hermione's inner struggle grew steadily in her features. "Did you ask Fred or George?"
"No. I was saying hello when I heard Harry up here. What else is going on, Hermione?"
"Let's just say…" Hermione began carefully. "That the D.A. is more like a kid-version of the real defense against Voldemort's followers. One much more official that does a lot more than just have meetings to practice their spell work." Ron shuddered at the mention of Voldemort, but said nothing.
"Okay…"
"And let's just say that we know people who are members of this other defense. We stayed at their headquarters. With someone who's close to Harry. Sort of a relative, but not by blood." She looked as if that would be the only bit of information Angelina could get out of her.
"Right. Well…is this organization…does it have Aurors in it?"
"Some, yeah." Ron piped up, adjusting himself so that he was more comfortable on the bed. Hermione still held his hand.
"Anyone I would know? My granddad used to be an Auror."
"Um…well I don't know," replied Hermione.
"You mean you're not going to tell me people's names."
"Try to understand, Angelina, it's not that we don't trust you." Hermione offered quickly. "But…" and she gestured to Harry, who was still asleep in Angelina's lap. There was another pause, in which Angelina thought it sounded like Hermione was worried that speaking of this "other defense" organization in front of the boy might prove dangerous at that particular moment in time.
"I think I understand, then."
"Well…we've got studying to do." Hermione stretched and stood up, motioning for Ron to follow her.
"Thanks for the note," Ron said, referring to the note she'd sent to St. Mungo's. "Dad didn't remember who you were at first, but George reminded him of that summer you spent with us." He smiled apologetically and stood up with Hermione.
"I'm glad he's okay."
"See you later." Ron followed Hermione out of the room, leaving Angelina and Harry alone.
She sat there for a moment, watching him sleep. She was so glad to be back with him. She hadn't realized she missed him so much until she was being dropped off by the Knight Bus in front of the castle gates. The January air was still chilly and crisp; her breath came out in small, impatient puffs as she managed her trunk on the short walk up a gravelly incline until she came to the gate, where Hagrid was waiting for students coming back late. As soon as she saw him, she asked, "Hagrid, have you seen Harry?"
And he frowned as he swung the gate open (a little too slowly she thought) for her. "Sure, he's up'the Tower, I guess. Or he should be by now."
She thanked him as he helped her carry her trunk up to the castle entrance and left it in the hall where the house elves usually took care of luggage. She took the stairs two at a time, breathing heavily when she reached the Tower. She was only thinking of his sloppy raven hair, boyish grin and crimson cheeks. Of course, time would be spent on Fred and George to make sure everything was okay with their dad, but really Angelina's first priority was to get to Harry so that she could listen to his maturing tenor voice sound out her name.
Angelina had spent her time thinking about her relationship with Harry very carefully during break.
She had not told her parents about Malfoy's attack. She didn't think it necessary. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she did not feel completely violated. Malfoy was a stupid boy who fancied himself more powerful (more capable) than he really was, and whatever he thought he could do, he obviously did not have the belly for it.
She realized that she was glad she had Harry. She had foolishly been pawing at a memory that had been, for all intents and purposes, partially erased instead of taking action against Malfoy the way Harry rightly wanted to. He defended her, risked expulsion for her, and put himself up against physical harm when he really didn't have to. She thought at first that it was a petty boy's game, their fighting, but Angelina soon came to the conclusion that it was much more than that. Whatever unspoken hatred Malfoy and Harry had for each other, it was compounded by the former's attempt to hurt her.
Dean came in, already taking off his school jumper. He spotted her and stopped as it was half-way up over his torso. "Oh—hey, Angelina. Should I…?"
"Oh, no, sorry. He just fell asleep and I can't really get him to move."
Dean chuckled and rolled his jumper down again. "I see." She watched him cross the room and hop onto his bed. "So how was your Christmas? Good haul this year?"
"Yeah. Pretty good. Cannes is a really cool town. You?"
He shrugged and shoved off his shoes. "Not bad. Parents were a bit smothery, what with everything that's going on. That murderer Sirius Black still being on the loose, and…" he lowered his voice, glancing at Harry. "And they're part of the few who believe Harry about You-Know-Who. They talked about it a lot, they did." He shook his head at her irritably. "They wouldn't stop asking me questions about Harry. 'What's he like?', 'Does he ever talk about what happened last year?' blah, blah, blah…"
"And what do you tell them?"
"I just tell them to mind their own business, in a polite fashion. My dad understands. Mum is a little upset with me for not telling her everything she wants to know." Dean yawned and scooted back further onto the bed. "But, honestly, that's why Harry is so frustrated all the time—people talking about him and everything. Ginny told me it gets to him, and I don't blame him really. If it were me I don't think I would even want to come back to Hogwarts year after year…"
Dean soon fell asleep, still talking about Ginny. Angelina listened to him complain faintly that Ron was being a prat until he was out. She managed to shift her weight, and soon was lying next to Harry on the bed. They curled up together, spooning each other. Harry's body was as solid as a rock; he drew in slow, heavy breaths that warmed her hair and the back of her neck. His arms remained around her, holding her close. He must be so tired, she thought. Is this Occlumency thing going to make him like this every time?
She didn't sleep.
She thought about all the information she'd just received, and about the things she'd been mulling over for weeks. Angelina didn't know everything there was to know about him, or this "relative" Hermione spoke of, or his dreams about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. She didn't know everything, but Angelina knew for certain that she was involved now because she was his and that meant the time for keeping things from each other was over.
She knew this the moment she opened her present and the note he'd written calling her his Angel.
She was going to ask him to tell her about these things, and in exchange she was going to tell him how she truly felt, even if that meant admitting that she had been wrong all along about Malfoy.
A few hours passed, and eventually Seamus and Neville came up to bed. Neither of them made a big deal of her presence. They inclined their heads in greeting; well, Seamus looked as if he did, but Angelina couldn't really tell because his head was missing—his wallet was probably a couple of Galleons light as well; and perhaps kept more clothes on than they would have normally when they went to bed. Soon after that Ron came up, too.
Angelina was falling asleep when she felt Harry's grip tighten on her and he started muttering into her hair. "Sirius…"
Had he just said…? Angelina tensed and tried to turn around, but his grip on her was firm. "Harry?" she whispered.
"Don't." His voice was muffled by her hair. "He's just…don't listen..."
"Harry, you're dreaming."
"Sirius, no. Snape's just trying to…no…put your wand away!" He jerked awake suddenly, causing her to gasp. Harry blinked and sat up, looking all around him. After a moment in which he must have been figuring out where exactly he was, he sighed heavily and settled down again, reaching up to rub his scar.
"Harry? Are you okay?"
Harry turned to her, seemingly just noticing that she was there. "Angelina!" he whispered, relieved. "How long have you…? When did I fall asleep?"
"Hours ago. I'd just gotten back when you-"
"I had that feeling from Voldemort." He finished for her solemnly. Angelina nodded, unable to help herself from studying him carefully. "Did you…" he swallowed, purposefully looking at her neck rather than into her eyes. "Did you hear me…laughing like that?"
She nodded. "It scared me."
"I'm sorry."
"Hermione said you're taking Occlumency with Professor Snape this term."
"Yeah. To help the dreams and feelings stop." He groaned and closed his eyes, again rubbing his face against her; this time his forehead against her neck. "It's like having someone scrape everything in my brain out with a spoon."
"I don't like the sound of that."
He shrugged tiredly. "Dumbledore wants me to do it."
"Who is Sirius?" Angelina asked suddenly, and he opened his eyes.
"What?"
"You said 'Sirius' a minute ago when you were still asleep. Who is that? Not…" she paused, and he could feel it coming. In the second it took for her to form the words, Harry knew what she was going to ask and he decided that he would tell her. He didn't know how she would react, but he cared about her enough to be honest with her. Besides…Sirius himself had more or less given Harry his blessing. It sounded to him as though the man looked forward to meeting Angelina eventually. Harry knew he wanted the same. "Not Sirius Black?"
"Yes, Sirius Black."
"The murderer?"
"He is not a murderer, he's my godfather. He was framed by someone he thought was his best friend. Someone who sold my parents out to Voldemort." Harry said this in one breath, very frankly, still leaning his forehead against her.
He could feel her heartbeat, which was pounding out a fast, fluttery rhythm. "Oh…" was all she said. "But…is that where you were staying over break, then?" she asked after a moment. "Hermione said you stayed with a 'relative'."
"She did?" he smiled for some reason. "Yeah."
"And is he part of the organization?"
Harry looked up at her, now. "What organization?"
"Hermione said…" she trailed off and his smile widened wearily.
It seemed that Hermione was doing all of Harry's confessing for him. "The Order of the Phoenix. He's a member. It's been around since before my parents were killed, when Voldemort was at his most powerful. They were a part of it, too. Sirius was my dad's best friend."
In a whisper that was barely audible except between the two of them, Harry explained to Angelina about the Order, and about how he learned that Sirius was his godfather. He told her about Wormtail, and Remus Lupin and the Marauders. He told her everything that had happened over Christmas break, including what he'd just been dreaming about—Snape and Sirius' row in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. She listened, and when he was finished he waited for her response. She studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. The nerve endings all over his body tingled in unison and before she could pull away again he kissed her several more times quickly.
"I missed you, Angel…" he found himself saying against her mouth.
"I missed you too." She let him pull her closer. "I loved my gift. Thank you."
When his lips peeled away from hers the last time, he asked, "So you don't think I'm a nutter who has dreams about giant snakes and hangs out with convicted murderers?"
"No. I just hope that these lessons you're having with Snape work. And…I'm scared that whatever You-Know-Who is happy about has something to do with you."
Harry nodded, his own fear about that weighing in on him.
"Me too…"
Giving up on any notion to go to her own room, Angelina simply peeled off her clothes and slid under the covers with him, wearing nothing but her underwear. It was very hard for them to keep their hands off of each other. At one point they had to freeze where they were because Neville woke and actually got up, presumably to go and relieve himself in the lavatory, but upon sight of them he hiccupped in embarrassment and scurried back into bed.
Harry and Angelina laughed silently at this for several minutes, his face in her neck, still fingering the clasp on her bra. Not wanting to risk any more interruptions, they decided to let it rest for the night, and Harry simply settled himself between her legs, where he fell asleep but did not dream. Angelina stroked his hair until she too fell into unconsciousness.
The next morning, Harry woke to find Angelina had gone.
He soon found her again, however, when he and Ron went down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Fred and George were nowhere to be seen, and Harry knew they were probably sleeping late as a result of staying up all night to sell their Headless Hats. No doubt they'd made a fortune and probably counted it all before they went to bed.
Harry was just sliding onto the bench next to Angelina when Hermione, who had just unrolled her Daily Prophet, made a flabbergasted noise. Ron was in the middle of lifting a spoonful of cereal to his mouth and he paused, frowning at her. Several people looked in their direction. Harry turned to regard his friend curiously.
"What?" he and Ron asked in unison.
Hermione looked at them all gravely and spread the paper out on the table. Ginny was just sitting down next to Ron, and was attempting to say hello to everyone but they were all staring at the front page of the paper in stunned silence. Her eyes settled on the headline as well. "That can't be possible," she said hoarsely.
They were staring at the black-and-white photographs of ten people, all of whom were Death Eaters, and all of whom had just escaped Azkaban Prison. Each picture held the face of some sinister wizard, sneering or yelling silently or thrashing about in the hands of their captors. Underneath the pictures were the names of the escapees, with a short explanation of their crimes. Among such crimes were murder, leaking information from the Ministry, and various other dark deeds. But there was one picture that Harry's eyes found immediately; the last one, of a witch that he had seen before. The witch was not only familiar in the sense that Harry knew he had seen her picture somewhere before, but also in the sense that her features were of a certain kind…he could tell just by looking at her that she had once been very beautiful, but years in Azkaban had taken away most of that beauty. Now her once sleek raven hair was unkempt and graying in some places. Now her heavily-lidded eyes were wild and shining, not deep and seductive as they had been in the picture he had seen. Under the mugshot, he read her name and crime, unconsciously mouthing the words silently: "Bellatrix Black-Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom."
Harry knew now where he had seen this woman before. She was a Black family member, and her picture had been hidden in Kreacher's little hole in the furnace closet where Hermione had left his present. Also…yes, it was coming back to him, now. He had seen her in the trial room in Dumbledore's pensieve. He felt a cold stab of dread seize him as he tore his gaze from her image, which was staring back at him smugly, to read the headline above.
MASS BREAKOUT AT AZKABAN PRISON
MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT" FOR FORMER DEATH EATERS
"There you have it, Harry," Hermione was saying to him as he stared at the words until they blurred together. "I'm willing to bet this is why Voldemort was so happy last night. Ron, you've dribbled milk on your chin."
As Ron hastily wiped at his chin and put his spoon down, Harry shook his head numbly at the paper. "They think Sirius had something to do with this…" he muttered, his fists tightening under the table. "They actually think he helped them all break out!"
"Lower your voice!" Ginny hissed.
"Harry, what do you expect? Of course they do." Hermione said to him gently. "They can't very well admit that Dumbledore's been right this whole time about the Dementors turning on them."
Harry became aware suddenly that he had blocked out all sound around them, such was the shock of this news, and he looked up. The sound of his fellow students chattering and utensils clinking on plates slowly filled his ears again—he could not find a single scared face or hear one snatch of conversation beyond his own that concerned the Death Eater escape. He didn't understand why none of them seemed to know or care what was going on. It was so much more important that ten more dangerous wizards had just joined Voldemort's ranks than anything they could possibly be talking about. Homework and Quidditch matches and detention and all that rubbish suddenly paled in comparison to the real threat of the people staring up at him from the cover of the newspaper.
"Harry look at that…" Angelina had nudged him and was now gesturing to the Slytherin table.
His eyes fell on Malfoy.
Malfoy would normally be lazily insulting people under his breath or bewitching food to hit people in the backs of their heads while Crabbe and Goyle guffawed like idiots. It was a different story now. Harry had seen this boy but twice since their return from break, and both times he barely paid him mind. Now, however, Harry really got a good look at him, and what he saw made him stare in slightly surprised curiosity.
Draco was very pale. Of course, the boy's complexion was never what one could call 'warm' but now he was really pale—like sickly, on-the-edge-of-deathly-fever pale. He sat slumped over slightly, his features twitching every now and then with what Harry interpreted as pain. Soon they were all watching him silently as he lowered his head to his palm and closed his eyes briefly, his face twitching like that again before he gingerly sat up straight and unrolled what they could see was a copy of the Daily Prophet. He stared at the cover for a long time and then opened it with one hand. His other arm was tucked against his stomach and he had not touched his food.
"Since when does he read the newspaper?" Ron whispered right before Malfoy sensed their eyes on him and turned in their direction.
They all hastily went back to their breakfast. All except Harry, who remained with his gaze fixed on the boy. Malfoy stared right back, his blue eyes shining brightly with loathing, despite his weakened demeanor.
There was also, Harry was sure, a slight gleam of triumph in them.
"What d'you reckon happened to him?" Ron asked as they made their way to Charms.
Harry stared straight ahead, still picturing Malfoy's expression. "I'll bet his father really meant what he said when he told Malfoy he'd be an unpleasant host over the holidays…" he replied darkly.
"Bloody hell." Ron shook his head. "I almost feel sorry for the kid..." Harry made a face at him before he added, "I said almost."
Among the news of the breakout they had also learned that Broderick Bode, a patient they'd seen at St. Mungo's in Lockhart's ward who had apparently lost all capacity for coherent speech and who had worked as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, had been killed by Devil's Snare disguised as a harmless potted plant. They all came to the conclusion that this was no mere accident—Bode had been murdered because he had been used in an attempt to snatch the weapon.
Hermione had gone off to send a letter before breakfast had ended (to whom, she wouldn't say), and was now waiting for them in the Charms classroom. "All done," she said somewhat cheerfully when they settled in their seats.
"I hate it when you do that," Ron said, sitting next to her. "Would it kill you to tell us what you're up to for once?"
"You'll see…" was her only reply as she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. He blushed and rolled his eyes.
If Harry had been dissatisfied with the reaction (or lack thereof) to the news of the Azkaban breakout before, he was pleasantly surprised by the late bloom of conversation concerning the subject over the next few weeks.
After a few days, he started seeing people huddled together in the halls, grave expressions on their faces. Students all around him seemed to be talking about many things; either distantly related to or directly concerning the ten Death Eaters that were on the loose—as there was a healthy few of them who had families with connections to the Ministry. There were also students whose families had suffered some terrible tragedy as a result of something one of the Death Eaters had done, not just Neville. Susan Bones (a Hufflepuff in their year) had had several members of her family die at the hands of one of the ten, and so did a few other kids.
Harry also noticed that as the weeks went by, the conversations turned negative in regards to the Ministry's explanation of what exactly happened. A lot of them did not seem to really believe the Prophet's version of things, and he heard many theories (some of which, he was happy to note, matched his own) on what actually went on. More and more students were now looking at Harry in a new light—a favorable one. Then, when it seemed that the rumors and talk would swell to the entire student body at February's eve, another decree went up. Someone had asked Umbridge what she thought of the Prophet article. Of course she refused to comment on it, but when the boy; Lee Jordan; told her Professor McGonagall had informed her Transfiguration class that it should've been obvious what was happening, the plump woman turned a funny shade of purple and the next afternoon Filch was posting the familiar scrolls up all over the school. It stated that all teachers were strictly forbidden to discuss any topic other than the ones they were paid to teach.
Its purpose was clear to everyone, and it only served to fuel their need to know more.
Also Umbridge was watching Harry and the others like a hawk—they couldn't go down to Hagrid's cabin anymore in the evenings and they had to vary their D.A. schedule even more for fear that she would discover them.
Despite having to be extra careful, however, Harry found that the D.A. meetings were coming along quite nicely. They were learning how to duel, under his instruction and with help from some of the books he'd discovered in the library. The meetings were one of the only two things Harry had to look forward to every day; the first being Angelina. He felt a surge of pride at how nicely everyone was improving; especially Neville. As they had all agreed, no one mentioned what they'd discovered at St. Mungo's, and neither did he. He only worked very hard—harder, even, than Hermione—at whatever new things Harry showed them. His round face was set with determination and focus when Harry taught him the three stances. He learned the Bombarda spell first, and nearly knocked Seamus' head off for real with his Reductor curse. Luckily Hermione set a protection shield around Seamus before damage was done.
The only small annoyance (well, Harry thought of it as rather more than 'small') was Marietta Edgecombe, again. She was late several times and upon being asked where she'd been she only gave vague answers that did little to ease Harry's impatience with her. She was the slowest learner as their dueling practice progressed, but Harry suspected it was only because she was purposefully lagging behind to spite him. He tried asking Cho to speak to her, not wanting to be seen as a violent bully as Marietta had accused him of being before break. Cho said she would do her best, but Harry wondered if he should even keep putting up with it at all.
"Honestly, is she really being such a brat because that git Zach won't go out with her?" Ron asked irritably after a meeting one night. Harry shrugged in answer, rubbing his cheek from the Stinging Hex she had hit him with earlier when he'd shown her how to do it. "Because that is just about the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Girls are silly sometimes…" Harry offered, his cheek stinging badly.
"But she's taking it out on you!" was Ron's indignant reply.
"Hermione says we should be patient and let her get over it on her own, or whatever…"
"Rubbish! I'd give her the boot, if I were in charge…"
"Did you see Neville's Stinging Hex?" Harry asked, changing the subject. "It tore right through that cushion like it was thin air. He's really getting good."
Ron, still grumpy from the subject of Marietta, snorted. "I'll bet it's those Death Eaters' escaping what's got him so riled up. The vein in his neck has gotta be almost bigger than my thumb!"
"Well, he's loads better than he was." Harry sighed, forlornly. "I wish I was getting as good in Occlumency as he is at dueling…"
They had reached the common room and were settling down on the chaise lounge. Hermione was lying by the fire on the hearth rug, reading over her Arithmancy homework, having finished escorting her group back safely. She looked up from her parchment and peered over at Harry. "How is that going, then Harry?"
Again, Harry shrugged. "I'm not feeling very confident about it."
In fact, Harry was not getting better at Occlumency at all. In his opinion, he was getting worse with each lesson. Every Monday and Wednesday Harry prepared himself for Snape to find a glimpse of his duel with Malfoy and drag him off by the ear to Dumbledore's office, demanding the worse punishment possible. Every time he felt himself coming closer and closer to being found out, but some other memory presented itself instead, saving him. Not that it made him feel any better to have the professor looking at things like the time Harry wet himself in gradeschool because the teacher wouldn't let him go until he figured out a math problem correctly-or the time Dudley pushed him into the stove while he was cooking breakfast for them all, causing him to burn his hand.
Snape's methods were harsh and very tiring. Harry's mind did not seem to be any stronger or more adept to shutting out the Potions Master's intrusions, and with each passing week his scar hurt more and more often. Actually, instead of blocking out Voldemort's feelings, Harry found himself experiencing flashes of emotion completely unconnected to his own, and he was still dreaming about the door to the Department of Mysteries. Only now he was staring longingly at the black portal every single night as opposed to every now and then.
"I'm getting sick of that dream," he complained, trying to ignore his stinging cheek and making a mental note to visit Madame Pomfrey first thing in the morning. "I just wish the bloody door would open already so I don't have to stand there gawking at it every night…"
"Harry, you're not supposed to be dreaming about that door at all," Hermione said sternly, sitting up on the hearthrug to glare at him. "You have to try very hard to master Occlumency and do what Snape says. Dumbledore wants-"
"I know what Dumbledore wants, but he doesn't have to get his bloody brains assaulted every week, does he?" Harry snapped. Hermione crossed her arms huffily but said nothing. "I just don't understand why he wouldn't teach me himself, instead of letting Snape do it when he knows that git hates my guts!"
"Maybe…" Ron started, leaning forward on the couch. He stared into the fire, seemingly lost in thought. "Maybe Snape isn't really trying to help you learn it at all."
"What?" Hermione snapped, rounding on him. "What on earth are you on about, Ron?"
"Well, maybe Snape's softening you up." Ignoring Hermione, he turned his grave expression to Harry. "Softening your mind so it's easier for You-Know-Who to get inside…"
"Shut up, Ronald," Hermione cut in. "You know perfectly well that-!"
"Look, Snape hates Harry, and he used to be a Death Eater, all right? Who's to say he really switched sides like he claims he did? Who's to say he's not double-crossing us all, including Dumbledore, in order to end Harry up like Cedric!" Ron's nostrils flared angrily as he finished, regarding Hermione with a defiant gleam in his blue eyes.
Harry sat on the couch staring at his friend in stunned silence. Hermione took a deep breath and when she spoke next, her voice was filled with the effort she was using to sound patient. "Ron, how many times have you suspected Snape of being a traitor?"
"What's that got to do with-?"
"And how many times," Hermione cut him off, still straining to sound tolerant. "…have you been completely off base?" Ron clenched his jaw and leaned back on the couch again. "Look, Dumbledore trusts him. And he hasn't ever steered us wrong in the past. If Dumbledore trusts him, that's good enough for me."
Ron said nothing. Neither did Harry.
After a while of trying to coexist in the tense atmosphere that their row had created, both Ron and Hermione gave up and said goodnight to Harry. He noticed they didn't look at each other as they went off in separate directions, and he thought it a shame that he was the cause of their first fight as a couple.
He had just been wondering where Angelina was when she appeared at the entrance to the portrait hole. "I'm glad you're still up," she said, coming towards him. "How's your cheek?"
"It hurts." Harry watched her advance and she sat down next to him on the couch. "Where did you go? You could've gotten caught."
"Hospital wing. Pomfrey was dosing off in her office, but I asked her for this." She produced a small piece of wax paper that was folded over into a square.
Harry frowned at it. "What's that?"
"For your cheek. She said it'll make the stinging stop and the welt will be gone by morning. Here…" She unfolded the paper, revealing a thick, clear substance that looked like colorless jelly. He watched her dab the tip of her index finger in the stuff and when she reached up to dab his face with it he closed his eyes. The substance was very cool and soothing against his stinging flesh. She rubbed it over the welt Marietta had produced gently, and Harry exhaled. "Feel better?" she whispered.
"Feels really good…"
"Damn that girl. You should've let me get her back."
Harry opened his eyes and looked into her pretty face. They were sitting facing each other, their legs crossed beneath them in the soft cushions of the scarlet couch. She was wearing her school skirt again, and her long, bare legs felt warm and soft as he touched them. She finished rubbing the welt on his cheek and he found himself staring at her hair, which hung loose today and flowed down past her shoulders. He felt, as his gaze moved from her hair to her neck, and then gradually from that to her mouth…he felt mounting arousal creep up on him and before he knew it he had leaned over and kissed her deeply. She made a small noise as his lips pressed into hers and he parted them, sliding his tongue into her mouth slowly. He rocked her back and forth gently with the depth of the kiss, and she allowed him to slide his hands along the length of her thighs until they reached the hem of her skirt.
The common room was uncharacteristically dark and empty except for them.
Harry often wondered, on the many occasions that they found themselves alone in there at night, why it was that they never got caught. He could only attribute this to luck, and truthfully in the moment none of that mattered. They grew breathless as he kissed her over and over again, alternating between sweet, quick touches of their lips and deep, throaty tongue-play. Harry reached under her skirt and found his favorite plaything—her bottom. Gripping it firmly, he scooted her closer to him so she had to fold her legs around him. Angelina tossed the little square of wax paper away and ran her fingers through his hair, causing a surge of feeling to course through his nether regions that felt, all at once, both extremely exciting and slightly painful. He began to grow hard as she arched her back and her pelvis sank into him more, causing her bottom to curve under his hands and that wonderful pain to beat persistently against the inferno between her legs.
Blood pumped densely into his member...and he wanted to…he wanted to…oh god he wanted to but he didn't know where to begin and their mouths slid apart. He breathed against her full, tender lips, "Angelina…"
She looked, especially in her eyes, as if she really wanted it, too, but she hesitated.
"If you don't think you're ready…" he whispered, the breath streaming out of his nostrils hot and steady. The blood pumped. The pain persisted. He was going mad with the wait. Harry knew he was ready, and though he was struggling to be patient and consider her feelings completely, he felt the overwhelming need to spring into action consuming him rapidly. It astonished him. Yes, it was true that over the weeks and months, they had been steadily moving in this direction, but Harry assumed that there would be more talk, careful planning, all that sort of thing. He thought he would see it coming, not that it would spring itself on him like this. It was a feeling no words could describe—he needed relief.
Still, he waited for her to answer him.
"I'm ready. Are you?" her voice was barely audible against the crackling embers in the fireplace. Her eyes…they poured into him, mirroring the same desire he was feeling in every part of his body, one in particular more than others. Feeling as if his head was made of iron, Harry nodded very slowly.
They were so close to each other that her chest was heaving against his as she breathed heavily. Their lips touched but they did not kiss. Harry held onto her, uttering hoarsely: "I love you…"
Angelina whimpered and leaned into him, kissing him passionately, making his head swim. Seconds later his shirt was being tugged roughly over his head, his bare chest meeting her bosom as he almost tore her school blouse open. Shirts off, they concentrated on other clothes—the mad throbbing in Harry's stiff cock growing more and more intense as more flesh was revealed. "I love you, too, Harry," Angelina moaned into his ear, her mouth pressed hotly against it as she reached down and unzipped his pants. Harry thought he would pass out from the exquisite pain the sensation of her hands brushing against him down there caused. Boldly, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his erratic breathing, Harry tugged off her underwear. She leaned back and let him pull the soft, black things down her legs and over her toes.
The fire crackled. The grandfather clock ticked. They panted.
Harry pulled her close again, her legs still wrapped around him. Like leaning too close to the flames, his sensitive flesh neared the inferno between her legs. She brought him down on top of her and whispered again in his ear, this time telling him soothingly that it was okay, that she was ready for him, that she would guide him and he needn't be afraid of her. Harry closed his eyes, the desire reaching its pinnacle, and eased himself inside…
It only lasted for the briefest of moments.
Harry felt the most overwhelming sensation he had ever experienced as the warm, silky inside of her cunt wrapped itself around his flesh like a cocoon, causing him to cry out softly. "Ugnh…" he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his face into her neck. His back arched sharply—he almost wanted to run away from it, but it just felt so good that he could hardly process what he was experiencing. It was what he had been longing for this whole time; that hot, silky, wet push of himself deep inside her…
"Oh Harry…" he heard from some far off place.
Then snap! The fire went out abruptly, shrouding them in darkness.
They heard the padding of little feet towards them followed by a chirpy humming sound that stopped in a squeak and: "Oh my! Harry Potter, sir?"
Angelina shrieked and Harry immediately pulled himself away, reaching blindly for his shirt and hiking up his pants (thank Merlin he had left them partially on!) as Dobby's little round, hat-laden head appeared standing before them.
"Dobby!" Harry shouted fit to wake the whole Tower. "Dobby, get out of-!"
"It's an elf?" Angelina's panicked voice echoed near him as she scrambled to close her blouse and pull down her skirt. They both sat up and began pawing at themselves to smooth their hair again and straighten their hastily thrown-on clothing. Harry wondered, mortified, where he had tossed Angelina's underwear.
"Um…oh-oh my!" Dobby squeaked nervously. "Dobby is so sorry, sir! Bad Dobby!" And the little elf began to hit himself in the face.
"Dobby, no—stop that," Harry tried to get him to stop, leaning over and grabbing both his little wrists. "Listen, it's okay, just…stop hitting yourself, will you?' Harry was aware his cheeks were blazing and his pants were still unzipped.
Dobby's eyes swelled to enormous round, swimming bulbs. "S-sorry to disturb you, Harry Potter, and Miss. Dobby was only coming to do the cleaning! He thought everyone was asleep!"
"I understand, Dobby."
"You isn't angry with Dobby, is you Harry Potter?"
"Eh…" Angelina was sitting with her face in her hands, shaking her head in embarrassment. Harry sighed and let go of Dobby's wrists. "No, we're not angry with you. But, um, do you think you could maybe come back later?"
"Of course, sir!" Dobby bowed so low Harry was afraid his hats would topple off, but he backed up and hopped back over the fire logs, disappearing into the stone back. Seconds later the fire roared to life, cheerily illuminating them once again in warm, amber light.
They sat in humiliated silence for a moment. Harry was afraid to look at her.
When he noticed that she was shaking, he turned to her, alarmed that she had started crying. He tentatively reached a hand out to place gently on her shoulder, and she let out a muffled sob. Harry tried to think of something to say, but then she raised her face from her hands and he discovered that she wasn't crying at all—she was laughing.
He wanted to know just what the hell was so funny.
She fell backward on the couch, holding her stomach as actual tears welled up in her eyes. She was laughing fit to burst and Harry's cheeks were on fire. "Are you kidding me?" she cried, taking in gulps of breath before erupting into giggles again.
"This is not funny, Angelina."
"Yes, it is!"
"No…"
"A house elf…" her face was flushed. "A house elf caught us doing it! Ha, ha, ha!"
Harry's mouth twitched but he refused to laugh with her. Instead, he shook his head pathetically, staring into the fire. When she had finally managed to get a grip on herself (and realized that he was not going to admit the humor of the situation), Angelina sat up again and sighed. She scooted closer to him and leaned into him, kissing him softly just under his earlobe.
"Hey, Harry, it's okay…"
"Says who?" he drew in a breath angrily, his mortification from Dobby's unexpected appearance still lingering.
"We can try again, later."
"I'm sorry…" he turned his watery gaze on her. For some reason, he felt a nasty burning in his chest, and some of those feelings from before (when he'd struggled to handle his first taste of real closeness to her and had unwanted tears) came back.
She kissed him on the mouth. "Don't be sorry, Harry." Then in an intense whisper: "You felt really good…"
"Really?" he breathed; almost sure his arousal was coming back, despite being so thoroughly humiliated mere moments before.
"Yes. And I know you're ready."
"You felt…you felt good, too." Something occurred to him, perhaps too late. "But what about…?" he didn't want to say Malfoy's name. He realized as he sat there that there was another reason he had waited so long to finally make this move with her. She pulled back slightly. Harry licked his lips, turning so he faced her. "I know you can't remember everything—but Angelina, what about going to a teacher?"
"Going to…about-about what happened with…?"
He nodded, studying her. "I mean, I'll support you, whatever you do, but I don't think you should keep quiet about it anymore. I think…I think you should turn him in."
"But, Harry, I don't remember-"
"You're not a liar, Angelina. And we have the playbook. Maybe we could…" He could see that he was upsetting her and he stopped talking. He was spoiling their moment together with talk of Malfoy. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up."
"Who?"
"Huh?"
"Who would I go to? Surely not Umbridge?"
"No way, it doesn't have to be her."
Angelina was quiet for a moment and then she kissed him again, her face drawn up in intense contemplation. "Maybe I should sleep in my own room tonight? Give you a chance to recuperate?"
"Um…yeah. Angelina?"
"Hmmm?"
"Are you upset?"
"No. Are you?"
"Really bloody embarrassed."
"Harry…did you mean what you said?" He knew she was referring to when he told her that he loved her. He nodded. Yes, he meant that absolutely. She smiled. "Me too…"
They kissed goodnight tenderly. Harry carried himself up to bed. Before he dropped off to his nightly trip to the Department of Mysteries, he tried to imagine what would have happened if they had not been interrupted.
He wondered also, with a slight smile, if he were technically still a virgin.