The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Chapter Twelve
On the morning of September the first, Ron and Hermione and Ginny had packed and gotten into the waiting cab, and Harry had not come down to say good-by at all. Hermione thought, he had done that not to spite them, but because he wouldn't be able to stand to see them go and not change his mind.
On the train, Ginny had shut herself up all alone and Hermione and Ron had both been hard put to concentrate on giving directions to the new prefects. The worst had been when Malfoy had said gleefully, "Can you believe it? Potter's dropped out. It figures. He's running scared, isn't he? It's just a matter of time before he gets his."
Hermione had to wrap her arms around Ron to keep him from battering Malfoy with his fists. And she had noticed that Malfoy's expressions were off somehow. He had said the right words, just what one would expect. But there was something wild about his eyes and when he went off with Crabbe and Goyle he had a trapped, almost cagey look about him, as though his two best friends were his jailers instead of his sycophants.
This was, without a doubt, the glummest return to Hogwarts ever. Hagrid had actually cried when Harry had not arrived, and the conversation at the tables had not abated entirely, not even during the Sorting. For the very first time ever at Hogwarts, Hermione had entirely ignored the Sorting Hat's song and the Sorting itself. Even Bill's introduction as the new Defense teacher had been greeted with less enthusiasm than one might expect, and not surprisingly, by a few muted hoots from Slytherin. One sharp glance from Bill had put a stop to that. Hermione alternated between watching Dumbledore and keeping her eye on Ron. There was an angry look about him that she didn't like at all. But he kept his thoughts to himself for once, and he looked so serious that the first years were quite intimidated by him and she herself was strangely reminded of Percy.
He had said one thing only after seeing the first years up to their dorms and posting the notice for Gryffindor quidditch tryouts: which included the position of seeker as an open position.
"His things aren't here," he said quietly. "I could forgive him for not telling us if he'd had a good reason for it. But I can't see it. It's like a bad joke he's played only I don't get the punchline."
He glanced angrily at the corner where Ginny sat among her sixth year friends, wordless and on the edge of things, instead of laughing and in the thick of it. "Maybe Mum was right," he added. "I thought better of him, too."
"He must have had a reason, Ron," she offered.
"Explain it, then," he had answered. "Not why he did it, but why he didn't trust us to know." But she couldn't.
In the morning, Hermione had handed out schedules and was listlessly drinking an extra cup of tea, all the while trying to ignore Seamus's speculation that the chaser position would be open because they'd have to have Ginny as seeker again.
She had come as near to fainting as she ever had in her life when a voice said very matter of factly, "I don't think that'll be happening, Seamus," and then, "Budge over, Hermione, and pass the coffee, please." It was Harry. She had simply gaped at him for the second time in days, but beside her, Neville had said, "All right!" and moved over to let him in.
She found herself incapable of speech and could only stare at him and mark the changes. He was wearing new robes, so someone had to have been in on it, a fact that infuriated her all the more. And he had dropped a book sack full of books, so he had not only known he was returning, he had had someone buy his books. And he had his schedule as well.
"How pleasant to see you," she had said with the same frigid courtesy one might accord a long-time enemy. His eyes had widened a bit at that and what little color he had washed out of his face, leaving only purple shadows under the startling green of his eyes. And when Ron had stopped dead at the sight of him, she had known that the trouble would not be avoided.
"So," Ron had said, "How did you get here? You decided riding the train with the rest of us was beneath you? You needed an extra day to go shopping, and enjoyed a liesurely tour of the countryside on your bike?"
He had put the carafe of coffee very carefully down and stood up. Everyone at the table gasped, but Harry said only, "It's nice to see you, too, Ron."
His face had gone completely remote again, so that nothing could be read there at all. And he had picked up his bag and left for the first class without eating or saying anything further. The rest of the first day was, if anything, worse. As in the previous years, they had Potions first and Snape had entered the room with a bang, very like the way he had on their first class with him ever. "This is you NEWT year," he had said, "and as such, I shall expect a higher level of performance from you than ever. You may expect harder work, more work, and more work again." He had, no doubt, intended a much longer speech, but then he had laid eyes on Harry, sitting there calmly and listening attentively as if he had not made a joke of the whole world with his announcements.
"Potter!" Snape called out, "Since you have decided to grace us with your celebrated presence after all, perhaps you can help the class with some simple review." Everyone in the class turned to look at Harry. He, however, kept his eyes on Snape and said nothing. "Tell me, Potter, what are the two most important ingredients in the Draught of Living Death?"
Despite her anger at Harry, Hermione nearly groaned aloud. The complete recipe for the Draught of Living Death had been part of their summer homework and was bound to be the first potion they made all year. She was certain Harry had never opened his books all summer, and while they had once learned the answer to Snape's question, it had been first year, as a fact, and not as the potion itself.
From the other side of the room, Malfoy was grinning as he anticipated Harry's usual humiliation. The grin faded to surprise when Harry replied calmly, "Asphodel in an infusion of wormwood. Sir."
Snape's eyes narrowed and he sniffed as though he'd smelled something unexpected and unpleasant and he followed up with a snap, "And what, Mr. Potter, are the remaining ingredients that make this so powerful a potion, what are the potion's effects, and in for what purposes might one use the potion?" Hermione winced. That was the entire summer's essay. She doubted that practically anyone in the class would have it all memorized besides herself, and perhaps Malfoy.
"Besides asphodel infused in wormwood," Harry answered promptly, "one adds a tincture of poppy juice, an infusion of foxglove, valerian, skullcap and a sprig of chamomile. A properly prepared draught causes a sleep so deep it may seem as if the person is actually dead. The person's breathing slows to only four breaths per hour and the pupils of their eyes will not react to light if the lid is lifted. The Draught of Living Death is approved for use on persons with extreme seizures, those who have terminal illnesses accompanied by extreme pain, for those with extreme sleep disorders and for persons who have experienced extreme trauma that threatens to overturn their sanity permanently."
Snape stared at Harry, as did every other person in the class. It was virtually the first and only time he had ever given such a good answer in Potions. Not bothering to hide his incredulity, Snape asked the question Hermione would have dearly loved to ask. "You did your summer essay?"
"Yes, sir," Harry answered. Hermione could see that Snape was left floundering for something sufficiently nasty and provocative to say. She thought, Harry, keep your mouth shut and don't mess this up; but he didn't seem to have heard her thought. With only the most fleeting glance at Malfoy, he drawled in an imitation of the Slytherin's habitual cadence, "I had a rather boring summer. I was so desperate for distraction that I did all my summer work. Of course, I saved this for last, so I remember it best. I'm quite sure it won't last now I'm back at school."
It was his smile that caused Snape's sallow complexion to darken, and the Potion Master's surly response."I don't like your tone, Potter. You will show yourself at my office this evening after dinner for detention."
"Yes, sir," Harry answered.
Then he raised his hand and waited for Snape's astonished reaction. "You have something more to say?"
"I have a question, sir," Harry replied. "It's rather obvious what would happen if you get the dosage wrong and use too much. Any one of the ingredients would probably kill you. But I'm curious to know, what would happen if you used a much lesser dose than is normally recommended, a drop or two, say, instead of half a cup?"
The entire class again stared at him. In six years of Potions classes, Harry had never once asked a question that pertained to the subject or showed any interest in it at all. "Theoretically," Snape answered, "it would cause a temporary, deep, dreamless sleep. However, there are a number of far safer sleeping potions, as you ought to know after six years in this class. And if you got the dosage wrong and or attempted to use it on a sustained basis over a period of time, the effects of the poppy juice alone would be most deadly dangerous. I ought not to have to tell you that either in a NEWT level class."
Peculiarly, Harry's smile lingered faintly for a moment after Snape's response, and then he bent his head to take the notes Snape gave them and looked neither right nor left for the remainder of the class. Feeling completely baffled by Harry's odd behavior, she lingered at the end of class when Snape called him aside for a further lecture.
The Slytherins left laughing; they would have been as astonished as Hermione had they waited to hear Snape's final comment. "Well, Potter," Snape said calmly after another blistering lecture, "It appears you have finally begun to show a spark of intelligence."
Harry did not reply and Hermione had to scurry down the hall so he wouldn't see she had been listening in on that exchange. Hermione ran to catch up with Ron and found that Harry's performance in class had actually enraged him even more.
"All those times he refused to do any of his work! When did he do that? You tell me! He knew he was coming back, didn't he? He deliberately made all that stuff up about not coming back. He deliberately deceived us." Hermione nodded her agreement. It was really apparent that Harry had never meant to miss out on the school year at all. He would never have bothered to do his Potions work otherwise.
"So," Ron said, "when did he do his work? He was out in that damned garden every day pulling up weeds. He didn't have his books out there and he came in every day with his hands all cut up and dirty. So when did he do it?"
"I don't know," Hermione said thoughtfully. "It would have had to be when we were all sleeping. There's no other time he could have."
They had more cause for wonder in Transfiguration class, which came next. Like Snape, McGonagall had stopped in surprise at the sight of Harry sitting in her class and like Snape; she had called on him first, with every evidence of annoyance. But unlike Snape, she was delighted when Harry conjured a roomful of candles the first time with ease, though they had never been taught the spell before that day. And it was also the first time he'd ever got anything right in Transfiguration on his very first try. Hermione studied him from under her eyelashes and wondered if he had actually spent the summer reading all of their textbooks. Only she knew what he had been doing for most of it and it hadn't been studying anything.
One of the worst moments of all came at lunch. Ginny turned icy white and then red and then whiter than white when she saw him.
She marched up to him and said, "So it's true, you did come back." And when he simply nodded, she said in a very low voice, "How could you?"
He said quietly back, "I did warn you."
To which Ginny replied, "You should have warned me better." Then she turned her back on him and left for her class, leaving Harry standing there with his face looking blank and remote and untouched.
She had to keep Ron from going after him and Ron said, "He warned her! He didn't warn us!"
Hermione said as calmly as she could, "Obviously, he didn't warn her properly, did he?"
After lunch came their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Bill. Ordinarily, Hermione would have been looking forward to this class more than anything. But Harry's behavior and ruined her final trip to Hogwarts, and so far, most of her first day. Bill began the class as well as any of their previous teachers had. He called the roll and made no comment when Harry raised his hand at his name. He then immediately launched into their first lecture.
"This class will focus on curses and curse-breaking," Bill said.
"There are several different kinds of curses and each kind requires a different response. One category requires a specific counter-curse. Another category requires a specific action rather than a spell to break the curse. And a third category requires a repetition of the same original curse in order to break it." Better and better, Hermione thought. At last a teacher who was organized in his thinking and his instruction.
Malfoy had raised his hand and with a sidelong glance at Harry, he said, "What about the Unforgiveables? What category do they fall into?"
Harry made no response. He appeared to be staring at a blank piece of paper and he had not written down anything Bill had said. Hermione watched him carefully and was again surprised and then sorried when he seemed to pay no attention to Bill's answer.
"Those would be another category of themselves," Bill answered coolly. "For the simple reason that they have no counter-curse and can't be blocked or broken. Although a very few wizards can throw off the Imperius Curse. Very few."
As in their other classes, many of the students were looking at Harry again. He ignored their stares and seemed oblivious to the way many looked at him: almost fearfully, in fact. Hermione supposed that as they had grown, many of them were realizing for the first time just how extraordinary Harry's survival had been. Nobody survived the Killing Curse, ever. And as Bill had said, very few wizards could throw off the Imperisu curse. Except Harry had been able to do it as a mere Fourth Year, when powerful grown wizards like Barty Crouch could not.
Malfoy said maliciously, "Perhaps Potter would like to share his solution with us. The rest of us would really like to know how he survived Avada Kedavra. Perhaps there is a counter-curse and we just don't know it."
Harry glanced at Malfoy and shrugged. One of those casual shrugs that said maybe he knew, maybe he didn't. But he wasn't sharing the information if he did. Hermione stared at him along with the rest of the class and she noticed that his face was terribly pale and that the lightning scar stood out sharply in the sunny afternoon light. He was clutching his quill tensely and there was a faint beading of sweat on his forehead and on his throat above his collar. She could see in his throat the rapid beat of his pulse and he was breathing soundlessly but shallowly and fast.
She had thought he would say nothing, and she was quite stunned when he responded after all. "The Killing Curse requires a death," he said. "That's the key to it and why there's no blocking it. Because death is quite, quite final and can't be reversed."
Bill stared at him and said, "Are you saying you do know how to counter it?"
"Not at all," Harry answered. "It can't be countered is what I'm saying. And don't tell anyone anything different."
She could see him swallow tensely and the faint twitch of his mouth as though he would say more, but had thought better of it.
"But you survived it," Seamus said in a tone that bordered on fear.
"Yes," Harry answered. "It's a mystery and will remain so."
Hermione frowned, watching him and so, she saw, did Ron. They had discussed more than once the fact that Harry had survived because of his Mum's sacrifice. Dumbledore had explained that. Voldemort had confirmed it. What more was there, she wondered.
Bill had given Harry a very penetrating stare, one reminiscent of Dumbledore, or worse, Mrs.Weasley. But Harry had dropped his gaze to his empty paper and Bill brought the class's attention back to the day's lesson and to the counter-curse of the day. They had to chant the words to be sure they were correct and practice the correct wand form to go with it. Then Bill had them practice one by one.
Hermione was quite delighted that they were to have a really good Defense teacher for once. Ron was practicing with a very intense expression, no doubt because he would have been horribly embarrassed to do poorly in front of his own oldest and most admired brother.
And when he performed the counter-curse quite competently, he gave a relieved smile and said, "Well, that wasn't hard."
Hermione had also completed her turn quite easily, and even Neville had done very well. Bill called on Harry and all the class turned to watch him once more. They had all grown used to seeing him perform any Defense spell easily and sometimes in such a fashion that the teachers were taken aback. So every single person in the class stared in astonishment when he had to be called on twice to get his attention and when for the first time ever he said, "I'll pass this time, sir."
"You'll pass?" Bill asked in disbelief. "This should be easily within your skills, Harry. Go on and give it a try."
"I'd prefer not to," Harry answered. Hermione was utterly stunned. Bill stared at him again and asked, "Are you feeling ill?"
Harry shook his head, though it was clear there must be something wrong. "I'm fine," he insisted; but Hermione could not but note that his face was paler than ever and that his mouth was set as though the fewest words possible must escape.
"Very well," Bill replied. "See me after class, then." He then proceeded to give them an essay to write on counter-curses that would keep them all busy for hours. The class exited, most of them glancing at Harry: some surreptitiously, some in passing, and others quite openly.
Hermione lingered again and despite her continued annoyance at him, she could not help but think something was wildly wrong, and be frustrated that her next class was Arithmancy while Harry and Ron were due to go to Divination.
"Is there anything you want to tell me just now?" Bill asked, "Or perhaps you would like to see Professor Dumbledore?"
Harry shook his head and said tightly, "May I go, then?" and he did not wait for Bill to give him permission. He went out so fast that he was practically running and Hermione could not keep up with him to see where he went. As the hall cleared of students, though, she saw a jet-black head emerge from down the hallway and then go on its way.
Hermione knew she was likely going to be late for Arithmancy, but she did not care. She walked down the hall in the direction where Harry had emerged and saw with puzzlement that the only place he could have gone into and come out of in the short time that had passed was the girl's bathroom. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. More puzzled than ever, Hermione went into the bathroom and heard Moaning Myrtle doing what she did best: weeping.
Sighing, Hermione advanced and said, "Hi, Myrtle. Why are you crying?"
"He came," she sobbed. "He used to come and visit me and he was always so polite. Then he stopped coming. Now he comes in again and he totally ignored me." Myrtle sobbed loudly and Hermione was tempted to run for it. The ghost's wails were nearly as grating as the wailing of a banshee.
"Was it Harry?" she asked.
"Yes," Myrtle wailed, "he ignored me even when I tried to be nice and asked him what was wrong."
"How did you know something was wrong?" Hermione asked. Myrtle then demonstrated one of those bizarre changes of mood that made her a most unreliable ghost.
"Well, he was sick, wasn't he?" she answered spitefully. "Vomited all over my toilet, he did, and then he splashed water all over and left the sink running when he went out." Myrtle glided in the air to where a faucet was running unchecked and dove into the drain splashing her with water. Hermione looked for the faucet that had a snake engraved on to it-- the one that was the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
But the one that was running was not it. If he'd been sick, really sick, Hermione thought, why hadn't the idiot said anything to Bill? She walked to Arithmancy class feeling quite disturbed and resolved to question Ron very closely about Harry's behavior in Divination.
Only Ron had nothing interesting to tell. They had spent the class looking at an enchanted version of the night sky and listening to Firenze talk about the extraordinary approach of Saturn. Saturn, it appeared, was moving toward its closest pass near the earth in thousands of years, at the same time the Mars was as well. Great things might happen, but whether they would be terrible or wonderful remained uncertain.
That night was the beginning of the pattern that was to remain for nights to come. Long after every other Gryffindor had climbed the stairs to their dormitories and sought the refuge of their beds, Harry remained sitting in the common room with his head bent over his books. He was perfectly courteous if spoken to, but he made it clear that he did not want to be disturbed, and he worked his way grimly through every assignment and continued working long after all of their first night's assignments must have been done.
Ron had watched him from time to time but had still not spoken to him. At two in the morning, when Hermione had given it up and gone to bed, Harry was still there immersed in a book, and he made no sign that he intended to stop or go to bed at all.
In the morning, he was already up and studying again. The only way Hermione knew he had left the common room at all was because he had clearly showered and shaved that morning. The jet-black hair was still slightly damp and she could smell the scent of soap as she passed by. Almost, she decided to speak to him; but he resolutely kept his eyes to his books and did not speak, so she walked on and out of the common room instead. When she read the Daily Prophet, sheer shock made her break her resolution not to speak to him. The headline was shocking:
Death Eaters on Killing Spree was the lead.
"At three o'clock in the afternoon, yesterday, You Know Who and his Death Eaters attacked several well known wizarding families and killed a total of seven people altogether." She dropped the paper and stared at Harry. He had been in the middle of drinking his coffee and a plate of fruit sat half-eaten in front of him. On hearing her recitation of the report, he put his coffee down abruptly and stood up to leave. "You knew, didn't you?" she asked.
She thought for a moment that he would say nothing, but he replied simply, "Yes."
"But you said nothing! Why? Why didn't you tell Bill? How could you...did you know...who it was?" His hands tightened on the book bag he had picked up, but his face expressed little.
"He kills someone or several someones nearly every day now, Hermione. Should I go running every time that happens? Should I disrupt a class or two every day to let someone know that something has happened they can't prevent and which they'll find out about shortly thereafter?"
"You didn't know, then," she asked angrily, "that it was Shacklebolt who died?"
"No," he replied after a moment.
She saw that he was shaken again and she felt immediately horrible, for he looked as though he would lose his breakfast there and then. Instead, he took a breath, and his face returned to that absolute blank which revealed nothing.
"Dumbledore will know by now, I expect," he said. Almost absently, he said very softly, "The spy is at work betraying us already." Then he turned his gaze on her, and he was cool and distant and he said, "I'd better get to class."
She had thought Ron's anger with Harry would abate when she showed him the article and told him of their conversation. Ron, however, had cursed furiously after the first shock of hearing Shacklebolt had been killed.
"You see, he doesn't trust us, all he could talk about was the spy. I suppose he thinks one of us might be the spy. After everything--he doesn't trust us!"
The comment stirred her own feeling of betrayal. Never before had Harry gone to such lengths to conceal something from them. Never before had he left them to hang thinking that they were no longer important--no, essential to his life and happiness. It was true, her rational mind told her, that he had many burdens. It was true, she knew, that he hated to admit to weakness or to let others be troubled by his own difficulties. Yet for years, he had shared everything with them. They had helped him, gone into danger with him, down trap doors, into the dark forest and into battle against Death Eaters. And she felt he had cut them out of his mind and his life as suddenly and completely as if they had never been friends at all.
For two weeks, it remained the same. In the morning, Harry was already up and at night he was the last to leave the common room. And aside from that one day in Defense class, he had performed as perfectly in every class as he had in Potions and Transfiguration the first morning.
Every assignment was complete, on time, and without flaw. Every spell was done with a careless ease that was all the more intimidating because he didn't seem to care, even though he had labored at it for hours on end.
Only Neville remained cheerfully friendly in the face of Harry's preoccupation, and when Seamus had commented sourly on the new and unimproved Harry Potter, Neville had replied sharply,"Don't cast spells that you yourself can't perform!" Seamus had looked abashed and quite surprised, as Neville was normally the last person to criticize anyone.
On one memorable occasion, she had thought that Ron would surely have to speak to Harry. The new fifth year prefect was terribly conscientious and took his duties very seriously. He had stayed up struggling to keep awake and keeping an eye on Harry to see that he actually left the common room. Hermione had nearly stopped him, but she had changed her mind, partly out of respect for the boy's diligence and partly out of curiosity.
She wanted to see what Harry would do. At three in the morning, Harry was still sitting by the fire taking notes on something, though what, Hermione wasn't sure. It was impossible; she thought crossly, that he could still be working on the next day's homework. He must have finished that day’s ago, she thought between jaw cracking yawns.
The prefect, Griffiths, was his name, approached Harry and said very seriously, "You need to get up to your dormitory now, Potter. Even seventh years aren't supposed to stay up this late."
Harry had merely looked up from his books and said, "I don't think that's a rule, you know." And he had gone back to his book without any show of offense but without any sign that Griffiths had made an impression on him.
"I'm a prefect," Griffiths had said indignantly.
And Hermione nearly laughed because it reminded her of her own seriousness in her fifth year. Harry had raised his eyes, looked at the boy's badge and said, "Yes, I know." He had then gone right back to his book and picked his quill up to write some more.
"I shall report you to Professor McGonagall," Griffiths stammered. "Prefects have a duty to alert the Head of House if they believe a student may have a problem with his health or mental welfare."
Harry had stared at Griffiths and Hermione had prayed he would lose his temper. She would have been happy even for some small show of annoyance. But he had merely turned and addressed Ron, who had been drawn down by the confrontation and said, "Tell him to go to bed will you. I'm trying to study."
Hermione had hoped then too that Ron would say something to Harry, even if it were an insult. But Ron had turned to Griffiths and said coolly, "Never mind Griffiths. You're talking to a wall. You've done your job and called attention to the problem. I'll take care of the rest." Griffiths had looked both relieved and resentful and he had ascended the sprial staircase with an annoyed thump that reminded her of Percy.
***
Diaries are for words. With this diary, I will keep my word. This diary shall keep my words.
No, that's not quite right, he thought, but he couldn't scratch it out and start all over, because as he wrote, the words sank into the page and disappeared.
This diary shall keep my words and the thoughts behind them will be secret. This is my secret place to keep my thoughts, where no one shall see them, but the one who keeps my word.
That was better, he thought critically, but still not very good. He wished he was better at writing, at finding the right words, but that had never been his strength.
There is nothing in my life that is right. I try to do right, but I cannot explain myself. I cannot explain my fear. No, not fear, that's not right, not strong enough, not exactly true. If you fear for others, is that the same as fear for yourself? And does that make you weaker, or stronger?
He paused then and threw down his quill for a moment in disgust. It wasn't coming out right at all.
So, all right. I'm keeping my promise. It's about the only thing I can keep. There has not been one bloody meeting of the Order that I've been invited to. (Sorry about the language.) I'm a member and I know nothing. And yet, I know everything that they don't want me to know just the same. Almost everything. I don't know who the spy is and that also scares me.
They got Shacklebolt. HE got Shacklebolt. Now there I go, talking about Voldemort like everyone else. Voldemort got him, killed him, and I did nothing. I blocked HIM out, and so I knew, but not enough. And I did nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. For the man who helped to guard me. For the man who helped shield Sirius, I did nothing. And I liked him. He was nice and like his name, Kingsley. He was ...
Well, I can't think of this anymore. Even when the words sink into the page and go invisible, they don't really take my thoughts with them.
If I write it: I am thinking of you, will that let me forget? I am thinking of you. Are you thinking of me? I'm afraid you are forgetting me. That's another fear. I'm afraid you want to forget me.
He threw his quill down again and shut the book. Finally, he was alone again except for the dying embers of the fire. He was alone again and felt more trapped than he had ever felt because he was of necessity his own jailer now.
***
Finally, she had caught him. It was half past six in the morning and Harry was sitting in the same chair beside the burned out fire as he had been sitting the previous night, or rather morning, two in the morning to be exact, when she had gone up to bed herself. And she knew he hadn't been to bed at all because his tie was pulled loose just as it had been last night and the cuff of his sleeve had the same spot of ink on it from where he had splashed it the previous evening. She hesitated thinking she ought to wake him and not wanting to because his face was so hollow and gray with fatigue.
"Good morning, Hermione," he said and she couldn't suppress a gasp because she had been so sure he must be asleep.
And the surprise irked her so much that she said sharply, unthinkingly, "Haven't you slept at all?"
Harry stretched and stood up and swept up his books and papers and stowed them in his bag. "I've slept as much as I should," he answered. He grimaced and ran a hand through his untidy hair and ran up the spiral stairs with the effortless grace of a cat on the hunt.
With furious frustration she stomped out of the common room to the Great Hall and downed a large cup of coffee instead of her usual tea. Keeping track of silent heroes was an exhausting chore, she thought. And there was the problem in a nutshell, she brooded. Harry was turning himself into some storybook hero who could not be understood except by the measure of his deeds. Or he was being turned into one by others and she couldn't quite make out whether he was cooperating willingly or not.
Little by little, she found it harder and harder to find in him the boy who had been her friend. Little by little, she thought, he was turning into the living legend the papers made him out to be. And if he didn't stop, she thought, there would be nothing of him left but heroic impulse and power. She wished Ron was up to talk to, but then, Ron had always been a sleeper. Right now, she thought, it was one of his more endearing qualities, because it proved he was human, like herself.
For once, Hermione was really glad it was Friday. The end of the second full week of classes. The end of almost three weeks in which Ron had not spoken to Harry. There was only one cloud on the day: that afternoon, quidditch tryouts for the Gryffindor team was scheduled. Hermione had an inkling that there would be trouble, too. Normally, she might have skipped tryouts. She went to games to watch Ron and Harry and to practices every once in a while, but with the load of homework they were getting, she had considered not bothering. But things weren't looking too good.
At lunch, several of the fourth years were talking about trying out for seeker, and Harry had stopped eating to remark, "That's not open."
Ron had addressed Harry for the first time, then. "Well, it is, actually. It was posted on the notice the first night and several people want to try for it. Actually, just about every position is open. We need to have the best people on the team. The most reliable ones." For the first time in days, Harry showed some kind of emotion.
His eyes darkened and he answered, "That's been my position for six years."
"Well, yeah," Ron retorted, "except for the time you got kicked off for beating up Malfoy. If you couldn't be bothered to show up to school on time like the rest of us, we have to wonder whether you'll be bothered to show up for practices or games."
Harry's fist clenched, and for a moment Hermione thought he would punch Ron. Instead, he said coolly, "I'll be there. And I can guarantee you no one who tries out will outfly me."
Hermione sat in the stands and fretted and fretted. Ginny had shown up for the tryouts and at least she hadn't been one of the ones trying for the seeker position, though she was the only other person there who had ever actually played it. On the other hand, after a cool hello to Harry, she had chatted freely with Dean and Seamus and Colin Creevey about how annoying it was to have one's brother for a teacher.
"It's really awful," she said, "I have behave better in his class than I would in anyone else's or my Mum will kill me."
Harry had given her only a passing glance and had stood talking quietly to Neville. Neville was not trying out. He was there because he simply loved quidditch and he was hoping he'd get to be the announcer this year. Ron started the tryouts and he ran through every position first before getting to seeker. Harry had stayed grounded, holding his broomstick casually and watching the others with a calm, neutral expression. And he said nothing when Ron solicited opinions on the others' performances.
At last, Ron called for the hopeful seekers to go up. There were three others besides Harry. Dennis Creevey, the fifth year prefect, Griffiths, and a second year named Windsor who was cute but hadn't a chance against Harry. It was readily apparent that none of them had a chance against Harry and not only because he had the best and fastest broom. When the Snitch was released, he came alive. His first catch was done so fast the others hadn't even had a chance to track the golden ball's path.
On the second go, Harry waited a minute for the others to find it, and then easily looped past Griffiths to claim the fluttering ball. The third time, he sat motionless on his broom and watched the others fly in circles looking for it, and then seeming to grow tired of waiting, he had shot straight down toward the ground in a blur and caught the ball inches from the ground before pulling back up again.
He had circled back to the goal where Ron was watching and he had said, "Well? One more try?" And that time he had released the ball himself. The others again scrambled to get to it. Dennis Creevey was the only one who seemed to be able to get really near it, but it had escaped his grasp several times. Harry watched them again for a while and then he had come shooting through the middle of them, scattering them apart and climbed way up high circling and circling and waiting once more.
This time Dennis Creevey followed the snitch and it eluded him, always just out of his reach. Hermione had started to cheer him on even, because he was rather small for his age and quite cute. But at the last, Harry had streaked in and he had gone into another dive, only this time, neck and neck with Dennis. They were perhaps six feet off the ground when Harry stretched out a hand and caught the ball, and then for no reason Hermione could see, he had practically ploughed himself coming down for a landing. He had actually stumbled and had to stop to untangle himself from his broom, something Hermione could not recall him ever having to do unless someone had interefered with him somehow.
"I'll never be that good," Dennis had mourned as he came to a far more graceful landing.
Harry had turned his head in Dennis direction and said, "Not at all. You did quite well. Practice always helps."
Dennis had turned scarlet at the praise and said, "You think so? Really, Harry?"
Harry had nodded and smiled a little, but Hermione thought, how odd, he isn't looking at Dennis, is he? Harry had remained standing there as Ron had gone through and named the team members. Ginny was still a chaser and when Ron came to the seeker position, he had said unhesitatingly, "Well, you lot did well, but Harry's got it. He's the best seeker we've had in years. So don't feel bad and keep practicing. Next year's a different story."
Harry had continued to stand where he was with the golden ball still fluttering between his fingers as the others straggled off the pitch toward the Castle. Ginny had started to walk off with Dean, but she had turned her head back and then returned, leaving the others to go on.
Harry had still continued to stand there. He was simply looking around, she thought, until Neville had come up to him and said, "Great flying, Harry."
"Thanks, Neville," Harry had answered. Only, she noticed, he had not looked directly at Neville. She stood up thinking to go in and she saw that Ron was going to say something to Harry. Finally, she thought. Except that Harry was not looking at Ron. She would just have to put her foot down, that was all.
She walked over to them and started to say something, but Ron beat her to it. "Listen, mate," he said. "Aren't you going to go in already? Maybe, we could, erm, well, discuss strategy a bit?"
But Harry didn't answer. He was still holding the Snitch and his knuckles had whitened around the ball so that the wings were getting crushed. He turned his head as though he was looking for something and Hermione saw that he was quite pale and tense.
Ron, however, took it badly. "Well, if you don't want to talk to me," he said, sounding offended all over again.
Harry had turned his head then in Ron's direction and said, "No, that is. I do. I'll...just be a minute." He continued to stand there with his broom on the ground and clutching the Snitch.
"What's wrong," Ron asked. Neville had moved forward near Harry, but Harry didn't look at him. Neville waved a hand at Harry, but still he didn't react.
"He can't see," Neville said. "Can you?" he asked.
Harry shook his head and Neville had said sharply, "Go get Dumbledore. Quickly." And Ginny had run for the Castle her red hair streaming behind her.
"But, You could see just now," Ron protested. "You caught the Snitch. You caught it as well as Viktor Krum could. You can't catch the Snitch without seeing." Ginny came back more quickly than they expected, only she brought Snape, not Dumbledore. Snape strode up, his black robes fluttering up behind him in the breeze like wings.
"Now what?" he asked. "Miss Weasley just practically decapitated me coming in." But that seemed to be just his usual grousing.
He walked up to Harry and said, "Well? Tell me." Harry turned his head toward Snape, but his eyes were black and dilated and it was obvious that he couldn't focus on anything. "Can you see at all?" Snape asked.
"No," Harry answered hoarsely. "It's all dark. I was fine. I caught the snitch. I was fine and then everything turned gray and then black. And now. Nothing." His face was beaded with sweat and he was shivering, though the day was quite fine.
"Does your head hurt?" Snape asked. Hermione noticed that his tone, for once, was not at all caustic. Instead, he seemed only calm.
"Yes," Harry admitted.
"Have you been taking your potion?" Snape asked. Harry shook his head.
"I prepared it for you," Snape said more sharply.
"I know," Harry answered. "You prepared the wolfsbane potion for Professor Lupin, too."
Snape jerked as though he'd been struck and said, "You told him it wasn't I who tampered with it."
"I know," Harry answered. He frowned slightly and added, "But it was tampered with." Snape cursed and so did Ron. She felt like cursing herself. Or crying.
"When was the last time you slept?" Snape asked. He was watching Harry very carefully now. Harry closed his eyes and opened them, but they were still unfocused and cloudy.
"I don't know," he answered. "A few nights ago, maybe?" He had started to breathe quickly, though he was standing still and he added through gritted teeth, "I don't like to sleep, you see. The wall between us crumbles when I sleep."
"You're not practicing your occlumency, then," Snape said. Harry said nothing for a moment. He continued to clutch the Snitch as though it were a support to keep him standing.
Then he said softly, "I do. I am. I build the wall up in my mind every night. I put all my feelings away in a little box and I throw away the key. But he's always there. Just behind the wall. Waiting for it to come down. Like now. I know he's up to something. Something big."
He had started to shake and he said, "I can see again."
"Look at me, then," Snape said. But Harry didn't look at Snape.
"There's a big square with some kind of monument on it. I think it's in London," Harry said. Hermione felt a chill run through her. He was speaking now, as if he were a reporter watching something and giving a running commentary. "There are guards all about, policemen, I think. And at the end of the square there are people coming out of a building and there's quite a big crowd watching and cheering behind the line of the police."
"What else do you see?" Snape asked. He seemed hypnotized, fascinated by Harry's report.
"Death Eaters. All hooded, in black." Snape's face changed. It was quite subtle, but there. A widening of the eyes a tightening about the mouth. He whipped out his wand and shot something silvery out of his wand. Then he asked, "The Death Eaters. What are they doing? Can you see?"
"They're killing people," Harry said. "I can see the green light of the spell, and people falling. The police are shooting at them and the people are running." Harry was breathing more quickly now and his face had changed. He had lifted his hand up as though he had a wand in it and was aiming. Then he cried out, a great, "NO!", and struck out at the air, nearly knocking himself over. He stumbled and cried out again and then collapsed to his knees and then into a crouched, almost fetal position and covered his scar with his hands.
Hermione half-screamed herself and so did Ginny, but Ron had dropped down quickly to gather Harry in his arms and cradle him down. Dumbledore had come at a near run and with him was an old man she'd never seen before.
Snape glanced up and said, "He's come to some kind of crisis. He lost his sight and then he...saw what the Dark Lord, what You Know Who was, is doing. Killing Muggles evidently, in broad daylight, with Death Eaters helping."
"How long has he been like this?" Dumbledore asked.
"Just seconds," Snape answered. "He was aware and rational up until a moment ago and then he...cried out and collapsed, as you see." Snape paused and added, "He hasn't been taking his potion and he hasn't been sleeping."
"He didn't sleep at all last night," Hermione said shakily. "Not at all."
Dumbledore said calmly, "Severus, go, please, and ask Arthur to find where the attack was and get there with reinforcements immediately. I'll
take care of this."
Snape stood and said, "You're going to have to make him sleep, somehow. His resistance is crumbling because of sheer exhaustion."
Dumbledore nodded curtly and said, "Go."
Snape went, running faster than Hermione would have expected. Dumbledore knelt down and said softly, "Harry." He reached out and prised Harry's hand away from his face and checked his pulse. Harry's face was utterly colorless; only the scar stood out, livid and clear.
"He's like ice," Ron whispered. "So cold."
"Shock," Dumbledore said quietly. "Can you shift him?" he asked Ron and Ron eased him back so that Harry's head was now cradled in the crook of his arm. Dumbledore held out his hand and the old man handed Dumbledore a small flagon containing a ruby red potion. Hermione saw now that the other man was very old, so old that Dumbledore looked quite young beside him.
She had never seen him before, so she was astonished when he remarked, "He does keep trying to do the impossible doesn't he? There is such a thing as too much bravery, perhaps."
"There's no such thing as too much bravery," Ginny said suddenly. "Only when it's accompanied by a lack of self-regard, it can be dangerous."
Dumbledore had reached out to pour the potion in Harry's mouth, but he drew back as Harry's eyes opened and Harry pushed at Ron as if he would try to stand up.
"Don't move, you stupid git," Ron said. Harry blinked and covered his eyes again with his free hand. Then he looked up at them and said, "Well, I've got to stop making a fool of myself, haven't I?"
Then he tried to twist his head and said to Ginny, "Lack of self-regard has nothing to do with it. Nor bravery; not too much, not too little." His face was still quite white and Hermione could see that fine tremors shook him.
He gritted his teeth, though, and shook his head when Dumbledore made to give him the potion again. "I don't want a potion," he said. "I don't want to be drugged. I can't fight it at all if I'm drugged." He tried to sit up again, but Ron held him down easily. Ron held out his hand for the flagon and Hermione saw, with surprise, Dumbledore hand it to him.
Ron sniffed at it and said, "Well, it doesn't smell too bad," and then he quickly took a very tiny swallow. Dumbledore made a gesture as though he hadn't expected that, but he said nothing. Ron stared at Harry and said, "It tastes a bit odd, but it's not poisoned. Go on and take it."
Harry glared at Ron and took the potion and swallowed it down in one gulp. "Don't ever do that again!" he said angrily.
Almost immediately, Hermione could see a change in him. The color washed back in his face and the trembling ceased. He stood up with some help from Ron and Dumbledore and then he said to the old man, "I know you!"
Hermione stared at the old man trying to think if they had ever met him, but she was sure she had never seen him before.
The old man smiled and said, "So we meet again, Harry Potter. You have grown, I think, or I have shrunk some more. Or both." He smiled merrily and was clearly not at all surprised when Harry suddenly swayed and said with annoyance, "Sleeping potion. You did put sleeping potion in it."
"A drop or two," the old man admitted. His wrinkled face contracted when Harry fell again, only this time, Hermione saw, he had simply collapsed into unconsciousness or a sleep so deep that it looked like it. Ron caught him again and Dumbledore looked enormously relieved.
"Can you carry him as far as the hospital wing?" Dumbledore asked. Ron nodded. He shifted Harry up quite easily and started walking.
A low, shaky voice asked, "Is he quite mad?" It was Griffiths.
Hermione had been so distracted by everyhthing that she had failed to notice he had stayed behind and not gone into the Castle with the others.
"No. He's not mad at all," Neville answered. Everyone paused to look at him. Even Ron stopped and gawped. Neville had been so quiet they had not expected him to speak.
"How do you know?" Griffiths asked. "He was seeing things and talking about things that weren't there. And staying up for nights on end. It's not normal, is it? Is it, Professor?"
Neville said quite calmly, "I know what insanity looks like. I know its face quite well, because both my parents are insane. Harry's perfectly normal and in his right mind. He wasn't hallucinating, you know. He was Seeing things. He couldn't see here, because he was Seeing what was happening somewhere else."
"Oh," Griffiths said, "Like Divination. But, that's not what I thought it would look like. Professor Trelawney doesn't look like that when she predicts things."
"I think it takes people different ways," Neville answered quite seriously. "Right, Professor?"
Dumbledore nodded very seriously, but Hermione could have sworn there was a tiny twinkle in his blue eyes. They had almost made it past the Great Hall without further incident. Except that students had started straggling in for dinner and Draco Malfoy came strolling up to see what was happening. "Potter's collapsed again!" he announced gleefully. "Barely two weeks back and he's off to the hospital wing again."
Dumbledore started to say something but Ginny got there first. "Quidditch accident," she lied unblushingly. "Out of control bludger knocked him out. Madam Pomfrey will have him sorted out by the morning."
"Such a pity," Malfoy said with earnest and false pity. He bowed with mock respect to Professor Dumbledore and made for the Slytherin table. But once again, Hermione thought, there's something not quite right there. She couldn't put her finger on it. A look about the eyes, a nervousness perhaps. Then she chalked it up to Dumbledore's presence. Only Dumbledore was staring after Malfoy with a faintly perplexed look himself.
