Harry's cheeks were flaming as he made his way up from the dungeons. Staying "just for a little bit" had turned into lingering the rest of the evening, only becoming aware of the time when Snape's voice broke his concentration by reminding him that curfew was in fifteen minutes.
That wasn't the embarrassing part, however. The embarrassing part was how he'd stumbled over his parting goodbye, nearly calling Snape "Dad" instead of "Professor." Then he'd flapped his hand in some strange, overenthusiastic parody of a wave and bolted from the room.
The torches along the dungeon walls sputtered, casting exaggerated shadows on the wall as he passed.
They weren't in the village anymore. Their cover of blood relation didn't apply here. There was no reason Harry should—could—call Snape "Dad". It was a vocal habit he'd have to kick, no matter how little he wanted to.
No matter how hard it would be.
At least he'd evaded the questions Snape sprung on him halfway through the visit about his hair. He wasn't quite sure why he didn't want to cut his hair, but he did know that he always enjoyed the mock arguments he and Snape got into over it. It probably helped that Snape had no leg to stand on, his hair being even longer than Harry's.
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry just barely held in a groan. The embarrassment still tinging his cheeks turned into a flush of annoyance. Still, he threw on a politely blank face that he had learned at the Durselys' and turned around. "Professor Umbridge."
"It is rather late in the evening to be wandering the halls, is it not?"
"I just got out of my potions lesson with Snape," Harry said tightly.
"Ah, yes, Severus. May I presume he is in his office, then? I wish to speak with him regarding these… lessons."
"No, er," Harry thought quickly, "that's why he let me go, he had to do something. I think he's gone to Professor Dumbledore's office?"
He felt bad for throwing Dumbledore under the Knight Bus like that, but he still remembered the look on Snape's face when he had bottled up some stone corrosion solution and didn't want another adult figure in his life to end up in Azkaban. Dumbledore could handle her. Right?
"I'm just glad to be out," Harry babbled, vague thoughts of convincing Umbridge that he and Snape didn't get along floating around in his head. "He proper hates me."
Umbridge watched him ramble with a little smile on her face. It probably gave her a warm, tingly feeling to imagine someone else hating Harry as much as she did. "How refreshing to hear that someone else sees through you." She lifted her chin. "Perhaps tomorrow's detention will teach you how to better respect your elders."
Then she just stood there, staring at him, clearly waiting for him to walk away. Harry resisted the urge to walk backwards despite the awful feeling it gave him to have her at his back. In spite of his best efforts, his feet carried him away closer to a run than was probably appropriate.
His first coherent thought, after rounding the corner and finally getting out of her sight, was: bloody hell.
Bloody hell was a sentiment he felt deeply in his soul as he walked back up to Gryffindor tower. His hand hurt something fierce, and he didn't want to imagine Ron and Hermione's faces when he showed them. Although, knowing his friends (Ron, really,) he wouldn't be surprised if one or both of them had become intimately acquainted with Umbridge's particular brand of detention.
Seeing them waiting up for him in the common room wasn't unexpected, but made him happy all the same.
"Alright, give it 'ere," Ron said gruffly when he crawled through the portrait.
"What?"
"Your hand."
Harry realised that he and Hermione were sitting at a table in the corner. Its entire surface was swamped in newspapers and books, one tiny corner cleared to make space for a liquid-filled bowl. A chair sat in front of it, Ron standing next to it with a grim face. Harry let himself fall into the chair with a sigh.
"What'd she make you write?"
"I must not tell lies," Harry said with gritted teeth, lowering his hand into the bowl with a wince. It instantly soothed some of the pain, and he felt slightly boneless with the relief. "What is this stuff?"
"Essence of murtlap," Hermione said, briefly looking up from the journal she was scribbling in again. As he watched, she rifled manically through a pile of old Witch Weeklys before scratching something else down in her notebook.
"Nectar of the gods, mate," Ron said. He sat down across from Hermione, showing faded scars on his own hand. Harry had a hard time making out what they said in the dim light, and his friend had pulled his arm back too quickly for him to lean closer.
"That's not what that means," Hermione said distractedly.
"S'great stuff," Harry agreed. "What are you doing?"
"Research," she replied, which was what she said every time they asked about her recent obsessive behaviours.
"She's gone off the deep end, and won't even say what about," Ron said in a stage whisper.
"Honestly," she huffed, then shoved aside some books to plop a stack of Daily Prophets next to Harry. "Anyway, I've found something you might want to look at."
"What about it?" Harry asked, flipping through them. He noticed that they were all dated after his trial.
"You mentioned that everyone was afraid of you. Well, I thought you might want to see why."
"Why'd you want him to look at that rag?" Ron was horrified.
"Because he needs to know, Ron," she said, lifting her head to give him an intense look. "It's all lies, but he needs to know what they've accused him of."
Harry, who really wasn't looking forward to it, still wanted to see what they'd had to say about him. He ignored it when Ron and Hermione started bickering and flipped through them, reading snatches of text whenever he caught sight of his name.
Dangerous and unhinged…
...a result of harmful indulgences…
...attention-seeking…
...worst criminal threat since Sirius Black!
...shameless felon…
Harry Potter must be found to ensure the public's safety.
...should never have been allowed to set foot in Hogwarts. His corrupting influence…
Luckily, the oversight of Hogwarts' High Inquisitor should prevent Potter's historically unchecked, rampant misbehaviour…
A lot of what the articles said, especially the things related to favouritism and his past actions, were mentioned in relation to Dumbledore. In fact, the papers seemed to be trying to discredit Dumbledore as much as Harry. In one or two articles by the chief editor, Harry's "criminal tendencies" even seemed to be thrown about just to make Dumbeldore's pet look bad, almost as if they were blaming Dumbledore for both the way Harry turned out and his subsequent disappearance. All of it made Harry glad that they hadn't been able get the news in the village.
"I feel so much better," he said flatly, cutting off their argument.
Ron grimaced in sympathy and gave Hermione a look as if to say see, I told you! Luckily, he had the grace not to mention it aloud.
"I'm glad I know now, though. Thanks, Hermione."
Hermione gave Ron a triumphant look.
Feeling incredibly tired, Harry stood. "Can I take this?" he asked, lifting the bowl. They nodded mutely, and he gave them a weak smile. "Thanks for waiting up, guys."
"Of course," "No problem," they murmured as he trudged to his dorm.
Was that really what everyone thought of him? Dangerous, fame-crazed, and unhinged? No wonder the first-years all cowered from him. Still, he wondered how some of the students who really knew him and how much he hated his fame could believe this stuff.
Then he remembered how most of his yearmates were more wary than outright afraid. Maybe they at least had an idea that all wasn't what it seemed to be? Or perhaps they were more used to being in close proximity to him, dangerous or not. They'd all gone through second year and the Parseltongue mess together, hadn't they?
It was one thing to know, in an intellectual way, that people had been accusing him of awful things (again). It was different to see it in print like that. Some of the worst lines seemed to be burned into the back of his eyelids.
Dangerous? He didn't feel dangerous. At the moment, he actually felt rather small.
Shutting that thought down, he laid down on his bed with the bowl of murtlap carefully resting on his stomach. Neville's snores were the only sounds in the room, and he found them a comfort. He, at least, was another friend who didn't blindly believe what the papers said.
The door opened, probably Ron coming up to go to bed. Harry had just closed his eyes, focusing on the cool relief of the murtlap, when he was attacked.
"Ah! Gerroff!"
Crookshanks, who must have snuck in with Ron, upset the bowl on his stomach. It spilled all over his shirt and coverlet, and he cursed. Before he could get up to take care of the mess, Hermione's cat had walked all over him to stand on his chest and stare down at him.
"What do you want?" he groaned, trying to push him off. "I get enough of stares, I don't need yours."
"He's feral," Ron said with admiration. Ever since they found out about Scabbers, Ron had decided that Crookshanks was an absolute genius of a cat and deserved all treats. As a result, the animal practically weighed a ton. It still hadn't slowed him down.
"A little help," Harry wheezed. Ron chuckled and scooped the cat up while Harry waved his wand to clean himself off.
Not looking up from where he was rubbing Crookshank's ears, Ron said, "You know, Harry… you're not reacting to stuff how I thought you would."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, sniffing at his shirt to see if he could still smell the murtlap.
"Well, this summer…" Ron cleared his throat, and Harry looked up to notice his friend's nervous behaviour for the first time. "You were just angry, all the time."
Harry felt his face shift from exasperated by Crookshanks to thoughtful. "You know, I was, wasn't I?" He sat on the edge of his bed, and Ron sat on his own across from him. They watched each other across the cold stone floor, their conversation backdropped by the sounds of three other sleeping boys. "I can hardly explain it. I was just so full of rage, and everything seemed to make it worse. Honestly, I think it was Snape's Occlumency lessons that did it. He taught me to separate myself from my emotions, clear my mind, stuff like that. It might have helped that he'd have never tolerated a rant like the one I shouldn't've made at you. I don't know, the past few months were just so different that I kind of forgot to be mad."
"You were never upset about having to hide?"
"Well, yeah, of course I was. And I bickered with Snape sometimes, obviously. He could get in a right tizzy about that boat…"
"Snape? In a tizzy?"
"Oh, yeah," Harry briefly grinned. "But it was… better. That constant cloud of anger was gone. I never really thought about it much, I guess, but it was kind of nice. To feel like myself again."
"I get it," Ron said quietly, and they both stared at their feet. Crookshanks made a low purring sound.
"So… yeah. I can't promise it's gone forever, and I'm definitely not happy about Umbridge and everything she's done, but it's not like I've got a bunch of rage about to burst out any minute." He might have been ready to shout about Umbridge earlier, but papers had kind of taken the wind out of his sails.
"That's good," Ron said, clearly trying not to sound as relieved as he was. "Too much yelling could scare Crookshanks."
"That old fiend probably lives off it." Harry smiled affectionately.
"Will you two shut it already?" came Dean's groggy voice.
"Sorry," Ron and Harry chirped in unison.
Crookshanks wiggled out of Ron's arms and trotted out of the dormitory. Harry smiled after him, mood much improved since he came up.
"Blimey, the cat even knows when you're sad," Ron said reverentially.
"Go to sleep!" Dean exclaimed.
Harry grinned and climbed into bed.
