Harry Potter and everything about him belongs to JK Rowling.
Also, another shout out to my beta reader, Mikkisteel. The amount of time they spend helping me is greatly appreciated.
Chapter Twenty-Two
She was running, and she knew that if she stopped running, it would get her. The corridor was freezing and the chill caught in her chest as she gulped for air. She was ready for it this time, almost as though she knew what was about to happen. All she had to do was make it to that room filled with light and she would be safe, even if it meant having to face that terrible vision of Harry Potter again. Behind her, as ever present as the air forcing it way into her lungs swarmed the darkness that relentlessly pursued her. The turn in the corridor appeared in the distance and she threw herself around it, determined to escape. There, as expected, was the door. It stood wide open, its golden light filtering out into the corridor, beckoning her onward. Throwing on one last burst of speed, she crossed the threshold and felt as much as heard the door slam shut behind her.
But she wasn't standing in a room full of light this time. Instead, she had entered a large stone chamber with no windows at all. Above her, reaching high into the gloomy heavens, was a vaulted ceiling supported by columns all around the edge of the chamber. Though there was no way to tell, she felt like the place had to be deep underground. The chamber was lit by torches in brackets along the walls which cast a flickering, not entirely substantial light on what she could see. Behind her stood the door, now centered under a large arch. Even as she watched, tall black flames erupted into life, barring her passage but giving off no heat.
She wasn't alone here, this time there were two other occupants. Before her stood a small girl wearing a red sweater with long black hair that flowed unrestrained over her thin shoulders. The sweater and her pants were both torn in several places. Heather couldn't see the girl's face, it was facing the far end of the room where another, taller figure stood before a large, ornately framed mirror. The man, or so Heather assumed he must be, would tower over either of them if they were closer. He wore a set of deep purple robes topped by a large, crudely wrapped turban that gave his head a rather unnatural look in the dim lighting. Even from this distance however, Heather could feel the sense of smug satisfaction radiating off the man.
"She lies…she lies!" said a cold, high voice eagerly. The man's lips hadn't moved but there was no doubt that the words had come from him. "Let me speak to her."
A spasm of fear momentarily wiped the smug look from the man's face. "Master," he pleaded, seemingly towards his turban, "you are not strong enough."
"I have strength enough for this," insisted the voice again. Slowly, as though he wished to do anything else, the man lifted his hands towards the turban and began to unwrap it. Strip by strip it fell away while Heather and the unknown girl stood rooted in place by fear. Heather tried to scream, to warn the girl to run, but no sound could escape her lips.
At last, the final piece of cloth fell away and the man turned on the spot. Only now, on catching sight of the back of the man's head, could Heather emit a scream of horror. Where there should have been either hair or skin, Heather could see a face staring out at them. It was pale, paler even than snow, except for a vivid scar that stood out on its forehead in the shape of a lightening bolt. Blood slowly trickled down from the tip and Heather watched it, now taking in the rest of the face's details. Two eyes, no more than slits of scarlet, glared out behind from thick, round glasses, not at the little girl, but directly at Heather. There was no pity, no kindness at all in these eyes. They radiated a hatred that shook Heather to her core.
"Heather Potter," the face spat, flecks of blood splashing down to the floor. "We meet again."
Heather's throat had closed tightly, preventing her from replying.
"Why?" the voice whispered coldly, sending ice down her spine. "Why?" is asked again when Heather was still unable to respond.
The girl now turned and looked at Heather. She too was wearing thick round glasses and bore a lightening shaped scar on her forehead, but her eyes were a bright green and were filled with curiosity. "What does he mean, why?" she asked, her voice lacking any of the fear that was currently filling Heather.
"I…I don't know," Heather stammered to the girl, her feet still glued to the stone floor.
"Why!" screamed the face in the back of the man's head. Heather's eyes flashed upwards toward it. Blood was now streaming down the face, painting it crimson while it continued to glare. In a burst of motion, the man sprang backwards, soaring across the room towards the little girl. The arms reached back grotesquely, hand grabbing at thin air as they reached for her throat.
Heather knew what was about to happen before it did. Her feet, suddenly able to move, rushed towards the little girl, intent on protecting her. Strong, clammy hands grabbed at her as she imposed herself between the two. Pain erupted across her forehead, there were yells and screams, and everything went dark. There was one last lingering wail of "Why?" and then her eyes snapped open.
She was laying on the floor of her bedroom at Grimmauld Place, gasping in the stuffy air. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to drive away the images she had just witnessed, but it was as though they were permanently etched on the insides of her eyelids. Her palms dug into her closed eyes until spots formed, but still the face glared back at her. When she risked cracking her eyelids, her eyes found the clock on her bedside table. It was ten minutes past two in the morning. It was her birthday. She was eighteen.
Through the floorboards under her ear, she heard no sounds, no rushing feet. If she had screamed, then her usual wards must have contained the sound. She climbed back into bed and tried to get comfortable again, but it was no use. After a long while of tossing and turning, she decided she may as well get up and face whatever this day was going to bring. Ginny was due to arrive that morning to prepare the house for whatever sort of party she and Katie were planning.
A glass of cold water drawn from the tap in the kitchen helped a little. There were leftovers from last night's dinner that she tried to force down, her throat swelled shut at the first bite. No matter what, she kept hearing the voice screaming "why?" Brushing the plate away, she folded her arms on the table and allowed her head to drop onto them. Before she knew it, her body was rocking gently with quiet tears. Her world was collapsing, and it had been ever since that damned trial. She wasn't stronger. If anything, she was weaker now than she had ever been. How was she supposed to save everyone if she couldn't even figure out what a stupid dream meant?
She was awoken with a gentle nudge on her shoulder. "Heather?" It was Ginny. She had arrived earlier than expected. "You ok?"
"Wha?" Heather mumbled sleepily. "Oh, yeah, right. Fine."
"Fall asleep during a midnight snack?" Ginny asked amusedly. She wiped two of her fingers on the left side of her mouth and pointed at Heather's face. Heather reached up and felt crumbs on her face. "Not that it's not a good look or anything," Ginny teased good naturedly as Heather wiped them away.
After a hurried hello, Heather trudged up to her bathroom and dove into a scalding hot shower. Only after she felt marginally more like a human being did she leave the bathroom, dress, and return to the kitchen for breakfast. Ginny hurried her through the meal before dragging her up to the front door along with Ron. They were both instructed, on pain of the bat-bogey hex, to leave and not return to the house before six o'clock that evening.
"What the hell are we supposed to do all day?" asked Ron indignantly.
"Go look at broomsticks or something," Ginny suggested, bodily pushing them out the front door. "Just, don't come back before six o'clock!"
Out in the sunshine, Ron looked at Heather and shrugged. "Well, wanna go to Diagon Alley?" he asked. Heather agreed. It was a little harder to worry about everything wrong on in her life standing in bright sunshine on a beautiful day, especially with the prospect of looking at broomsticks to buoy her spirits. She hadn't had much time for flying in months and was still using Fred's old Cleansweep Five on those rare occasions she had been able to get away.
The Leaky Cauldron was empty this early, but neither of them stopped to do more than wave at Tom before entering Diagon Alley. The smell of wood polish flooded Heather's nostrils when she pushed open the door to Quality Quidditch Supplies. It had always been her favorite shop in Diagon Alley, and she had spent countless hours here before her third year, hovering near the Firebolt that had been on display. Then she had decided against buying it since she already had her old Nimbus, but now it was different. For the first time in her life, Heather was shopping for her own broomstick.
There were certainly plenty to choose from. Moving through the racks of quidditch robes and other gear, Heather found the brooms. And entire wall of the shop was taken up with brightly colored boards advertising Nimbus, Comet, and Cleansweep brooms, along with Firebolts and a few other lesser known brands. It was almost dizzying to look at. Having liked her old Nimbus 2000, Heather gravitated towards the Nimbus display. Their newest model was still the 2001, which by now was almost seven years old. That didn't necessarily mean that it couldn't still hold its own against its competitors, however. She had always shied away from the 2001's after Lucius Malfoy had outfitted the entire Slytherin Quidditch Team with them in her second year, determined to not use anything Draco Malfoy liked. Hanging above the 2001 was an exact copy of her old 2000, and she gazed at the broom, lost momentarily in old memories.
Ron was also examining broomsticks, comparing the new Cleansweep Twelve to his own Eleven. It was the first new broomstick to be released since the end of the war, and according to Ron it was supposed to be fast enough to replace the Nimbus 2001 as the standard broom for the British and Irish leagues.
"You going to get one?" Heather asked. Now that Ron was making decent money and considering that his rent at Grimmauld Place was incredibly low, Heather knew he could afford it if he wanted to.
"I dunno. Not much point since it's not like I'll be playing Quidditch anymore." Ron said glumly. This was the first indication Heather had seen that Ron might be regretting his decision not to return to Hogwarts. "How about you?" Ron asked, looking over at the Nimbus 2001.
"Sort of the same," Heather commented. "Even if I did buy something, it's not like I need the top of the line anymore. I'd just like to be able to outfly passing birds."
Ron snorted. "You're doing alright on that old Cleansweep Five."
"And you just don't want me to be faster than you," Heather joked, arching an eyebrow at him.
They spent a long while standing there, arguing over the relative strengths and weaknesses of the brooms on display until at last the owner came over. Instead of asking them to leave or to keep it down, he joined in and immediately took Ron's side in defense of the Comet line of broomsticks. Heather was convinced that they were unable to keep up, having seen them being overtaken time and time again on the Quidditch pitch by Cleansweeps. To her relief, the man didn't seem to recognize her.
"That's just because you've always had the fastest broom on the pitch," Ron insisted in good natured exasperation.
"Is that so?" asked the shopkeeper, a wiry man with a growing bald patch. "What's your broomstick?"
"Oh she's had a Firebolt since our third year." Ron said dismissively.
"Really?" asked the man amazedly. "A Firebolt! At Hogwarts?" His eyes went wide and focused on her face. "Merlin's beard," he whispered, his jaw dropping. "You're Potter!"
Heather glanced around quickly to ensure they were still alone in the shop. She waved her hands to quiet him. "Yes, it's me. Let's not make a big deal out it, all right?"
"Of course, of course, I'm sorry," the shopkeeper said hurriedly. "It's just, I didn't recognize you. Not sure why not, though. After all, you've been in the paper often enough recently." Heather's heart skipped a beat, waiting for him to continue. Was he one of those who thought she should be brought before the courts? She needn't have worried. "Rita Skeeter is an absolute bitch to you, if you don't mind me saying so, miss" he swore.
Relieved, Heather chuckled. "Why no, I don't mind you saying so. So," she continued, eager to return the subject of conversation to brooms, "I've flown a Nimbus 2000 and a Firebolt, and I'm currently riding a borrowed Cleansweep Five. What's your recommendation." Looking slightly flustered that Heather Potter was asking his recommendation on broomsticks, the man considered the wall displays carefully. "Keep in mind," Heather added, "I'm done playing quidditch competitively and don't want to spend a fortune."
"Of course, I understand. Hmm," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with one hand. "Well, for casual flying and the occasional pick-up match, I'd recommend either the Nimbus 2000, a Cleansweep Ten or Eleven, or" he grinned knowingly at her, "you could always try a Comet 290."
Heather considered the options. She dismissed the Comet immediately. "I think," she said slowly, "erg, I can't choose." She was drawn to the Nimbus, there was no question about that. But there was still the instant distaste at choosing a broom she had loathed for many years due solely to its rider. She was just reaching a decision when a cloud settled on her mind. "What have you done to deserve a new broom?" a voice asked in the back of her mind. "You aren't strong enough to handle one."
She shuddered, feeling the gaze of the shopkeeper and Ron on her as she tried to fight this feeling of dismay swelling in her chest. Her hand, which had been reaching towards the Nimbus display fell listlessly against her leg. "On second thought," she said quietly, "I think I'll pass."
"Heather? You sure, mate?" asked Ron.
"Please, I'm sorry if I said something to offend you-" the man said, looking worried.
"No, it's nothing like that." Heather cut across him. "I just don't think I'm in the mood to buy again after all."
"Of course," the man said slowly, his eyes flicking towards Ron. "Is there umm, anything else I can help you find?"
Heather didn't answer but stared at the broomsticks with dead eyes. Ron covered this as best as he could by asking where the Chudley Cannons gear was. He dragged Heather along with him to a small rack of bright orange clothes. From the small selection, he chose a revolting orange jacket that clashed with his hair and paid for it while Heather stood next to him, unmoving. The shopkeeper bowed them out, his eyes never leaving Heather's face. She didn't care.
Ron was leading her back along the street, but not towards the Leaky Cauldron. The sun was high overhead, meaning they had to have spent several hours in Quality Quidditch Supplies without even realizing. Ron turned them into Knockturn Alley and into the White Wyvern. The pub was empty except for Jugson. Heather felt herself settled into a chair at the table furthest from the bar. A large tankard was placed in front of her. She drank without thinking. It was butterbeer.
"You alright?" asked Ron as he sat down next to her with a drink of his own. Heather shrugged noncommittally. "It's just, we haven't really talked about what happened at St. Oswald's." Ron pressed in what he thought was a casual tone, sipping his butterbeer and not looking at her.
"And we aren't going to." Heather stated firmly from the fog. "Not here. Not now. Not ever. Alright?"
"Got it." Ron said. Heather was aware enough to know that unless she came up with another topic of conversation Ron wouldn't let the matter drop. "Did you know Hermione was coming back to school?" she asked.
"How'd you hear that?" asked Ron, spilling a little of his drink in surprise.
"McGonagall," Heather replied simply.
"No, it's not like she's written to me or anything." Ron said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.
Suddenly not wanting to add dealing with his friends' relationship troubles on top of everything else, Heather lapsed again into silence. It was hours before they had been told to return to Grimmauld Place, but she wanted to be alone. She figured that holing up in her bedroom would be good enough to maintain whatever surprise Ginny was trying to pull off. She and Ron finished their drinks and left. On the front step of Grimmauld Place, Heather laid a hand on Ron's arm. "Don't tell anyone about today, got it?"
Ron blanched. "Erm, right. You've got it."
She gripped his arm tighter, causing him to wince in pain. "I mean it."
"Alright, alright!" Ron yelped, yanking his arm back. "I swear."
"You're early!" screamed Ginny furiously as they opened the front door. She was rushing down the hallway towards them with a batch of streamers hanging off her left shoulder. "You!" she pointed at Heather. "Upstairs in your room, now!" She was doing such a perfect impersonation of her mother that Heather moved to obey without even thinking. Ron did not follow her, Ginny immediately dragged him off, most likely to give him an earful. There wasn't a single door open on any landing between the front door and Heather's bedroom, so she was unable to deduce what Ginny's plans were as she climbed the steps.
In the solitude of her bedroom, Heather laid down in bed without bothering to even unlace her shoes. She wanted more than anything else to ask Ginny to cancel whatever party she was planning but knew that to do that would mean inviting Ginny to pry into her head again. Why couldn't she just have friends who would leave her alone? Didn't they know that she had to deal with this herself? She had to protect them from…from herself.
Ginny knocked on the door and let herself in without waiting for a reply. "Ron says you two spent hours looking at brooms." She said tiredly, settling on the edge of Heather's mattress.
Heather looked around at her sharply. "What else did he say?"
"He didn't say anything." Ginny said curiously. "Why? What else happened?"
"Nothing." Heather replied curtly, dropping her head back onto her pillow.
"Okay," Ginny said slowly. "Well, since you're home early, I'm going to need you to stay in this room until I come for you. I'll be back up before the party to help you get ready." With that, she turned on her heel and left, closing the door behind her. Idly curious, Heather followed her and tried to open the door, but it was locked. "Stay put!" she heard Ginny call over the banister.
Feeling a mix of dread, curiosity despite herself, and listlessness, Heather settled back on the bed and closed her eyes. She didn't want to sleep again, but she did want her brain to just stop, if only for a single moment. How long it was before the doorknob rattled again and Ginny reentered carrying a sandwich, she didn't know. Ginny was already dressed for the evening. She was wearing the same gold halter top from their night at the club, but instead of the skirt and boots was wearing a pair of tight jeans and strappy sandals. When she saw Heather looking, Ginny rolled her eyes. "Believe me, if my brothers weren't going to be here this is not what I'd be wearing. Ron's already bug eyed seeing this." She gestured towards her chest, which was greatly accentuated by her choice of top.
Pulling open Heather's closet, Ginny extracted a bag and thrust it at her. "Here. Your outfit for this evening."
"And I don't get a say in it?" asked Heather warily, setting down her partially eaten sandwich and opening the bag.
"No, you don't" Ginny replied cheerily.
Heather pulled out a folded mass of fabric that turned out to be a dress. In fact, it was a dress she had seen before. "This is…"
"Yeah, it's the same one you wore to all the funerals. Sorry, but I did what I could to make it look better though." Ginny said, her cheeriness mixing momentarily with wariness.
Heather stood and examined her reflection with the dress held against her front. Ginny had done a good job, she had to admit. Instead of the dull black she remembered, it was a now a lovely shade of light purple, and the lace had been removed, which Heather appreciated. Reaching back into the bag, Ginny pulled out a matching bra and pair of panties, which might have been made from the pieces cut off the dress. Heather didn't think there was any fabric in their construction that wasn't lace. Her eyebrows skyrocketed as Ginny revealed a pair of black heels.
"Well, it's not like you could wear just anything under that!" Ginny insisted. "Besides," she added suggestively, "you never know."
"Oh, yes. I do." Heather replied, snatching the underwear from her. "You couldn't have picked something a bit less…revealing?" she asked.
"Oh, come on. You showed off more than that the night we all went out." Ginny argued.
"Yeah, but that was for a bunch of strangers!" Heather cried, fighting down the urge to dive under the covers and hide from the world. No, she had to do this. She took a deep breath. "Fine," she said in a resigned tone.
Ginny grinned. She pulled out her wand and gestured Heather towards her desk chair. "You do your makeup; I'll take care of your hair." The process of making up her face distracted Heather from the thoughts swarming through her head enough that she caught herself almost excited for the party. She had chosen an eyeshadow the same color as the dress and hoped they would complement each other well. Ginny had carefully sculpted her hair, which still tended to stick out in odd places, into long curls that cascaded down across her shoulders.
Ginny left so that Heather could change, and in the handful of seconds the bedroom door was open, Heather heard enough noise to figure out that a raging party was taking place downstairs. Still struggling to keep her feelings under control, she slid the dress over her head, doing her best not to undo any of Ginny's magnificent work. Ginny was waiting for her on the landing. In her hands was a tiara and silver sash that read Birthday Bitch in purple letters.
"Where did you get that?" Heather asked incredulously as Ginny thrust the sash over her head.
"That shop where Luna got those earrings. They had all sorts of stuff like this." Ginny replied, now trying to set the tiara into Heather's curls even as she squirmed.
Flustered, Heather gave up trying to stop her friend. "Have I ever told you that I hate you?" she asked with something close to good natured resentment.
"No, but the night's early." Heather didn't like the sound of that.
The drawing room, almost the entire ground floor, and from the sounds of it, the kitchen were full of people when Ginny and Heather descended the stairs. "Oy!" Ginny shouted several times before anyone paid her any attention. "I present the birthday girl!" she crooned, stepping aside to let the many faces get a good look at Heather. It seemed like everyone Heather had ever attended Hogwarts with had been invited, and not just people from Gryffindor. There were cheers and catcalls and plenty of applause.
"That tears it. I absolutely hate you." Heather muttered into Ginny's ear as she smiled back at everyone sheepishly.
Hands reached out to pull her into their midst and Heather allowed herself to be dragged along. A press of people surrounded her, and it ended up being impossible to escape. Everyone it seemed wanted to see her, to wish her a happy birthday. She had to force herself more than once to breathe when it started to feel overwhelming.
"Happy Birthday, Potter!" shouted Angelina Johnson, pounding her on the arm good naturedly. "Wood wanted to make it but wasn't able to."
Pavarti Patil pushed forward next and threw her arms around Heather. "You look amazing!" she squealed.
"Err, thanks!" stammered Heather, "Thanks everyone!"
"Right, you lot. Let's let her have some room," said George, breaking through the crowd. "Besides, she has a date!"
"I…I do?" Heather asked, looking up at George untrustingly.
He adopted an air of extreme hurt, which clued Heather in that whatever this was it was just another of his jokes. She breathed easier. "You mean, you don't remember professing your undying love to me?" George asked incredulously.
"Was that before or after she told you to go jump in a lake?" shouted Ginny from the staircase, sending laughs rippling across the crowd. Everyone began to disperse, leaving Heather alone momentarily with Ginny. "Come on, let's mingle!" Ginny said, grabbing Heather by the hand and pulling her along.
As they made their way through the house, Heather was able to see just how much Ginny and Katie had done. Both the drawing room on and the dining room had been cleared of furniture, and enchanted speakers were blasting loud music while lights of all colors flashed. She thought it was a fairly good imitation of the club. Even the old, ornate chandeliers were lit with candles of different colors. The study had been closed off, as well as the bedrooms, but more than once Heather saw couples sneaking off upstairs, for what she did not want to know, so long as they kept it out of her room.
The kitchen table was groaning under platters of finger foods and snacks, and most of the party guests it seemed were congregated around it when Heather finally made her way downstairs. At the far end, near the door to the pantry, someone had set up an expansive bar, from which Lee Jordan was mixing and dispensing drinks.
"Oy, birthday girl!" he shouted to Heather, "What's it going to be?"
"She'll have one of these!" Susan yelled, sidling up beside Heather with Hannah Abbot and Ernie MacMillan in tow. They were all waving glasses of what looked like punch but smelled like paint thinner.
"Coming right up," said Lee cheerly, grabbing the handle of a ladle resting in a large vat of red liquid and dumping a healthy amount into a glass.
Heather eyed it dubiously but risked a sip and nearly gagged. It didn't just smell like turpentine, it tasted like it with only the slightest hint of cherry flavor buried deep down. Her throat burned as she swallowed, causing tears to form in the corners of her eyes. Susan let out a loud "Wooo!" and downed the contents of her own glass. Heather was only able to avoid a call for shots by saying that she wanted to go talk to someone at the table. Trying not to stumble on her heels, she fled.
Once away from the bar, it was easier to socialize while at the same time sampling the dishes on display. Knowing the affect that alcohol had on an empty stomach, Heather snagged a plate and began loading it up what she hoped would be enough to sop of however many drinks it would be insisted that she drink tonight. Slowly working her way around the table, she exchanged greetings with her old teammates Alicia Spinnet and her replacement on the team, Demelza Robbins before moving on to greet Dean Thomas. On the far side of the kitchen, she could see Romilda Vane laughing much too hard at something Neville had just said while twirling her hair around a finger. Intent on dodging that particular encounter, Heather took her now full plate of food and walked back upstairs.
"Oy, birthday girl!" Katie asked as she passed the door to the dining room. "Wanna play a drinking game?" A long, thin table had been conjured in the middle of the room and along either side were lines of people.
"Err, sure, why not." Heather replied as other voices rose in summons. She set her plate down on a side table and joined the line closest to her near the center.
"Right, the game's simple," Katie addressed the crowd, "Both teams start at one end. The first person on either side down's their drink then tries to flip their cup like so." She demonstrated, letting the base of her cup hang over the ledge of the table and flipping it deftly so it landed upside down on the table. "You miss the flip; you fill your cup again and drink. The next person can only go once their neighbor manages to flip their cup. Questions?" No one replied. "Oh, forgot one detail." Katie added mischievously. She extracted a pair of bottles from under the table. They were Old Ogden's Firewhiskey.
Heather's first attempt went miserably. It took her three times to manage the correct amount of force to get her cup to flip just enough without sending it flying or landing on its side. This meant that three shots of whiskey were now warming her stomach. She hoped that once they were done with the line that she could get out of it, but no. Once that round was done, another began. It was a long while before she was able to retrieve her plate of food. She tore into a chicken leg voraciously, not caring who might see.
With the drinking game over, the music began to blare and people started dancing. Heather migrated towards Luna, who she saw was standing against a wall looking uncomfortable.
"You alright?" she asked when she was close enough to be heard.
Luna, who was watching the dancers nodded. "I suppose. I've just never been good at things like this."
"You didn't seem to mind dancing when we all went out, or at Bill and Fleur's wedding if I recall," Heather said.
Luna shrugged. "It's different now, you know. Everyone still sees me as Loony Lovegood."
Heather was confused, but after a moment her already fuzzy mind put it together. "And you still don't know how much of what your dad's told you all your life is true. There still hasn't been any word about him has there?" She mentally kicked herself for not asking before now.
"No."
"Well," Heather said, setting her plate down and grabbing Luna's hand, "I get it. I don't really want to be here either. That being said, I think that you should be who you are. Isn't that what you told me? Isn't that what you told McKenna?" Heather began to pull Luna away from the wall.
"Well…" Luna began, following along without resisting.
"Then I think we should dance," Heather insisted. "Now, it goes like this right?" She began to spin on the spot while performing a doggy paddle with her hands in the air.
Luna laughed. "No, no. You spin the other way." Together they began to twirl in place through the next several songs, ignoring the looks and snickers directed at them.
The music was suddenly interrupted by a loud screaming match in the hallway. Rushing to the door, Heather watched as Katie slapped Seamus across the face. From the whispering around her, she deduced that Seamus had made a grab for a part of Katie's backside, and she hadn't been all that appreciative.
"You arse!" Katie screamed, slapping him again. Next thing Heather knew, Katie had thrown herself at him and intwined her arms around his neck. Their lips were quickly locked together in a wet, sloppy embrace that made everyone uncomfortable.
"Bloody hell!" someone screamed. "Get a room, you two!"
Katie and Seamus broke apart and stared at one another. "You wanna…" Seamus stammered. Without answering, Katie began yanking him bodily towards the staircase.
Heather watched them go with a bemused expression. "About damn time," she muttered. She just hoped they would use a silencing charm on their door. That was not something she needed to listen too. Satisfied that the spectacle was over, conversation and music resumed. Luna drifted away saying something about food, leaving Heather once again alone.
She was feeling happier than she had in months. The whiskey was warming her stomach appreciably, sending warm fuzzy feelings through her limbs. It was as though she were light as a feather, floating down the hallway. Fear, anxiety, doubts, they had all faded away and were nothing compared to the weightlessness she was feeling at this moment.
She stumbled outside the door to the study and caught herself on a table. The study door was ajar, and candlelight flickered out from the slim opening. Heather was curious. As far as she knew no one was supposed to be in there. Doing her best to remain quiet, she crept forward, trying not to allow her compromised attention to be distracted by the pretty lights flickering on the wall opposite the door.
"-he playing at? Still carrying on like a girl," said a disgusted male voice from just behind the door.
"What an absolute nutter," said another voice, this one female. "You think he's coming back to school like that? I'll be damned if he's sleeping in the girl's side of the tower."
"It'd be just like him though. Saint Potter. Probably still expects us all to bow down," replied a third voice. Heather couldn't tell if this one was a boy or girl. Her insides had gone icy cold.
"He's barking if he thinks that's going to happen," the first voice added.
"And just look at all the purebloods laughing it up like nothing's happened?" said the girl.
"I know. What's that Greengrass bitch doing pretending to be an auror. Does she really think that changes anything?" said one of the voices.
There were rude sounding laughs at this, and the girl said, "we'd better get back before someone realizes we're gone."
Mildly aware that she had to move before she was caught eavesdropping and knowing that without a wand and in her current state of inebriation that she was in no shape to confront these guests, Heather scrambled back down the hall. She hoped that she could blend into the crowd before they saw her, while at the same time watching so she could learn who had been saying such filth. She managed the turn and ran smack into a very solid person.
"Woah there," said a voice. Two hands were suddenly on her waist, steadying her. "Oh, it's you! I've been looking for you."
Heather looked up into the face of Justin Finch-Fletchley. He was smiling down at her. Without conscious thought her hands rested on his chest, which was covered in a very fine wool sweater. A warm sensation swelled inside of her as she looked up at him that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Her knees buckles, and her head felt very light. Any intention of watching out for those unknown guests vanished from her mind.
"You…you were?" she asked dazedly, trying to force her legs to support her weight. Justin seemed content to hold her up, and she had to admit that his arms did feel very nice supporting her.
"Well, who else would I be looking for?" Justin replied amiably. His voice sounded incredibly rich in her ears.
"I…I dunno," Heather said lamely. Why did her tongue feel so heavy in her mouth suddenly.
She realized Justin was half leading half carrying her towards the dining room. "Wanna dance?" he asked.
"S-sure" Heather stammered.
The song was one Heather knew well; it was a popular song by the Weird Sisters that had been played to death lately on the WWN. Whether he doubted in her ability to remain upright unassisted, or he just wanted to hold her, Justin's hands were an ever-present sensation on her body. His face was all she could focus on while one song faded into the next. His hair, which was longer than she remembered it being, wafted this way and that as they moved in a mesmerizing way that entranced her.
It wasn't until the fourth or fifth song that she noticed that Justin's hands were no longer on her waist but had drifted down lower. When she realized that, she noticed an increased breeze across her bottom. Reaching back with one hand, she pushed his off her rump and felt her dress fall back into place. "No," she said hesitantly.
"What?" Justin replied with a disarming smile that, despite her discomfort, still made her want to swoon. "You can't tell me you didn't like it." He reached down again with one hand. She brushed it away and pulled herself out of his arms, stumbling more than a little.
"I said no," she said emphatically, coming upright.
The music died. All focus had centered on Heather and Justin. A circle formed around them, and no one spoke. "Heather," Justin said, grinning around at the watchers, "It's not a big deal. I just thought since, you know…" he looked at her and smiled again. Heather's stomach didn't swoon this time.
"You thought that since we used to go out, I was a free feel up?" she asked, staggering on her heels. She felt heat in her cheeks and knew they must be flaming red right now. The crowd surrounding them was whispering furiously now.
Justin moved closer to her. "Why are you making such a scene about this?" He asked quietly, his smile still fixed. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her tightly to him. "Just relax." Heather slammed her palms into his chest, trying to get away, but couldn't overpower his grip.
A shadow moved across her. She felt Justin shift her around, putting himself between her and whoever had just approached. His arm tightened around her waist appreciably. "I think she told you to let her go," said a calm voice.
"Yeah? And what's it to you, Longbottom?" Justin asked derisively.
Looking up, Heather saw Neville smile thinly. "If she told you to let her go, you let her go," he said. His voice was still calm but now held an iron edge that was unmistakable.
Justin still had several inches on Neville, but there was no question that Neville was in better physical shape. Auror training had long wiped out the last remnants of the round-faced boy Neville had once been, replacing them with solid, clean-cut features that left no doubt of his capabilities. Justin released Heather, who stumbled backwards and was caught by Daphne, who had only just appeared at the front of the crowd. "All right, all right," Justin said, raising his arms in mock surrender. "No harm done, see?" His smug smile had returned. "I mean, after all we all saw her stumbling around. She's probably had a bit too much to know just what she was say-" Neville's right hook cut off the rest of his statement. With a light "oof," Justin crumpled into a mass on the floor. Several girls screamed while others cheered.
Neville ignored the noise but approached Heather. "You alright?" he asked.
"Yeah, thanks," she muttered.
Revulsion for what had just happened was now taking over inside of her. She shoved herself out of Daphne's arms and made for the door. "See, you aren't strong enough," said the voice as she flew up the stairs towards her room, not caring anymore that tears were streaming down her face. Justin had been able to wrap her around his finger and even manhandle her and she had been all but helpless to stop him. Darkness awaited her in her bed as she pulled the covers over her head. "Weakling," the voice whispered out of the blackness, drawing her down deeply into it's embrace.