'I have wasted months on fruitless schemes…but no matter. We start again, anew.'
Harry awoke in a cold sweat.
It was almost three in the morning. His scar was throbbing awfully and he had that sick feeling in his chest and throat again. Shaking slightly, he held his hands in front of him, in the moonlight, convinced that he would not see his own-but the freakishly long, white fingers of Voldemort.
'Send Avery to me…' the cold, terrifying voice had come out of Harry's mouth in the dream.
Harry looked around the dorm room nervously, half expecting Voldemort to be lurking in the shadows somewhere, watching him with those inhuman red eyes. Voldemort was not there—he was in that fire-lit room from Harry's dream waiting for that Rookwood fellow to bring him Avery, and…Harry's scar seared with pain and he knew that Avery was in big trouble.
When his gaze landed on Ron's bed, he was startled to find that Ron was awake, staring at him.
"You were talking in your sleep again," Ron sat up slowly and leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. He gazed over at Harry solemnly, his eyes glinting in the moonlight coming through the windows, "…only that didn't sound like you."
"No…" Harry breathed, shaking slightly. "It wasn't me." He paused. "It was Voldemort." Ron swallowed thickly upon hearing the name. Harry let his gaze fall from his friend's face and stared down at his own hands again. "I-I was Voldemort."
"What do you mean by that, Harry?" uttered Ron forbiddingly; though Harry was sure he knew perfectly well what he meant.
"I mean…" Harry glanced around again to make sure the others were asleep. He suddenly felt hot and swung his legs over the edge, pulling the covers back and leaning over to rest his aching head in his trembling, clammy hands. "…that I was Voldemort. I was inside his body, talking to Rookwood. I was thanking him for telling me that Avery was giving me all the wrong information."
"Who is Rookwood?" Ron almost whispered, staring at Harry's bowed head.
"He's one of the escaped Death Eaters, remember?" Harry answered tiredly. "He told me that Bode couldn't have done it…that Avery should have known he couldn't have…"
"Done what?"
Harry lifted his head impatiently, knowing that Ron didn't have a clue what he was talking about but only feeling frustrated, bordering on angry. "Removed something. 'It', he kept saying 'it', whatever it is—he wants it; I've been after it for months and now he's furious because he has to start all over again!"
Dean jerked awake and peered over at Harry's back sleepily before dropping his head to his pillow again. Seconds later they heard him resume his soft snoring. Harry hadn't meant to raise his voice. He felt sick still, like the slime of being in Voldemort's body was seeping through his pores, poisoning him. He swallowed back a thick lump of extra saliva and lowered his throbbing head to his hands again.
"You said 'I'…" Ron spoke quietly after a long while of silence.
"Huh?" Harry looked up again sharply.
Ron hesitated but took a short breath and repeated: "You said 'I' a minute ago. When you were talking about You-Know-Who. You said…'I've been after it for months.' "
The two boys stared at each other. Ron was looking at Harry in a way that made his insides run cold. There was something wrong with him…he felt utterly contaminated now. He could only feel the burn in his scar, know that Avery was somewhere being punished, and sit on his bed with the very strong belief that what he'd just experienced was not a dream at all.
"Harry?" Ron spoke up again.
"Yeah?"
"You should tell Dumbledore…"
Harry didn't answer. Instead he leaned back again in bed, slowly tucking his legs under the covers. He lay flat on his back and sighed deeply. Soon he heard the springs in Ron's mattress creak, meaning that he was returning to bed too. Harry lay there awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling of his canopy. Dumbledore, it seemed, would be getting an earful when he finally returned from wherever it was he had gone to.
"I don't think telling Dumbledore is a good idea," Hermione said at once the next day.
They were standing in the courtyard during their free period, under a particularly bright patch of sunlight. Harry squinted at Hermione through his glasses. "Why?" both he and Ron asked in unison.
He had told Hermione every detail of the dream he'd had, including the fact that he himself was Voldemort, or in Voldemort's body or however one chose to look at it. She had deduced, rather quickly, that whatever it was Bode tried to 'remove' had landed him in St. Mungo's unable to speak, but that to cover their backs, Voldemort's Death Eaters had murdered him. It was obvious that now Rookwood was going to tell Voldemort how to remove this thing (the weapon, they knew) from the Department of Mysteries; avoiding whatever spell it possessed to curse those who touched it. Harry had been rather excited to be unraveling the clues, and was keen to pass on the information to the Order, but Hermione had just popped his balloon.
"You weren't supposed to have seen that at all, Harry." Hermione answered a bit severely.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Hermione, if I weren't seeing these things, we wouldn't know half the stuff we do. I wouldn't have known about Mr. Weasley and he could be-!" he stopped abruptly, noticing Ron's eyes shrink with uneasiness. Sighing, Harry started over. "Look, what I saw last night is important. It could help."
"But, Harry Dumbledore doesn't want you having these dreams-!" Hermione tried again.
"They're not dreams!" Harry snapped. "They're real."
"Fine. But the fact still remains that you are supposed to be practicing Occlumency to shut them out for good reason."
"Oh yeah?" Harry asked evenly, crossing his arms. "And what reason is there? Dumbledore hasn't told me a bloody thing, and all Snape does is yell at me. No one has explained to me what's so dangerous about being able to tell what Voldemort is up to."
"Well, he does have a point about my Dad, Hermione." Ron cut in before Hermione could retort. He shrugged at her forbidding look and blew a lock of hair out of his face, his brow creasing thoughtfully. "I mean, what if You-Know-Who tries to hurt someone else? Someone close to us again?"
"I just…" Hermione seemed exasperated, but determined. "I just don't think we should go against Dumbledore's wishes. And besides that…these dreams or visions or whatever they are…they seem dangerous to me, Harry. They hurt you, and you change when you have them—you're not yourself."
Harry's eyes flickered up and down at her; he was ready to keep arguing but just then allowed room for what she was saying. He did feel…agitated…after he'd had the Rookwood dream. Also he remembered his outburst in the Room of Requirement that time—and that horrible, mad laughter that escaped him the night of his first Occlumency lesson. But most of all he remembered Malfoy nearly two weeks before…the blind desire to hurt him…and keep hurting him…
He knew that Occlumency was important, but some part of him was defiantly resisting what Dumbledore wanted. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to open his mind even further to his connection with Voldemort, and prove to everybody (especially the headmaster) that the Order needed him, that he was important after all, and that leaving him out didn't help their cause. Dumbledore had no right to shut him out, ignore him, not look at him, shoo him away when he wanted to help. He wasn't just a kid. He could do things, he saw things and knew things that they didn't…if he could just make them all see that.
This part of him was particularly whiney and arrogant.
The other part realized that Hermione was probably right. It was afraid of this connection with old Voldy, and did feel very vulnerable whenever he experienced it. Needless to say, the two parts of him were at war with each other.
"Harry?" Hermione spoke quietly, interrupting his thoughts. She gazed at him, her brown eyes filled with concern. "You must work hard at Occlumency. You've just got to find a way to close off your mind from Voldemort."
"I can't." Harry almost whispered. "I've been trying. Snape is bloody awful; all he does is call me names." Harry leaned in, lowering his voice even more. "I feel really strange, Hermione. Like my mind is everywhere at once. I can hardly concentrate on anything, let alone close it off. It's gotten worse after…you know…what happened."
She knew what he was referring to, and she touched his arm fretfully. "Harry don't you see? That is all the more reason to take your lessons very seriously!"
"But Hermione, you said it was just Harry's emotional magic that was acting up last week," Ron offered in Harry's defense. Harry fancied he saw a bit of guilt flicker in the ginger haired boy's blue eyes but said nothing. "That doesn't have anything to do with You-Know-Who or mastering Occlumency, does it?"
"I know what I said," Hermione shook her head, frowning at them both. "But I've been thinking…and it seems awfully like the more open your mind is, the less you can control certain things…you're very vulnerable right now Harry. You must realize that."
"That thing with Malfoy was a fluke. I've never done anything like that before," said Harry defensively. "And I still say that me being 'vulnerable' has more to do with stupid Snape and Occlumency than it does with me being angry enough to strangle that git for what he did to Ange-!"
"Think, Harry!" Hermione snapped urgently, cutting him off. "Try something, use anything, like…" she looked around at nothing in particular, presumably trying to think of something herself. "…w-well what about what you learned in those dueling books? That meditation stuff? You're really good at that, and you've taught us all how to do it, right?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Hang on a minute, Harry, that's not a bad idea." Ron piped up. "I mean, maybe finding your magical center is sorta like what you need to do for Occlumency. Maybe if you do that every night before you go to bed you won't have visions."
"But what about during the lessons?" Harry asked with still lingering stubbornness, despite himself.
The courtyard was filling with students—today was a fine day. February had come and gone, and it was now mid-March. Harry had an Occlumency lesson in two days. The rain hadn't shown its face in a while; today the sun was out, though the temperature was still pretty cool. Harry glanced around at his fellow students. Fred and George were at the opposite side of the courtyard, headless, calling gleefully for students to come one, come all. Almost everyone else seemed to be talking cheerfully, but for the trio standing in their usual spot near a small chestnut tree. Harry was flanked by Ron and Hermione, who were both looking at him grimly. His own face was drawn with aggravation.
"How am I supposed to find stillness and quiet while Snape is shouting at me? He barely gives me a chance to do anything before he starts in with the 'close your mind, Potter, you're not trying hard enough' blah blah blah…" Harry muttered bitterly.
"You've done it before, remember?" Hermione answered him, referring to what he'd told them about doing the meditation in Umbridge's office during detention.
"That was different…" Harry responded thoughtfully. That time had been strange, and completely unexpected. Truthfully, he didn't know what had happened. He suspected that it had been, in a way, the start of some of the things he'd been experiencing since then. He had chalked it up to the fact that he hadn't had his wand in hand to filter the power he felt. Still…something way down in the depths of his mind said very faintly that perhaps he should not dismiss that occurrence so quickly.
"So you'll do it before you go down to the dungeons for your lessons, then." Ron suggested. "That way you'll be focused, and just like if you were in a duel, you can defend yourself more easily."
Harry looked doubtful.
"It's worth a try," said Hermione imploringly. "Please, Harry."
"Why are you pushing this on me?" Harry asked abruptly, trying to quell his temper. "Aren't you the slightest bit upset that they aren't including us? Don't you think we have just as much a right to know these things as the adults do?" He said 'adults' with thinly-veiled bitterness and by 'they' he really meant Dumbledore.
He looked from Hermione to Ron. Ron looked as if he agreed with Harry, but he said nothing.
Hermione sighed. Somewhere a bell was tolling, signaling the end of their free period. The bell echoed loudly once more before she spoke again. "I'm scared for you…for what's happening to you. These visions…they get worse each time you have one. And there's more to it than that now. What happened…Harry it just wasn't normal. I think Dumbledore is right. It's time to put a stop to all of this. I'm sorry but that's how I feel."
Reaching out for Ron's hand, Hermione led him away from Harry without another word. Ron looked back at him sympathetically, his eyes saying 'I'm with you mate, but she has a point'. He watched them go feeling a little abandoned. He had a reason to feel such detachment from everyone else.
Things had started out fine enough, but then rapidly began to change. At first they were good things that lifted Harry's spirits. But then strange things started happening, beginning with that one particular detention in Umbridge's office.
And then he'd found out…so he went for Malfoy…and now Harry had to admit that he was just as afraid as Hermione.
Harry had been on a cloud the entire week following Valentine's Day. Nothing bothered him. Not his horrible Potions and D.A.D.A. classes. Not the increasingly brutal Occlumency lessons he endured. Nor the fact that Cho had gone back to not speaking to him for a while or that Marietta's temperament still hadn't improved during their meetings. He found himself filled with seemingly limitless patience and a renewed enthusiasm for their dueling sessions. Fred and George were getting really good, as was Ron and Dean, and Ginny. Hermione, of course, performed excellently but she was always reluctant to put Ron in harm's way, despite Harry's assurances that he wouldn't let anyone get hurt. Angelina was very impressive, and unlike Hermione, she had no problem hitting him with everything she had. He felt he had his best opponent in her, though Neville became so good at focusing his energy that he defeated his opponents with fewer and fewer moves each time. The only person he had not been successful at besting as swiftly was Harry. The D.A. met three times before the Quibbler interview came out, and when it did, Neville walked right up to him in the middle of breakfast while Harry and the others read through the many letters people had sent to him, and said seriously, "I'm glad you did this, Harry." Harry smiled humbly and Neville went on to say, in a quiet but steady voice: "Luna gave me a copy earlier and I'm gonna read the whole thing again right now. But I just wanted you to know…I think it's really brave of you… telling the truth like that. I wish I could…"he trailed off.
"Thanks a lot, Neville," Harry said tentatively, understanding what the other boy meant. "But you don't have to-"
"Yes I do." Everyone had stopped their reading and was looking up at him now, and he blushed a little, but continued determinedly. "I-I don't talk about them much, mum and dad, but seeing this…it just makes me feel really good about what we're doing." His cheeks burned even deeper as he looked at them all looking at him. "Thanks. I just wanted to say thanks."
"Er…you're welcome." Harry didn't really know what else to say. Neville seemed satisfied with that, though, and he walked out of the Great Hall with his back a little straighter and his head held slightly higher.
"Balls and garters," Ron whispered when he had gone. "That was the most I've heard Neville say in months."
"I thought it was really sweet," said Angelina, kissing Harry on the cheek quickly and reaching for another letter. "You see? I told you-people see something in you Harry. You're a natural leader. You've gotten Neville to come out of his shell."
"No, that was Hermione's handy work," Harry responded, squinting at a letter from a witch in Surrey who was scolding him for going against the Ministry. "If she hadn't set up the interview-"
"What's going on here?" came a syrupy voice from behind him, cutting him off. Harry turned, just as every pair of eyes at the table with him slowly moved upward towards their new visitor, and saw Delores Umbridge standing over him, smiling that fake smile of hers. "What are all these?" she swept her beady eyes over the table littered with letters before turning her gaze to Harry again.
"We're not allowed mail anymore?" Fred quipped. "Is that a crime now, too?"
"Careful, Weasley…" Umbridge sang in warning, her eyes not leaving Harry's. "I'll have no back talk from you. Potter? I asked you, what are all of these letters?"
"They're letters for me." Harry answered calmly, though his heart was beating very fast. He felt Angelina's hand on his leg as he stared up at Umbridge, whose smile seemed to be painted onto her round face. Her eyes however…Harry felt a daring need to see if he could make the evil gleam in her eyes grow deeper—he felt an urge to make her so angry that her eyes exploded with that fire he could see faintly glowing back at him from those beady pits in her skull.
"And why…" she purred dangerously, "…are you receiving so many letters, Mister Potter?"
"I gave an interview. Last Hogsmeade weekend." The truth swept from his mouth without any effort at all. He was not afraid of her, he was excited to see what she would say, what she could possibly do—he handed her his copy of the Quibbler. "Here."
She took it, her eyes moving slowly from his to the paper. He watched her stare down at the front page, where a picture of him blinked back at her. Above his head, the headline read:
HARRY POTTER SPEAKS:
"THE NIGHT I SAW HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURN!"
The Boy Who Lived tells all in an exclusive interview: a Death Eater's infiltration of Hogwarts, the Ministry's efforts to silence him, and the night he saw his fellow student, Cedric Diggory, die at the hands of You-Know-Who…
Everyone sitting around Harry—Angelina, Fred, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, and Luna —remained completely silent as they watched Umbridge read over the headline. Her breathing began to slowly and steadily grow faster, her cheeks turned from pink to bright red, and her eyes narrowed beyond mere slits. Harry saw her crush the paper slightly in her trembling hands before she folded it harshly and glared at him. "So…" she said very quietly, in her most dangerously saccharine voice. "I see you have not learned your lesson about telling lies, then, Potter?"
"You mean I haven't learned to keep my mouth shut like you and Fudge want me to?" Harry corrected her boldly, his voice still very calm. Angelina squeezed his thigh, but he ignored her and continued staring at Umbridge. "No, I guess not."
"How dare you!" Umbridge squeaked, furious. "How dare you…you little…" she looked as if she wanted to strike him, but closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep, zen-like breath. Her smile appeared again, curling upward to the enchanted ceiling. "Very well Mister Potter. There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you. Fifty points from Gryffindor and, I think, you could do with another week's worth of detentions." Harry didn't flinch. "Clean up this mess at once and be off to class, all of you."
When she had gone, Harry felt a cold wave wash over him and he let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. Now everyone was staring at him apprehensively. All except Fred, who looked rather amused and impressed. "That was wicked, mate!" he exclaimed.
"Thanks…I think." Harry whispered, staring at the table. He let what he had just done sink in, along with the fact that he would be serving detention with Delores Umbridge again.
Like clockwork, another decree went up before the day was even over. It banned any student from possessing a copy of the Quibbler, stating that punishment would be expulsion, no exceptions. Hermione seemed oddly pleased with this, and when Harry asked her what the hell was so great about it she explained that by banning the Quibbler, Umbridge had ironically ensured that everyone in school would read it.
And indeed she was right. Harry was baffled by the aftermath of the decree—kids everywhere seemed to know every detail of his interview; some even quoting his own words back to him eagerly as they bombarded him with questions and comments. But there was nary a corner of the paper to be found when Umbridge and Filch did random searches. Everywhere Harry went, he was met with favor—teachers awarded him points for the smallest things out of nowhere, gazes on him were curious and approving rather than malicious or disdainful, and he was a hero in Gryffindor Tower. The twins had even held a little party in his honor, with a large poster of the front page of the Quibbler overlooking the proceedings. Harry's large head turned to and fro from the poster; he grinned proudly at his peers while proclaiming that everyone at the Ministry was a "bunch of idiots" and that Umbridge should "eat dung". They lounged around, drinking butterbeer and laughing at Umbridge for hours—Dean and Seamus read from the article for everyone's amusement. Dean was Harry while Seamus hilariously mimicked Rita Skeeter.
" 'When I asked him how it made him feel to have everyone think him a liar and a trouble-maker,' " Seamus sang in a terrible impersonation of a female voice, " 'young mister Potter simply said…' "
Dean cleared his throat and put on his best Harry voice, causing Harry to scrunch up his face even as he laughed at his friend. " 'How would you feel?' " Everyone whooped and cheered at Dean's deep, over-serious tone.
"Do I really sound like that?" Harry asked Angelina, who simply smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth.
"Well he's still a trouble-maker," George piped up proudly from his leaning position against the window sill next to Alicia Spinnet. He drew his arm from around her neck and performed a lewd fist-under-hand gesture, causing the boys to guffaw and the girls to gasp indignantly. "Gave old Umbridge a piece of his mind, didn't he?"
"I'd of done you one better and told her to shove her detention up her fat arse, Harry." Fred added.
After a while Ron and Hermione, who had finally ironed out whatever their snag had been (Harry suspected that it had to do with Ron's intimacy issues), gave up trying to snuggle on the couch when Harry's enormous head looked down at Hermione and told her to eat dung.
"I'm proud of you…" Angelina whispered to Harry when they were saying goodnight.
"I love you," he answered. It almost seemed a little too perfect, the scene: Ron gave Hermione a warm hug and kiss on the mouth before whishing her goodnight just as Harry and Angelina embraced. The two couples split up—girls going one way, boys going the other. As Harry and Ron made their way up to their dorm, they each enjoyed their own self-satisfied silence.
"You know…" Ron said to Harry as he was tugging off his shoes whilst Seamus, Neville, and Dean messed about noisily in the background, "it seems like when 'Mione and I fight, it sort of makes things better when we make up. She hasn't nagged me once since our last row." He made a thoughtful, yet cheery noise and tossed his shoes to the side. Harry nodded his agreement as he was pulling off his shirt. "What's that saying?" the freckled boy wondered. " 'Conflict makes the heart grow fonder' or some'fin like that?"
"Er—I think that's 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' Ron." Harry tossed Seamus back the Fanged Frisbee that had landed on his pillow.
"Well you get my point."
"Yeah…it's the same for me and Angelina." Harry grinned, his mind wondering to a delicious little memory of one of their many make-out sessions. "I love making up with her."
"Yeahr I'll bet…" Ron rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he began to undress. Harry hadn't told him about what happened Valentine's afternoon, but Ron had undoubtedly noticed his best mate's attitude lately. Like he had told Angelina in the rain-he wasn't stupid. Speaking of which-Harry didn't notice, for he was busy taking off his glasses so he could get into bed, but Ron's face changed suddenly. When he spoke next, his voice was more serious; quieter. "Harry?"
"Huh?" Harry scratched his bare chest and slid under the covers.
Ron glanced around to make sure that neither Neville, Dean, nor Seamus were paying attention before continuing. He stood over Harry, his arm half-way out of his shirt, his sleeping socks in one hand. "Well, I was just wondering…I mean it's none of my business, but..."
Harry grinned, thinking that Ron was about to ask him a question related to sex or something of that nature, but upon seeing the rather serious look on his friend's face, he tilted his head curiously. "What's in the bean, Ron?"
Ron stared at him for a long time, seemingly debating something with himself. Harry actually reached over and put his glasses back on again.
"What is it?"
"I wanted to know about Malfoy," Ron rushed the statement, swallowing thickly. "I-I wanted to know if you…were still angry at all. Cause it doesn't seem like you are…"
"I can't be all steamed up forever. I almost got expelled trying to duel with him, and besides…" Harry frowned. "Angelina told me she was going to turn him in—I mean I wish we didn't have to wait till Dumbledore gets back, but I promised her I'd let her handle it on her own."
Harry sighed and sat up in bed. Ron sat next to him, his arm still hanging out of his shirt. He rolled the socks around in his palms, his head lowered as he stared at them. "That's what she told you?"
"Yeah…" Harry's chest tightened at Ron's tone. He blinked slowly, feeling a bit apprehensive. "Why? Do you think I should do something? I've been thinking about getting hold of that playbook and passing out copies of his little love poems or whatever," Harry rambled bitterly. "Then he'll know what it's like to have the whole school laughing at him-"
"I mean is that all she told you?" Ron interrupted, looking up at Harry sharply.
Harry narrowed his eyes at him. "Ron, what are you on about?"
A pause. "Nothing…" he got up from the bed and crossed over to his own, his back to Harry. After a moment he turned around again and Harry could see the effort he was making to sound casual. "So, where d'you reckon Dumbledore's gone off to this time?"
"Don't change the subject, Ron." Harry warned. "What did you mean by 'is that all she told me'?"
"I mean, did she say why she's all of a sudden decided to go to Dumbledore?" Ron asked somewhat heatedly. Harry glanced around at the other boys—they were climbing into bed, muttering their 'goodnights' to each other.
"She just admitted that she'd gone about dealing with it the wrong way," Harry explained carefully, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to read where Ron's agitation had come from. "Ron, what is your problem?"
"You're my best mate, Harry," Ron said simply. "And I like Angelina a lot, but..."
"What is that supposed to-?"
"Just watch your back around that git, all right? You saw how he reacted to the article…" he was referring to the fact that Harry had named Malfoy's father (along with the fathers of some of his fellow Slytherin mates) as a Death Eater in the Quibbler interview.
"Yeahr I saw."
Malfoy had been furious, and though he could not say anything about the matter for fear of expulsion for having read the article, Harry knew that the boy wanted to kill him for calling his family out so boldly. Among his companions in this outrage were Crabbe, Goyle, Montague, Nott, and a few other dour-looking boys.
"So do you think for a second he's gonna sit back and let you accuse his family of being a bunch of Death Eaters?"
"What's that got to do with Angelina?"
Ron looked at Harry as if he were mad, and for the first time in the conversation Harry saw real turmoil going on behind those blue eyes. "He fancies her, Harry! He's already tried to have his way with her-!"
"Keep your voice down!" Harry hissed, not wishing at all to be discussing this matter within earshot of their other roommates. He got out of bed and walked up to Ron. They stood close and Harry tried to make himself clear without sounding too angry, for he knew Ron was only looking out for him. "Look—I know who Malfoy thinks he is. He as much confessed that his father and all his Death Eater friends were after my head. I'm not afraid of him."
Ron shook his head slowly, looking as if he really wanted to say more, but he did not. They went to bed that night far from chummy. Harry only thought it extremely disconcerting that the energy between them had changed so drastically in a matter of minutes. He didn't want to think that Ron was jealous of his relationship with Angelina—that was absurd! And not only that, but it would simply be too much for Harry…he had enough on his plate without having to deal with something so preposterous.
Why is he acting like that? Harry asked himself as he drifted off to a restless night of sleep. For Ron seemed not only upset about the way Harry was dealing with Malfoy (or not dealing with him, it sounded), but at Angelina as well. Harry could not think of anything Angelina could have done to make Ron speak resentfully of her—except maybe…pushing him so hard at Quidditch? But Ron wasn't like that, was he? Harry reasoned that the ginger-haired boy had been very moody over the last few months.
He drifted off, still puzzling, and the next thing he knew he was standing in front of the door to the Department of Mysteries again. And again, it would not budge…
I will not tell lies.
Harry grimaced at the parchment, his hand aching awfully and sweat springing to the surface of his hairline as he wrote the sentence out as slowly and carefully as he dared. Somewhere behind him Umbridge was polishing her awful plates with the frolicking kittens, and his Firebolt was chained up miserably.
I will not tell lies.
He was almost finished. There were only a few more lines to go. He had remained silent this whole time, not wishing to give her the satisfaction of hearing him voice his pain in any way. She seemed very pleased to have him back in her office tonight, however, and she hummed cheerfully whilst Harry maimed himself. Taking a deep, silent breath, Harry touched the enchanted quill to the parchment again just as she finished polishing the biggest and most gauche plate in the room. He only had a few more lines to go…just a few more and it would be over…
"You know, Potter…" she simpered, making her way around the desk to begin on a new set of girly baubles on the shelf near the window, "it occurred to me only recently—after you so boldly disrespected me in the Great Hall—that perhaps you simply don't know any better." She tittered to herself as she picked up a pink teapot. "I mean, being raised by Muggles as you were."
Harry spared her one acerbic look before returning to his lines, but said nothing.
I will not tell lies.
"Muggles lack refinement—tact. They lack the language of simple courtesy and dignity. Well…" she laughed again. "Not all of them I suppose, but those I myself have come in contact with failed to impress me, I must say."
I will not tell lies.
Harry closed his eyes on the last 'lies'; for the skin on his hand was so tender by now that the cuts just ravaged it like toilet paper, and he was bleeding awfully. He had half a mind to smear his blood all across those plates she'd just finished polishing. He glanced up at her and saw that she was admiring her own reflection in the pink teapot.
"Yes, yes, so you see it occurred to me that you being raised by Muggles…well it's a wonder your academic aptitude isn't even lower than it already is." A snort. Harry grimaced again from the pain, trying to block out the sound of her voice. It sort of echoed out at him, however, along with his own mind's voice sounding out the lines he was carving into himself. I will not tell lies… "Well, let's be honest—you're doing very poorly in my class of course. And Professor Snape tells me that you're taking remedial Potions this term? Tsk, tsk, how can you hope to do even averagely on your O.W.L. exams?" …I will not tell lies... "It's no secret that McGonagall woman favors you—she is after all in Dumbledore's corner. But I suspect you aren't doing as well as she would like to pretend you are in Transfiguration, are you?" I…will…not...tell…lies…
Harry's hand moved, but his mind retreated. He thought back to what he'd read in Dueling Through the Ages. Umbridge was jabbering on, but he figured if he could just concentrate hard enough…
"As for your brutish, rather uncouth behavior-well I can only suspect that the people who raised you…"
He found, with difficulty, some form of stillness. His mind slowly became dark and blank. He found silence. Harry breathed, his eyes closed, as his hand moved. Slowly…in and out…in and out…breathe, Harry. It seemed like it was taking him forever, but soon the pain in his hand throbbed, then dulled, then faded. Umbridge's voice grew fainter and fainter. Harry breathed. He felt the tremble of his own magic within him…felt his wand hand (which was also his writing hand) grow warm, and the warmth spread up to his arm. He was beginning to feel better. For the peace and quiet and stillness was upon him, floating down over his body like an invisible blanket. He didn't even know if his hand was still moving, but he did not care. He had taught this to all the members of the D.A. but it seemed that only Neville took it seriously. Now he was in a space where there was no sound at all. No images in his mind. Nothing but himself, and the magic coursing through him; his heart beating phonically in his ears.
He lingered there for an indeterminable amount of time…
Then Harry felt himself coming back to reality, very slowly at first, and his only thought was that he did not want to go back and listen to that horrible woman's voice. He did not want to go back to the pain. He resisted, but it was no use. He was coming down. His hand trembled. Harry felt the pain coming back, and soon the darkness was fading.
Harry felt his hair settling back down on his head, as if he'd just landed from flight, only it did so very slowly.
He opened his eyes to see Umbridge standing with the teapot clutched to her plump bosom, staring at him wide-eyed and silent. She looked pale and alarmed. Harry was confused. He looked around. The kittens had stopped moving in their plates. The office was still and silent but for the slow tick-tock of the clock on her wall.
Umbridge stared at him.
"How long…?" he tried to think of a way to phrase the question. "What...just...happened?"
"Nothing whatsoever." Umbridge swallowed, loosened her grip on the teapot, and cleared her throat. She did not look at him as she turned and placed the pot back on its shelf. Gradually, almost tentatively, the kittens surrounding him began to play again. "I think that will do for tonight, Mister Potter, you may go."
Harry looked down at his parchment. He was mid-sentence and he still had about a dozen more lines to go. He looked back up at Umbridge, who was now watching him carefully; her beady eyes were significantly wider than usual, and glinting with what Harry thought was fear. Not wishing to argue the point at all, Harry gladly stood and gathered his things. He took notice of the tiny jump she gave when he moved, but he did not say anything else to her as he turned his back on her. He threw his bag and robe over his shoulder and left the office.
As he walked, he puzzled over what he had just done. He'd been teaching this exercise to the D.A. for months, ever since he learned it for his duel, but he had never before experienced it like that. Usually he would simply perform a spell that would release the power he built up through his wand, but tonight he did not have a wand. Tonight…where had the power gone?
Harry hurried along, taking the steps two at a time, until he reached Gryffindor Tower. He had to find Hermione or Ron or Angelina. He had to tell someone. Umbridge acted as if he were truly afraid of him for the first time since they'd met, and he couldn't figure out what he had done to make her react to him like that. It seemed to him that he'd only been sitting there…
"Hippocampus…" he spoke the newest password to the fat lady and just as she was swinging forward to admit him, he heard raised voices coming from the common room. He recognized Ron's and there was a familiar female voice trying to cut into him but failing…Harry knew that Ron and Hermione were at it again. He was determined, however, to interrupt their love spat in order to share his news…but he was stopped in his tracks.
"Angelina, you promised me you'd tell Harry!" Ron shouted.
They were standing near the stairs—it looked as if Ron had been waiting for her to come down from the girls' dorms and when she did he'd ambushed her. Ron had his back to the portrait hole, and was looking up at Angelina, who was standing on the last step very close to him. He seemed to have barred her from moving past him. She was glaring at him—neither of them noticed that Harry was lurking by the curtain that hung as a divider between the common room and the short corridor to the fat lady's portrait.
"Let me pass, Ron."
"No. Not until you tell me what the bloody hell you're playing at."
"I'm not playing at anything! I told Harry that I'm going to Dumbledore about M-"
"I'm not talking about that and you know it…" Ron's voice dropped low, and sounded dangerous. Harry strained to hear what the red-head said next, but his eyes remained on Angelina's face, which was stricken with what looked like the need for Ron to just drop whatever it was he was on about. "I'm talking about why. You told me that if I didn't say anything about Malfoy kissing you, you'd tell Harry yourself. It's been weeks, and last night I asked him…"
Harry didn't hear anymore. He had the familiar sensation of his world tipping slowly and heavily. He might have even sagged against the stone wall of the little corridor for a second. The curtain fell in his face, blocking his vision of the two of them…Harry breathed on it and it fluttered. Angelina appeared and then was gone again…appeared and then was gone…along with the back of Ron's copper top. The white noise seemed to have taken over right about the moment Ron said 'Malfoy kissing you'.
Taking in his breath, Harry straightened himself and stepped away from the curtain. He made it to the couch. Angelina was mid-sentence when she saw him standing there, staring at the two of them.
"I don't want to talk about this here. Can't we just-?"
She clamped her mouth shut and seconds later Ron had spun around…Harry heard nothing but the white waves of fury rolling through his mind, blurring his vision with each swell. They both gaped at him; Ron looking pale but solemn while Angelina simply looked as though she would give anything in the world for Harry to not be standing there at that moment.
"I thought you had detention still?" Ron whispered lamely.
Harry didn't hear him. His eyes were glued to Angelina's face and the white noise rolled. When he spoke, his voice echoed phonically in his own ears, as though he were under water.
"You…you kissed Malfoy?"
"No…" Harry titled his head at her threateningly. "I mean…he kissed me. In the tunnel…at…at Quidditch practice…"
"Quidditch practice…" Harry repeated mechanically. "You mean…Valentine's Day?" He felt sick suddenly. "The day we-?"
"Harry, mate, it wasn't like how you think." Ron stepped forward, raising his hands a little to settle Harry. Ginny was coming down the stairs above them, talking casually to Pavarti Patil. The two of them stopped in their tracks and stared down at the scene. Harry heeded none of this. He rounded on Ron.
"And you didn't tell me?" He could not tell how loud he was speaking, but he must've been shouting because all three girls jumped and Ron closed his eyes briefly. "My best mate, right? My friend?"
"I wanted to…" was all Ron would say as he clenched his jaw. "But-" Harry cut him off, turning to Angelina again.
"He kissed you. He kissed you?" He just couldn't understand it. Malfoy kissed her? On Valentine's Day? The day they'd made love? And she kept it from him?
"I didn't want to tell you then. I-I thought if I waited for Dumbledore..."
"Harry," Ginny spoke quietly from her position a few steps above Angelina. "Calm down. You shouldn't go off the handle again-"
"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed to the room at large. "I don't want to hear it!"
The thing that happened in Umbridge's office faded away like Fred and George's trick ink and Harry felt his insides begin to burn. He was so angry that he could hardly see, but just as confusion and chaos struck him, a single thought pierced these emotions cleanly. Malfoy.
He wanted—no he needed to find Malfoy now—right now.
Harry dropped his school things and turned around sharply, headed for the portrait hole. He could vaguely feel them all on his heels, they were probably calling his name, but he did not care. The white noise rolled over him in electric waves—he only had to get to Malfoy.
Curfew was in ten minutes. Kids were still milling about the halls, heading back to their respective common rooms. His hand had begun to drip with blood again as he walked, but he didn't notice. Harry saw Hermione walking towards him with Neville from the library as he descended a set of stairs with Ron, Angelina, and Ginny still close on his heels calling for him to stop and listen to them. He barely looked at her as he rushed past.
"Harry, what's-?" her mouth hung open in shock as he passed her by, and he heard Ron mutter for her to go back to the common room and pretend she hadn't seen. Of course, she refused to. So Harry got two more D.A. members chasing after him as he descended stair after stair, singularly focused on getting to the rat with the blond hair.
The halls were curiously absent of teachers. Not even Filch could be found lurking about. Harry would have thought this extremely lucky if he weren't so enraged—the powers that be had blessed him to seize his target undisturbed.
They hissed at him "you'll be expelled!", "please don't do anything crazy!", "Harry stop and think about this for a minute!" All things he had heard before. All things that no longer seemed to matter. He felt betrayed. Stupid. Soooo naïve and clumsy to have allowed himself to be strung along, oblivious and love-struck. What a sap he'd been! What a fucking twat!
Oh I love Angelina, she's so wonderful, Malfoy's just jealous…wah wah wah…
Just thinking of it made him boil with contempt. That pansy-arsed, brick-headed prat thought he could touch Harry's girlfriend again? AGAIN? Kissed her…kissed her? After Harry had warned him—after sparing him from expulsion!
They reached the dungeons. Wary of Snape or wandering Slytherins, Harry slowed his steps. Angelina and Hermione caught up with him and were now flanking him on either side, both looking extremely frightened.
"Harry, please…" Angelina whispered.
"Be quiet," he warned, peering around a corner. When he saw the coast was clear he moved on. Hermione said something but Harry paid her no attention. It was only Ron, jogging up and stepping around to block him from advancing towards the Slytherin common room entrance, who managed to stay Harry temporarily.
"What are you gonna do?" Ron asked quietly, though not in a way that might've suggested he was prepared to stop his friend. It was perhaps this tone that allowed Harry to answer him calmly without yelling.
"I don't know. Get out of my way Ron."
Ron did not move, and Harry was on the point of moving him physically but the other boy lifted his chin toward something over his shoulder. Harry turned around to see what Ron was looking at. As if on cue—as if the powers that be were delivering him to Harry's waiting hands—Malfoy was there, strolling down the corridor behind them. He slowed his steps as his pale blue eyes landed on one face after the other and he halted when they found Harry's. He had been coming from the curtained-off stone stairwell that led down into the kitchens. The black curtains fluttered somewhat and a shadow moved, but all of them were focused on Malfoy, who looked tense.
"What are all of you Gryffintwits doing down here?" His gaze shifted back to Ron, then Hermione, then Angelina. Angelina opened her mouth, but closed it again as Harry stepped forward. Draco began to move forward again as well, his head lowering as he walked towards them seemingly without a care. He shoved past them, not looking at Harry directly, and continued on to the suit of armor guarding the Slytherin common room entrance. "You'd all better clear off, before I tell Snape you're down here after curfew. He's in his office down the hall, you know. Not very wise coming down to start trouble-"
"Didn't I tell you…" Harry spoke quietly, distancing himself from the watching crowd and drawing his wand from his pocket. Malfoy had his back to them, but Harry could see without the benefit of looking into the other boy's eyes that he was scared, and that he had been bluffing about Snape. But Harry didn't care much about that at this point. "…not to put your hands on Angelina again?"
Malfoy turned around slowly; and as he did he reached into the folds of his robes and clasped his hand around his own wand. "What are you blabbering on about Potty?" he asked, his voice cracking. Harry's eyes flashed.
"Oh no please don't do this…" He couldn't discern which of the three girls had spoken: Ginny, Angelina, or Hermione. He ignored it.
"I told you—not—to touch—Angelina—again." He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded, for there was a volcano rumbling around inside him. His fist tightened around his wand, it was only waiting for the right moment. He took another step forward.
"Oh did you?" The boy's eyes flickered to Angelina's face and back. "And what makes you think I'd even want to touch your blood-traitor girlfriend again, Potter?
"I saw you Malfoy!" Ron piped up angrily.
Harry barely moved, but Draco started warily at the sound of the other boy's voice. He sneered at Ron. "You don't know what you saw, Weaselbee."
Ron stepped forward abruptly and before Malfoy could get his wand out of his robes, he'd been shoved to the ground. "You ruddy liar!" Ron spat, just as Hermione and Angelina rushed forth to pull him away. Malfoy slipped and slid to get his footing again, still fumbling for his wand, but now Harry was standing over him. "He forced her, Harry! He pinned her against the wall and forced her to kiss him!" Ron was shouting, but Harry's hearing shut off. There came the white noise again, louder and more blinding than ever. Ron's words fixed themselves to Harry's mind's eye. And he saw nothing but the image of Draco forcing Angelina to kiss him.
There was no sound but the steady hummm, hummm, as the fury rolled through him like an electric current.
And he acted. His wand lifted up, his mouth moved—he uttered a spell and Malfoy's body went rigid as a board. Harry spoke again (his vision whiting in and out, hummm, hummm…) and this time Malfoy flew up against the wall, sticking there like an insect to fly paper. Harry's wand arm trembled and his brow creased very slightly. He felt all movement around him cease, heard nothing, saw nothing but Malfoy.
Draco's eyes were going wide, his face growing very pale, then red, then gradually turning a sickly shade of blue. He was choking. Harry watched, slightly detached, as Malfoy kicked and sputtered, still pinned against the wall.
Hermione appeared at Malfoy's feet, then Angelina and Neville. They were speaking. Their mouths moved, but Harry couldn't hear them. Malfoy looked very weak in the face, and Harry knew that he couldn't breathe. He simply didn't care. Draco was choking, and his kicking and sputtering was slowing down, his eyes rolling back slightly into his head. Hermione and Angelina were trying to tug him down, and then Angelina gave up, turning to Harry. She was yelling at him. Hummm, hummm…she grabbed him, shook him. He felt his wand fall out of his hand but Malfoy was still pinned against the wall, still choking. Now Ron was in front of him, followed by Neville. Then Hermione. Wands were raised; streaks of yellow light came at him. He didn't heed those either, and Malfoy remained where he was, turning bluer in the face with each second that passed.
Desperately, Ginny reached up, reared her fist back, and in one straight shot she punched Harry in the jaw.
He fell to the stone floor, the white noise faded, and all sound and feeling came rushing back to him very quickly. Malfoy hit the floor as well, and he took in a huge, rasping breath, his back curving up like a cat. He sounded like a dying beast, gulping in mouthful after mouthful of air.
Harry glared up at them. Hermione still had her wand aimed. She was breathing hard and her eyes were fixed on his—she looked scared to death.
"Someone's behind that curtain!" said Neville urgently, pointing to the direction Malfoy had come from earlier.
"Oh, no, they must've seen us!" Hermione hissed. "Harry, please let's get out of here, now!"
Harry scrambled up from the floor, but instead of heading back around the corner that would lead them up to the grand entrance hall, he hurtled himself towards Draco. Before all five of them seized him and pulled him back, he'd gotten in two or three swift, hard kicks to the Slytherin boy's abdomen. Malfoy moaned awfully and curled up into the fetal position, saliva oozing out of his mouth.
Harry's friends roughly pulled him back, and he resisted for a moment, needing to go and kick his enemy several more times. Angelina held him the strongest. "Harry stop it! Stop!"
"Get off me!" he ordered them, shaking his arms from their clutching hands viciously. He scooped up his wand and glared at the boy coughing weakly on the floor. "You'd better be glad they're here, Malfoy," he snarled. "Next time I'll kill you!"
"It's done mate, let's go…" Ron whispered.
Harry was breathing like a troll, but he heard the curtain flutter behind them. Whoever it was that was hiding in there, they weren't going to come out, or they'd already run off. It was just as well. He turned, not looking at anyone (especially not Angelina—or Ginny for that matter), and stalked away back down the corridor.
They all hurried back out to the entrance hall. Harry kept his head down as he walked. He expected any moment that Snape or Filch or someone would pop out of the shadows to stop him but no one came. Everyone remained silent. They all climbed the stairs to their floor and Harry did not remember who said the password, nor did he see the fat lady's stern look as she let them pass. He kept his head down.
When they stepped into the common room, Harry kept walking, only pausing to gather his bag and cloak where he'd dropped them before continuing on to the stairs leading up to the boys' dorms. Perhaps the faint sound behind him was Angelina parting her lips (the lips that Draco Malfoy had kissed) to utter his name, but he no more heeded this than he did the fact that he would surely be expelled come morning.
Dean and Seamus were messing about with the Headless Hats they'd bought off Fred and George; bouncing on Seamus' bed and guffawing loudly. They tried to greet him when he emerged, but he kept his head down until he reached his bed, where he drew the curtains closed and threw himself onto the mattress. The boys fell silent for a moment, but then probably out of respect for his wish to fume alone, resumed their screwing around.
Harry lay there, on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his canopy.
He only thought that he could have gone on hurting Draco over and over if they all hadn't followed him down there. And if he had…well maybe he and Sirius could swap stories of life in Azkaban in a few years.
Miraculously, Harry had not been expelled.
In fact, there wasn't the slightest whisper of what happened.
It was bitterly ironic—all his friends' chirping at Harry not to sink to Malfoy's level, not to put himself in the position to be kicked out of school—he'd almost killed the other boy. Not a word from any teacher. Not a word from Draco. And come to think of it, whoever was hiding behind that curtain obviously had not come forward. There wasn't a word from him or her either—yet.
Harry knew that Hermione had taken Ron away and left the courtyard ahead of him in order to allow him to think over what she'd said. He hadn't told them that he had, in fact, already thought about using his dueling exercises with Occlumency. But that faint little voice in his head did not seem to like the coincidence that the night he'd managed it during Umbridge's last detention was also the night he'd almost strangled Malfoy to death without his wand.
Sighing, Harry pushed his bag up on his shoulder and began to make his way across the courtyard as well. Fred and George suddenly sprouted heads again and waved to him as they poured their Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts into their homemade leather profit purse. They had been beside themselves when Harry and Ron grimly gave them the details of the Malfoy incident the day after.
"We missed it?" the boys had chimed dramatically. "We missed it?"
"Shush!" Ron rolled his eyes at them. "You wanna clue in the whole Tower? Keep your voices down, will you?"
Harry merely sat dejectedly in an armchair, staring at his Chucks. It was after dinner and Harry had not spoken to Angelina all day. He had started the morning out not speaking to Ron, either, but soon gave up when Ron cornered him after breakfast and explained that he'd been on Harry's side of things the whole time. He'd only been trying to allow Angelina to do the right thing on her own. It seemed reasonable enough to Harry, though he felt his heart clench at the realization of the fact that she hadn't in the end. He'd accepted Ron's apology.
The twins ate up Ron's story, and they attempted to rouse Harry to celebrate with them but he simply shrugged. "Ohh, come on Potter!" Fred rejoiced. "I'll bet you were brilliant! Wandless magic? What fifth year do you know can do that? And you…with the…pinning him…" Fred and George mimed the details of the incident together—Fred pretended to shove George to the ground and then lifted him up again. George pretended to be glued to an invisible wall. "…and the 'I told you not to put your hands on my woman again, you little sod'…and then you kicked…" Fred mimed kicking George in the stomach.
When they'd finished, they looked to him with big roguish grins on their faces but he didn't so much as twitch with laughter. It was a shame, because if it had been someone else hurting Malfoy, he might have found their little show quite amusing.
"No?" George sighed. "Ah well. Save it for parties, eh?"
"Cheer up, mate," Fred told him sympathetically. "Angelina isn't stupid enough to like that little fungus back."
"No way!" George groaned in disgust. "Not our Angelface. She's got bloody hearts swirling 'round in her eyes when she looks at you, ya wanker. So stop moping about."
"You want me to talk to her?" Fred offered seriously.
"No…" Harry shook his head, still staring at his trainers. "I still can't believe I wasn't caught." He spoke up again when they were on their way up to bed. "I just don't understand why Snape or someone hadn't come along…"
"Oh that's an easy one to explain," said George. "You see mate, you've joined forces with Fred and George Weasley. We're the rebels of the whole rebel scene!"
"Oh yes, you've been blessed with our good luck. We made a pact remember? That duel thing—that was the three of us putting our heads together."
"You're one of us now." George grinned
"No one can touch you," agreed Fred.
Harry didn't feel like a rebel. He felt really stupid. Perhaps hurting Draco Malfoy had been the right thing for him to do, if only to defend Angelina's honor and his own pride. But in the end it didn't matter, did it? Draco had, essentially, gotten what he wanted. Harry had not spoken much to Angelina since that night. Every time he saw her—despite her being so very beautiful to him, despite the fact that he knew he loved her and wanted her badly—he felt his anger rising terribly and he knew that if he allowed her to try and explain herself she would only infuriate him. They hadn't had another D.A. meeting because of Umbridge's detentions, but they were due for one soon. Harry didn't know how he would face it, and he had other problems concerning the D.A. as well. After the last meeting they'd had, in which Marietta had shown up nearly twenty minutes late, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had decided that it was time to vote her out. Harry only asked that he be allowed to tell Cho, out of respect, so that she could perhaps warn her friend. Maybe then things wouldn't be so dramatic and there wouldn't be too many hard feelings—for it seemed to Harry that Marietta really didn't want to be there anyway. He explained as much to Cho.
"It isn't right," the pretty girl said, shaking her head at him. He had spotted her on the way to one of his detentions, "the three of you are just going to kick her out? Just like that?"
"Cho," Harry started patiently, "you've seen how she's been acting. You said yourself; she's all mixed up about her Mum and everything."
"Aye, but-!"
"And it just seemed to me," he cut her off authoritatively, "that she'd rather spend all her time snogging with her new boyfriend. Or maybe she's just showing up late all the time to get Smith's attention or whatever but the point is that she doesn't belong in the D.A. What we're trying to do is serious, and she's putting us all in danger of being caught."
"And what about me? Do you want to kick me out as well?" Harry hated the look of contempt in her large brown eyes.
"No…not at all…" Harry sighed and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Cho, we—I like you. Please understand I don't blame you. But your friend hates my guts and she's holding up everyone's progress—including yours—with her complaining."
Cho's shimmering eyes softened and she nodded, her raven hair fluttering softly. "I know…I just wish it didn't have to be this way."
"It'll be fine. She'll probably be glad to have the extra time for her new boyfriend. Who is it by the way? You said 'M'…Michael Corner? Max Huntington?"
"No…"Cho shook her head and stepped away from him. "I'd better go and break the news to her, then, shall I?"
"Yeah…sure…" She turned to walk off, but Harry called her back. "Cho?"
"Yes, Harry?"
He really wondered…what would it have been like…? "So since you're speaking to me, I guess that means you're not still mad at me about the interview?"
Cho hesitated but shook her head. "No…I-I think I understand why you did it and, maybe a little, why you couldn't with me. I guess…"
"I'm really sorry I yelled at you Cho," Harry told her genuinely.
"It's okay, Harry."
She left him then and he watched her go, feeling a little better briefly. Then he'd had to go and face Umbridge.
Now, as he left the courtyard and headed for the dungeons, he went over everything that had happened to him in the past few weeks. It seemed that it had all gone downhill since the aftermath of the Quibbler interview wore off. Even though Luna's dad had reprinted the issue and it went out again because the demand for it was so high; even though the tide of opinion had turned at the school to Harry's favor; none of it seemed to matter now that Malfoy had finally come between him and Angelina.
Harry couldn't fathom under what comfort Draco was operating—what he had up his sleeve that would deter him from going straight to Snape or Umbridge and flapping his gums about what happened. Hermione had been on pins and needles ever since, and any little thing Harry did she fancied would bring down the hammer of authority…but Harry had long since adopted a sense of calm over the whole thing. He only told himself that whatever Malfoy thought he would do in revenge, he'd be ready for him.
In the dungeons now, Harry spotted Draco merely standing with his friends, a look on his face that was virtually unreadable. They spared each other one, caustic glance before turning their gazes away without uttering a single word.
Snape descended upon the gathering of Slytherins and Gryffindors darkly in a flutter of black robes and opened the door to his classroom. He watched them file in one by one through the door, stopping Harry with an outstretched hand. "Remedial Potions tonight, Potter."
"Wha—but I thought it wasn't till Wednesday?"
"Oh begging your permission Mister Potter," Snape uttered with silky sarcasm. "But I do have other more pressing matters to attend to than re-teaching you what you should be learning during my class. The lesson has been rescheduled for tonight, do not be late."
Snape walked in ahead of Harry.
When he settled down in his seat between Ron and Hermione, she leaned over and whispered, "What was that about?"
"He's rescheduled our lesson for tonight instead of Wednesday," Harry muttered darkly, opening his Potions book.
"Silence." Snape warned from above them near the chalkboard. Hermione reluctantly went back to her book, but Harry caught the worried expression on her face before Snape ordered them to turn to the chapter concerning Sleeping Draughts.
"On your feet, Potter."
Harry stood up shakily, his eyes traveling the length of the Potions Master's robes until they met his face. Snape had just seen, one after the other, images from Harry's childhood again. Images of him getting beaten with Uncle Vernon's thick leather belt; pelted with rocks by Dudley and his stupid friends; slapped across the face by Petunia for talking back…
Harry had tried, but failed, to evoke the peace and stillness that his dueling exercises taught him.
"What were you doing just now?" Snape asked, almost on cue.
"What do you mean, sir?" Harry knew what he meant but was too nettled to give the information over so easily. Besides that, he wasn't supposed to know about dueling—else he might as well be admitting that he'd been one of the culprits on the pitch the night Umbridge got her unfortunate nickname. He couldn't understand why that memory hadn't surfaced yet and was scared of it turning up unexpectedly.
"There was a moment—I could hardly believe it, mind you, you've been doing so poorly—when I received nothing at all. A moment that, if it had lasted longer than a mere second, would have given you the advantage."
Harry frowned. He must've been doing something right then, if Snape had been unable to read him, if only for a moment. He shrugged in answer to the professor's inquiry. "I was just trying to do what you told me."
Snape regarded him enigmatically for a minute before raising his wand. "Again."
Harry said the words in his head along with Snape, knowing it was coming, one—two—three—Legilimens.
…Harry was running through the dark tunnels of the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk on his heels…he was flying on Buckbeak with his hands in the air, feeling so free and above it all…Sirius was smiling that lopsided grin of his as he told Harry the story of his mother and father falling in love on Christmas Eve…
Concentrate, Harry…somewhere deep inside him, a voice echoed. It sounded remarkably like Dumbledore's voice, though Harry knew it was only his subconscious. Be still…breathe…be quiet…
Harry concentrated on his breathing. Snape was now pulling the memory of Angelina putting his spectacles on in the shower…her soft laughter as the water ran down her hair…her body…breathe. Harry felt, again, a tremble inside himself. He felt the world around him stop and the silence crept up on him slowly. He breathed. He stood perfectly still…it was working! And just in time, too, because the last thing Harry saw zooming forth from his mind's eye was Rookwood cowering at his feet. Only those weren't really Harry's color-less, unnaturally slender fingers that touched Rookwood's head in blessing, no…those were Voldemort's.
But just as quickly as it had come, Harry's memory stopped in its tracks, then reversed itself and seconds later faded away completely.
Harry felt that tremble again, and now instead of seeing his own memories flash before his eyes, he was seeing something else. A tall, dark-haired, hook-nosed man was towering over a small boy with the same features. The boy cowered in the corner of a dark bedroom, listening to the man call him stupid and useless and weak…then the image changed and Harry saw the same boy, a little older (about his age), running out of a classroom here at Hogwarts with Stinksap all over his face and in his slick black hair. The students in the classroom were all laughing rowdily—even the teacher was chortling to himself. The image changed again and the young man—Harry knew it was Snape in his early teens—was fuming in the same corner of the same bedroom from before, this time staring daggers at his closed door whilst the sounds of shouting voices echoed through it from outside. He twisted his wand in his hands like he was wringing someone's (probably his father's) neck and kicked at the wall when a woman's voice screamed and glass shattered.
Harry couldn't believe he was seeing all this, but the image of young Snape weeping angrily for whatever was happening to his mother was snatched away and the walls of the dungeon office came rushing back.
Harry stood firm on his feet, his wand still held at his side. This was a rather different way of ending Snape's attack—for the tables had turned. The Potions Master watched him silently for a long time, and Harry almost felt guilty for being so proud of himself. Surely he would pay for seeing those memories of Snape's childhood. He waited, holding his breath, until the dark wizard spoke to him.
"That was an improvement, Potter."
"Thanks…I think."
"I wasn't finished." Harry closed his mouth and steeled himself for whatever scornful thing would come from Snape's sneering lips. But instead of insulting the boy, Snape tilted his head and squinted at him. "A question: what was that last memory I saw before you overtook me?"
Harry hesitated. He was amazed that Snape wasn't furious that he'd seen such painful, personal things…he had fully expected to be attacked by another vicious mind-ravaging, but no…Snape was asking about…
"You mean…the one of Angelina? I-I know girls aren't supposed to be in the boys'-"
Snape held a hand up impatiently to silence him, his brow creasing with distaste. "No, Potter that is not the one I am referring to. Though incidentally, you are right—girls are not allowed in the boys' showers. Thirty points from Gryffindor." Harry mentally kicked himself for opening his big mouth. "No…" Snape continued, "…I was talking about the very last one. The one with the man kneeling in the dark room."
Harry felt his chest tighten and he swallowed thickly. The corner of Snape's mouth lifted in a skeptical way. His dark eyes flickered up and down at the messy-haired teen.
"How do that man and that room come to be in your mind?"
Harry blinked mechanically at Snape and shook his head. "It was just a dream I had once…" he lied.
"You're lying," the menacing wizard snapped. "You have been neglecting your Occlumency; your mind is as ripe and weak as a tomato, boy. That man, and that room do not belong there-"
"Is that a real place, then?" Harry asked abruptly. Snape clenched his jaw and the young wizard started again. "I mean, is that a real place, sir?"
"That is none of your concern."
Harry felt the fleeting excitement he had from maybe finally getting some information vanish and his temper flared up. "Why is it 'none of my concern', sir? Why won't anyone tell me why I'm not meant to be seeing these things when they haven't done anything but help all of you! You wouldn't know a bloody thing if I hadn't-!"
"Silence Potter!" Snape looked very dangerous just then and Harry, still fuming, clamped his mouth shut again. "Your arrogance is beyond belief—your 'help' is worth about as much as your useless godfather's!"
"Don't talk about Sirius like that…" he uttered very quietly, glaring at the Potions Master.
"Excuse me?" Snape's eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Harry knew he was saying too much, but he couldn't help himself. "Let me tell you something…" the pallid complexion of the slick-haired professor grew warm with the anger Harry could see he was struggling to restrain as he leaned over the desk, placing both hands flat upon it. When he spoke next his voice was barely above a whisper, and it was dripping with contempt. "There are those who do their so-called 'fighting' behind closed doors, sitting on their palms…complaining about everything and appreciating nothing, least of all the sacrifices their fellow Order members have made to keep them safe."
Harry's nostrils flared—he knew Snape was talking about Sirius.
"And then there are those of us (listen carefully, Potter, because this is how you can determine your own place in all of this) that risk our lives every—single—day in order to protect the Light, in order to keep the forces of the Dark Lord's power at bay long enough to find some sure footing before the coming war."
Harry breathed in and out slowly, his eyes fixed on Snape's as the two of them regarded each other. "But you're not keeping his power at bay. He knows how to get the weapon, now. That man in that room? Rookwood? He told Voldemort everything he wants to know."
"I told you…" Snape almost growled. "…not to say the Dark Lord's name…"
He straightened up from the desk and drew his wand again. Harry watched him touch it to his temple and withdraw a thin stream of wispy thought before turning and depositing the substance into the stone basin on the shelf behind him. When he had finished, he turned back to Harry, his angry expression now melted into calm indifference.
"You are not entitled to information concerning the goings on in the Order, Potter. That isn't your place—you are but a charge in my care; a pupil under my tutelage." Harry opened his mouth to retort but Snape cut him off. "Be satisfied in my telling you that we already know about Rookwood, and we are dealing with the situation accordingly…your only task, Potter, is to master Occlumency. Nothing more. I know you fancy yourself quite the sleuth, but do not be fooled into thinking that you serve some great purpose or that your information saves us any danger. The headmaster wishes-"
"He wants me to keep my head down and my mouth shut, right?" Harry almost shouted, his anger rising violently.
He expected to be reprimanded, even sent out, but Snape merely surveyed him with cool disdain. "No, that is what I would like for you to do…"
Harry became incensed. All of the events of the past months, since the summer when he had been shut out of the loop by his own friends at Dumbledore's bloody wishes, came to a head. The anger he felt at Dumbledore and the hatred he had for Snape attacked him ferociously and the words came tumbling from his mouth without any regard for the consequences.
"Well I'm not going to shut up! To hell with Occlumency, and to hell with you! You and Dumbledore expect me to master the stupid thing, but all you do is try and rake me over the bloody coals all the time, and I'm sick of it! Why didn't Dumbledore teach me himself? Why'd he send you when he knows you hate me! How am I supposed to-!"
"Stop being such a child, Potter! You are not the center of Dumbledore's universe! Do you not ever stop to think—can you not even fathom that he might have a greater good to protect, a purpose and a mission behind his actions that expands beyond your juvenile concept of personal loyalty?"
"You bloody two-faced-!" Harry snarled, beside himself. He couldn't understand it, he just couldn't. Snape was cruel; he hated everything about Harry. Why—why would Dumbledore appoint him of all people to teach Harry something he thought was so important?
"What was that you called me, Potter?" Snape goaded him nastily.
It seemed that both Potions Master and pupil had been waiting for this to happen the entire time these lessons had been going on. It was as though their two personalities were clashing for the final time and now they had to explode all over each other. Whatever resentment Snape had been building up towards Harry for four and a half years; whatever dark goings on he'd endured since he'd had to return to Voldemort's side as a Death Eater…it was now rising to the surface very quickly. And to meet it—Harry's fury over everything that was happening to him: being accused over and over again of being a liar by Fudge, tortured by Umbridge, Draco Malfoy screwing around with Angelina, Angelina lying to him and on and on…
"I called you a two-faced liar!" Harry snarled. "You're not on our side—you're a Death Eater, only Death Eaters call him 'the Dark Lord'!"
"That is right, boy, only Death Eaters call him the Dark Lord." Snape leered at him and for one amazing yet woeful second, Harry thought he'd just admitted to being a traitor to the Order and an enemy of the Light. "And now do you have some idea why Dumbledore trusts me? Now, can you picture why I am perhaps more of a reliable and worthy servant to the Light than your pitiful godfather?"
"Sirius has more honor in him that you'll ever-!"
"Don't you square your shoulders at me, boy!" Snape bellowed when Harry took an angry step towards the desk. "You want to fight me, do you Potter? Do you?"
"No." Harry muttered through clenched teeth.
"Tell the truth! Look at you; you're positively shaking with your contempt for me! You are a poor Occlumens precisely because you do not have the subtly or the presence of mind to master your trivial emotions! You use your fists, when you should use your magic! You fight first and ask question later! You are weak, Potter!"
"I AM NOT WEAK!"
"Then prove it! Raise your wand!"
"Fine!" Harry stepped back and raised his wand. So did Snape. "Tear a hole through my brain if that's what you want! Have a look at every terrible thing I've ever gone through, laugh at my mum and dad dying for me, mock Sirius till the bloody cows come home!"
"I do not need to resort to petty mockery, Potter." Snape snarled. "I am not like your father was…" Harry thought he would dive across the desk and tackle the man, but before he could even blink Snape had raised his wand and shouted at the top of his lungs, "LEGILIMENS!"
Harry felt his brain swell as it was viciously attacked by the spell. The edges of his vision blurred horribly and then images were zooming forth with unbelievable force. Snape's enraged face loomed ahead of him, his mouth moving as he probed Harry's mind. Harry had not been ready, he was watching memory after memory follow Snape's call, and then he saw the green terror flash of his mother's death…saw Voldemort lurking before him in the cemetery…his mother screamed somewhere far away…Voldemort laughed…Snape called him weak…Draco Malfoy was kissing Angelina…
Harry let out a moan of fury and something alien clicked inside him.
The white noise came.
He felt his entire body was on fire.
Hummm, hummm….he lost all comprehension of his surroundings or what was happening to him.
Be still. Breathe. Breathing is important. It relaxes your senses and through it's rhythm it allows you to open your mind slowly. Feel your magic pulsing through you. It will be difficult at fist, but remember to stay very still and breathe well. The quiet will close in on you, and you will feel yourself falling into your own magical space, that rests deep within you. You will know it because all feeling, sense, and desire will drop. Stillness becomes true and quiet need not be sought…
Later, when Harry would force himself to think of something to compare it to, he would decide that it was almost like when he'd been put under the Imperius. He existed on a plane quite above caring what was happening to him. But instead of a little voice cheerily telling him to do things, there was only the fiery rage that led him to this situation in the first place. He boiled inside. His eyes were unseeing, his ears filled with that damned white noise…Harry was consumed with it; it was all around him, coursing through him like a toxic poison.
"Potter…Potter? POTTER!"
Harry's vision came back. He was no longer being bombarded with memories zooming away towards the call of Snape's spell. In fact, he could no longer see Snape at all, because the Potions Master was being obstructed from Harry's view by the desk that normally sat between them.
Harry very slowly realized that the desk was floating above the stone floor of the office—floating there between them in mid-air, blocking Snape from his view. The very second he did, however, it dropped back down to its resting place with a loud BANG! Along with it, about twenty or so glass jars that had also been floating in mid-air fell, and they shattered loudly at Snape and Harry's feet.
Just like in Umbridge's office, Harry felt his hair settling back onto his head as though he'd just touched down on his broom.
Snape stared at Harry, his mouth open slightly and his face more pale than the boy had ever seen it under the curtains of greasy black hair that framed it. Dark, wriggly things moved about in the slimy contents that had oozed from the broken jars onto the floor. The two of them stood silent. Harry did not know what he'd done, but he suspected that it had been something unnatural or at least extraordinary in some way—for Snape's eyes were alight with wonder.
Before either of them could break the silence, a faint scream sounded somewhere outside the office. Snape started, his eyes leaving Harry's to land on the door. Harry turned slightly in that direction, too, listening…the scream came again and this time was followed by a moaning "Nooo! You can't!"
Without saying a word, Snape raised his wand again and swept around the desk towards the door. He opened it and stepped through quickly, Harry on his heels, heading for the entrance hall where Sybil Trelawney was being sacked in front of the entire Hogwarts student body.