A/N: Finally I finished this chapter - sorry I'm such a slow updater. I have this annoying habit of going over and over the chapter until it feels perfect. And I have to usually write when I'm in the mood for a certain mood, I guess. =) I annoy myself sometimes.
Oh yes, and about the threstrals. To be perfectly clear, Ron and Hermione can't see them. It hasn't been perfectly clear to me in terms of how Sirius died, or whether he even did. We don't even know what the veil is, even though we have our theories. Thanks for the observation! I'm always happy to hear what you all have to say.
Also, before you guys start - Harry, in this story, had his Firebolt when he went to the Dursleys'. It's really unclear in canon whether he got his broomstick back or not, but when I started this story (in December or something), it didn't really occur to me. *shrugs* Oops.
Have fun and enjoy!
* * *
Harry was unpleasantly aware that his insides, which prior to that moment had been full to bursting with candies and excitement, were now in the process of shriveling up and dying. He followed close behind Professor McGonagall as she walked, head hanging, his eyes focused determinedly on her pitter-pattering brass-buckled boots. From the entrance hall, he heard the distinct sounds of screaming, laughter, and applause. Harry scowled at the revelry.
He was endlessly annoyed at himself for being weak and foolhardy, venturing thoughtlessly to Hermione's humble home without so much as a thought for her well-being … at least he could have been mindful of that. It had been worthwhile, he knew this, because Hermione's presence soothed him; yet now, everything he had tossed aside as unimportant became reality. And the shocking, horrendous reality that it was scared him.
He was fighting a losing battle. He knew that without going to Hermione's house the Dursleys would have driven him slowly, painfully insane - and yet, when he left, he was putting himself in danger, as well as Hermione (he recalled this with a uncomfortable spasm of guilt), and now … Well, now Harry didn't know what to expect.
McGonagall was slowing her strides. She turned around. Harry, with an astounded blink, saw that they were standing in front of the giant stone gargoyles which led to Dumbledore's office and Headmaster's quarters. For a fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw the shadow of a smile on her weathered face - but he dismissed this thought quickly as she curtly gestured him forward, and said in a clear, brusque voice, "Pumpkin Pasties."
The gargoyles sprung to life, stepped nimbly out of the way, and McGonagall led Harry forward into the vast, spherical room. He felt like a mindless drone following orders to impending doom as McGonagall gestured him onward up the spiral staircase and up to the oaken door. Grasping the griffin-shaped knocker with one hand, she knocked three times. The door swung open almost silently.
Harry was so deep in thought that McGonagall had to snap her fingers under his nose to get his attention. Amid another fluttering, terrible feeling of regret and foreboding, Harry walked uncomfortably past McGonagall and into Dumbledore's office. From his standpoint, his palpitating heart sounded painfully loud.
McGonagall turned on her heel and left. The door shut behind her resolutely. Harry swallowed and racked his brain desperately for an excuse, any excuse … but it was pointless … his mind was a blinding whir of colors … he couldn't think …
"Hello Harry," said a soft voice. Harry looked up, palms sweating. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, peering at him over half-moon spectacles. Though his gaze was not nearly menacing, Harry felt both fear and determination brew inside him. His eyes spotted the portraits lining the walls; one of the latter headmasters began whispering to his neighbor.
"Hello Professor," said Harry.
Dumbledore smiled. "Won't you sit?" He waved his wand carelessly, and a checkered pouf appeared in front of his desk. Harry sat instantly, insides wriggling unnervingly.
"I have something important to talk with you about," explained Dumbledore with a slight ####### in his eye.
Harry nodded, watching his Headmaster's expression. Then a thought occurred to him. For a brief moment Harry's mind wandered to Hermione and Ron, snug in the candlelit Great Hall, perhaps in a few minutes time tucking in to eat, and felt a pang of envy. But soon it was replaced by confusion. Didn't Dumbledore always attend the Sorting?
"Professor," said Harry, voicing his concerns, "what about the Sorting? Aren't you -?"
"Ah, yes of course. Fortunately, we will finish before the Sorting starts … the first years are always a bit late… " Dumbledore clasped his hands over his desk. "Yes, well … as Minerva kindly reminded me, we are in need of a new Gryffindor Quidditch team captain." He smiled. "She and I would be most pleased if you chose to accept the position."
Harry's hands and feet went numb, and he clenched his fingers together to circulate the blood. He felt like a horde of stampeding Hippogriffs had trampled across his windpipe.
"I understand," Dumbledore continued, noticing the gaping expression on Harry's face, "that this is much more work to add onto you schedule, but I feel certain you can handle it all. Will you consider it?"
Harry's heart was doing cartwheels inside his chest. Consider it?
"I'll do it!" said Harry quickly. His mind whirled. Him, Captain? This was such a surprising relief that he nearly laughed out loud, but caught himself just in time. It didn't seem real.
And he was expecting his headmaster to expel him …
In fact, as he had done with the D.A., Harry began, almost unconsciously, to think of plans, tactics, new players … He would need charts and diagrams, certainly, and he would ask Hermione to help with his planning … He would be fine, all he needed was a bit of organization …
Dumbledore was smiling. "Then it's settled. You can begin preparation as soon as you think appropriate. Professor McGonagall will undoubtedly remind you of your schedule, so no need worrying about that." Dumbledore stood up. "Well, I figure the Sorting will be just about starting …"
Harry stood up as well, still shaking slightly. It had been such a shock, totally unexpected - and Dumbledore hadn't even mentioned his excursion to the Grangers'. Harry felt overwhelmed suddenly with questions. Perhaps he didn't know? No, he reprimanded himself. That's impossible. He would know, wouldn't he?
But as Dumbledore escorted him out of his office, Harry could find no trace of anger or resentment in his gaze. And this unimportant thought drifted unconsciously to the back of his thoughts as excitement bubbled up inside him. Almost absentmindedly, a grin came to his face.
* * *
Harry made his way to the Gryffindor table, passing on the way the white-faced first years (some of who turned to stare avidly at him), and pulled up a seat next to Hermione. She looked up expectantly and nudged her elbow into Ron's ribs, who promptly spit out a half-chewed Chocolate Frog onto his plate. He glared at her.
"Bloody hell, Hermione! Are you trying to kill me?"
"Well, if you didn't eat your food like it was the last on Earth, then maybe it wouldn't be blocking your windpipe, and maybe you wouldn't have that problem!"
Harry felt as though he was walking on air. Not even Ron and Hermione's customary bantering could dampen his spirits.
"What did Dumbledore want, Harry?" asked Hermione, ignoring Ron's roar of outrage and turning to Harry anxiously. "What was so important? Did he ask you about Occlumency training?"
"Er, no," said Harry uncomfortably. He had forgotten all about that.
Ron said impatiently, "Well?"
Harry tore himself away from Hermione's appraising expression and grinned at him. "You're not going to believe this - I'm the new Quidditch captain!"
Ron looked as though he has misunderstood Harry for a moment, before his own face broke into a grin and he patted Harry on the back enthusiastically. "Good going mate! Knew it would have to be you, of course, McGonagall absolutely adores you!" He laughed. "Nearly cried when you were banned last year, and she nearly cried again when the ban was lifted. Well, doesn't matter, we're sure to win the cup again this year!"
He lifted his empty glass in a silent toast. Harry laughed and shook his head.
Only Hermione looked disgruntled. Harry's grin faded a bit. "Hermione, aren't you happy for me?"
"Oh yes, of course, Harry," she said quickly. "Well done."
Harry turned to Ron, feeling rather uncomfortable, but he was already leaning across the table, telling anyone who would listen about Harry's newfound success.
"If it's about the Occlumency thing," Harry whispered, leaning in close to Hermione, "then I'm sorry. It slipped my mind. I promise I'll talk to Dumbledore about it."
Hermione looked a bit happier.
"And you wouldn't think that I'd leave you out of it all?" Harry asked teasingly. "You're my prime coordinator, organizer, and planner. You're helping me out with basically everything I can't possibly do."
Harry grinned.
Hermione flushed, looking slightly embarrassed. "You're making fun of me!"
Harry shook his head vehemently. "I'm being completely serious."
Hermione ###### her eyebrow playfully.
"Okay, maybe a little," Harry admitted. "But I'll still need those charts of yours to manage my time. And your nagging has never allowed me to fail …" Harry watched Hermione's expression carefully, grinning. Whispering again, he said, "Listen, Hermione, I don't know about you, but I want to make this year as normal as possible …"
But as soon as he uttered the words, he dubbed them as the stupidest thing he had ever said.
* * *
Surprisingly, the Sorting was uneventful. In a certain way, Harry was relieved. He did not want to think much about anything. These thoughts were transferred to his appetite, and much to Ron's disproval, he made no move to eat. He thought about the Captain position of the Gryffindor team, but that only made his meal seem all the more unappetizing. He was nervous. He was able to admit that.
To everyone's confusion, Dumbledore's speech did not include announcing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Harry found this odd, as there was no extra chair either. It was as though he skipped the whole process, jumping right to the feast without a word of explanation. Everyone seemed to notice; there were much hushed whispers. Dumbledore paid no heed to these, ending as always with a gentle smile and a slight wink.
* * *
Harry closed his eyes late that night, lying tiredly in his four-poster bed with his hands clasped over his stomach. He listened carefully to the congested snores that could only be Neville's and tried to pick out the nonsense sentences in Ron's muttering, hoping this would lull him to a dreamless sleep. Nothing, however, had come close, and Harry found himself achingly fatigued, unable to rest yet again as night dragged on. Worst of all, his thoughts wandered, taking him into a whole new stage of insomnia.
He felt like he was made of nothing but nerves. Jumping, twitching, excited nerves - a strange mix of emotions that hovered on the brink between mild excitement and complete hysteria. Everything seemed to be happening at once. Everything. Even the Quidditch captain position, which seemed like a dream come true hours earlier, became a rather ominous thought. This is mad, Harry told himself miserably. How can Dumbledore expect me to manage a team when I can barely manage my own life?
Harry rubbed his eyes, removing his glasses in one swift movement. He sighed and clenched his fist against his side.
What he needed, he realized, was someone to talk to. Someone who would listen.
Despite the complications of his tumultuous life, the answer was quite simple.
Harry, suddenly blindingly aware of the prospect of a sleepless night, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. He massaged his forehead, and with a short pang, felt the godforsaken scar under his fingers.
I hate this.
Harry stood up, not bothering with his glasses, and walked to the door of the dormitory. He grasped at the blurry doorknob and twisted. How could he ever think that his life would ever be normal? Harry felt like a fool. It was like trying to forget who he was …
Harry Potter.
Funny how he loathed that name.
Harry made his way, nearly blind, through the dark, gloomy common room. He plopped down on one of the scarlet armchairs, crossing his arms. His breathing calmed, and amazingly, the atmosphere was soothing now instead of threatening.
His eyes wandered aimlessly, until they rested on a solitary figure sitting cross-legged, staring into glowing embers of the fireplace. He squinted.
Even from a distance, devoid of glasses, he could recognize that endearing bushy hair.
"Hermione?" he called quietly.
He saw her turn her head. "Harry?" Her voice was both worried and surprised. "What are you doing up?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he replied, just a bit teasingly.
She smiled, consoled, and Harry got up from his armchair to join her by the fireside. He saw now she was wrapped in a blanket, her legs pulled up securely against her chest. She rested her head on her hands and stared once again into the fire.
"Where are your glasses?" she asked. She turned to look at him; her smile was fuzzy.
Harry was surprised to find himself blushing. "Well, the short story is that I left them in my room."
"There's a long story?" Hermione asked, amused.
"No, not really." Harry touched his face. He frowned.
"Well, I think you look nice," said Hermione, reading his thoughts exactly. "It brings out your eyes."
Harry didn't know why this affected him so much.
"I think you look nice, too," he told her truthfully.
They stared back into the fire. Silence enveloped them both.
"I never thanked your parents properly for letting me stay at your place," Harry started, fishing for a subject to breach. "It was really great, I hope they know that."
Hermione's warm hand touched his arm briefly, then drew back. "I'm sure they understand."
"You're lucky," Harry blurted out unexpectedly. "I mean, having parents like that." Immediately, he regretted saying it. Not even to his closest friends had he talked about his parents or his feelings towards family. It was a silent mutual understanding between them, the trio, which forbade them to go beyond the obvious, comfortable boundaries.
Hermione never made it uncomfortable. She just touched his arm again. He found the gesture soothing.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.
Yes. He did. Desperately.
"No."
No resistance. No begging. No pressure. Hermione merely let the subject go.
Thank you.
A rustle of paper broke the hesitant silence. "Here, I drew these out for you." Hermione handed him a neat folder. Harry was amused to see a roaring lion (rather blurred) emblazoned on its front. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. I know I don't know very much about Quidditch, but I've learned enough over the years to do some things …"
Harry smiled at her, deeply touched. "I'd look at them now," he said, "but I can't see anything." He squinted once again at the cover. "Wow, Hermione! This is amazing. You did this in one night?"
She shrugged modestly. "Oh, it's not much. I just thought you might need some help. Though," she continued, frowning, "it seems rather callous of Dumbledore, handing you such a huge responsibility on such short notice. Don't you have enough on your mind already?"
She didn't know the half of it.
"I'll be fine, Hermione." He grinned reassuringly, but couldn't help thinking how similar her thoughts were to his. His thoughts strayed precariously close to the Prophecy.
Perhaps he should tell her …
No, his mind said firmly. No use worrying her.
Harry thought he saw her look curiously at him, but dismissed it quickly. He was being paranoid.
Why don't I tell her?
You know her. She'd be worried sick.
That was the last thing Harry wanted. That was why he didn't tell anyone in the first place.
The reminder brought him back to his senses.
"Well," Hermione said, getting up and yawning. "I have to sleep. I'm exhausted." She smiled. "'Night, Harry."
Harry wanted her to stay, but kept his mouth securely closed. "'Night."
Hermione wrapped the blanket around her frame and left for the stairs, yawning again. Harry watched her leave before turning back to the folder in his hands. Deciding it would be best looked at in the light, Harry headed off for his own dormitory.
Harry could hear the snores even before he reached the door. Opening it quietly, he picked his way through the room, plopping unceremoniously onto his bed. There he reached for his glasses and shoved them on. Immediately the world cleared.
The folder looked positively marvelous, Harry thought fondly. It was almost too perfect. Tentatively, Harry opened it.
On the inside cover, in her own diligent handwriting, Hermione had written his name. It shone gold against the scarlet background.
The folder itself looked simple enough. Harry tried to pull out one of the labeled sections. However, everything was stuck fast. Harry frowned.
Or not.
A piece of parchment fluttered to the ground. Harry picked it up.
Harry -
To work, tap your wand to the folder and say which section you want opened. It's quite simple, and really very efficient. All you have to do is get the hang of it!
Harry grinned. Just like Hermione.
He reached for his wand on the nightstand. He looked at one of the classified sections, tapped his wand against the folder, and muttered, "Diagram."
A perfect replica of a Quidditch pitch rose out from the base of the folder, sprouting tiny hoops and a nearly microscopic field of green grass. The four miniature balls were floating next to the ground. Harry touched the snitch with the tip of his wand and it began to move, fluttering around the pitch. Even more astounding were the seven scarlet dots that were hovering in a perfect line behind the left goal hoops. On the other side, Harry saw, was a choice of Slytherin, Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw colors.
Harry gaped, at a loss for words. A warm rush of gratitude towards Hermione's brilliant efforts swept through him, and he felt almost dizzy with the graciousness it represented. It seemed that somewhere, something clicked inside his brain. He had always appreciated Hermione, of course - her steadfast attitude and loyalty was more than Harry could have asked for; and he always knew she was astoundingly clever. But to see the finished product of schoolwork was not the same as having, in his hands, a gift that she had labored over just for him.
Harry felt suddenly very guilty. To ease his mental chagrin more than anything else, he touched his wand to a red dot labeled "seeker" and moved his wand across the field. The red dot followed, creating a dashed line behind it.
Amazing.
* * *
"But Hermione doesn't even like Quidditch!"
Ron's voice was disbelieving, mingled with, Harry noticed curiously, a splash of envy. They were in the common room, waiting, as usual, for Hermione to come downstairs. Earlier that morning, Ron had woken up, seen the replica of the Quidditch pitch, and announced with an astounded expression that it was the most "bloody fantastic thing he had ever seen". His exclamation was denounced quite quickly when Harry told him Hermione had created it, and instead, he took to blatant skepticism of her handiwork.
Harry shifted where he was standing. Ron crossed his arms.
"D'you know why Hermione has a sudden love for Quidditch?" he shot at Harry.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Viktor Krum?"
Ron's expression turned from annoyance to searing hatred in a split second. The color of his face was a grotesque mixture between olive and crimson.
Harry grinned, unable to hold out seriously for much longer. "Oh, lighten up, will you? I was kidding."
Ron muttered something under his breath. Harry was suddenly aware of another presence. He looked up.
Hermione was coming down the stairs. She smiled brightly at Harry, and said sharply to Ron, "What's wrong with you this time?"
Harry noticed that most of Ron's abnormal coloring was not yet gone. She gave Ron a look of purest annoyance, huffed, and drew her bag around her shoulders.
"Nothing," responded Ron gruffly. He turned on his heel and left for the portrait hole.
Hermione immediately turned to Harry. Her gaze was questioning.
"I dunno," Harry said, before she could ask. Though Ron was being immature, Harry knew that he would not want Hermione to know about his behavior. Harry understood. Some things are best left unsaid. Hermione seemed to understand the problem anyways, Harry noted. Strange - it was rather discomfiting.
He swiftly changed the subject. "That folder is brilliant," he praised ecstatically. "I never knew you knew so much about Quidditch."
"Well, I have come to all of your games," responded Hermione with a small smile. She added, "Yours and Ron's, I mean."
"We've taught you well," Harry said, grinning. "All we have to do is get you on a broomstick -"
"Oh no!" Hermione interrupted, laughing. "You saw me in first year! I'd rather not risk my neck, thank you very much!"
"The look on your face when you found out books couldn't help you!"
Hermione struggled to breathe, and said between laughter, "I was such a little know-it-all, wasn't I?" She shook her head. "I've changed so much."
Harry was silent, grinning. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him and said seriously, "Harry, this is the point of the conversation where you say, 'oh yes, Hermione, you have changed, and for the better!' and wink."
"What if I say it and don't mean it?" responded Harry cheekily.
"I'll know."
"Really?"
"Really."
"And why do I have to wink?"
Hermione shrugged. She was smirking.
"Fine. Oh yes, Hermione, you have changed, and for the better!" He winked at her.
That did it.
They were both laughing now, so loudly that the first years on the other side of the common room were starting to stare at them.
Hermione's face was shining, her cheeks red from laughter. In Harry's eyes, it was a true portrayal of innocence. He loved to see her happy - somehow it managed to soothe his problems too.
"Are you two coming or what?"
Ron poked his head out from behind the portrait hole, and Harry and Hermione made their way over to him. Harry rolled his eyes so Hermione could see, and she laughed again.
* * *
There was an unusual amount of whispering, Harry noticed, when he, Ron, and Hermione took their seats at the Gryffindor table for breakfast. It was a standard meal, with platters full of sausages and eggs, tureens of sauces, plates piled high of kippers and buttered toast. Harry had not eaten much the night before, and therefore immediately piled as much food as he could muster onto his plate. Ron apparently had the same mindset as Harry, as he was quickly ridding the table of all sweets.
Hermione, however, was reading over their schedules, her plate and utensils untouched. Ron gave her a kind of disappointed look, then tackled his own meal with gusto.
Harry was reaching over the table for some treacle tart when Hermione announced in disbelief:
"There's no Defense Against the Dark Arts class!"
Harry blinked, drawing his hand back. Ron gaped stupidly. "What d'you mean, there's no class?"
Hermione pointed at all three of their schedules. "I mean it's not there. Look!" She ran her finger down the left column. Harry looked around; everyone else seemed to have the same reaction, pointing at their schedules and gesturing confusedly.
"How could Dumbledore just cancel Defense Against the Dark Arts?" said Harry angrily, leaning closer to Hermione to get a better look. "That makes no sense!"
Hermione frowned darkly. "Maybe it has nothing to do with Dumbledore." She looked at Harry. "It's almost certainly Fudge's doing."
"You'd think even he'd understand the importance of Defense Against the Dark Arts, especially now!" exploded Harry. "What do we have to do, shove Voldemort into his office?"
Hermione looked unfazed.
"That wouldn't be a bad idea," muttered Ron under his breath, despite his wince.
Hermione sighed. She did not laugh. "But it's not about that anymore, can't you see? He's still afraid of Dumbledore. Everyone knows if Dumbledore wanted to be Minister, Fudge would stand no chance. He'd be shoved aside for sure. It's absurd, but it's politics."
As the meaning of this sunk in, Harry felt disgusted.
"He'd risk lives for his own personal satisfaction?" asked Harry quietly.
Hermione stared in horror at the look on Harry's face. "Oh, Harry -"
He turned away. Ron looked highly uncomfortable. "Hey, mate, it's okay. That's what we have Aurors for, isn't it? Voldemort isn't our problem."
A flurry of rage overcame Harry for a moment. He couldn't think clearly.
Not our problem.
He's my problem.
Kill or be killed.
I hate this.
"Harry?"
Hermione's voice pushed through the din of his thoughts.
"Harry, you're shaking! What's wrong?"
Harry stared at her white face, his eyes flickering to meet hers for a moment before turning away.
"I'm fine," his voice told her unconvincingly. It didn't sound like his voice at all; it was more like a broken record than anything, off-key and crackling.
"You can tell us if something's wrong," said Ron.
No. I can't.
Standing up, Harry mumbled, "I'm going for a walk. I'll see you two later."
Harry saw Hermione make a move to stand up, then freeze as Ron put a hand on her arm. He could feel their eyes on the back of his head all the way out into the corridor.
Like a tidal wave, hopelessness washed over him. It felt impossible that he could fix everything. Was that not what the whole damn world wanted? For him to solve their problems, avenge their deaths and grievances? Harry hated himself for being targeted, and he didn't know why. He had escaped, simple as that, and he didn't know why people looked up to him. It was slowly killing him. Harry scowled and shoved his hands in his robes. His own friends thought him a monotonous superhero, scourging the world of evil.
But, Harry corrected himself, you've never shown weakness to anybody. You're afraid of being ordinary. A nobody. You don't want to relive that.
Sirius. His parents. How could he just ignore Voldemort's reign of power?
Harry walked out into the cold autumn air, breathing in the musty scent of fallen leaves. The grounds looked simply stunning, a pattern of yellows and oranges against the ripe green of the sprouting grass. The lake was as clear as a mirror, reflecting in it the colorful trees and crystal skies. He felt it unorthodox to be sullen on such a perfect morning, but there was not a thing to be done about it. In one swift movement, Harry grabbed a stone from the ground and threw it across the lake.
This is weakness, his mind hissed.
Harry felt an immense force press down on his lungs. His eyes stung, his throat burned.
Was this how it was to be weak?
Harry didn't know how long he was out by the lake, glaring at life. It felt like forever. Time was dragging, lapsing into short spurts of energy before fading. Clouds began to form above his head, floating away as he sat. The longer he thought, the more hopeless he became, until it was nearly unbearable. It was too much. Hermione was right. Dumbledore was callous. He didn't know, he didn't think. Harry was beginning to question if he cared at all. He didn't seem to care when Harry left the Dursleys. If he had cared, he would have talked to Harry. Scolded him, even. Screamed and yelled, slammed his fists against the table, forbidding Harry to disobey him ever again.
But Dumbledore didn't even notice.
He looked across the lake. It was impossible. Just impossible.
* * *
When Harry finally decided to come back inside, the corridors were empty. Everyone was in class. He strolled down to his first lesson, not bothering to look where he was going. He passed Filch on the way, who sent him a truly evil glare, and could have sworn he passed Peeves at least three times. On the third, he was setting a quite treacherous contraption for the next person who entered Charms. Harry ignored him as always, decidedly keeping his distance from the door.
"Potter!"
Harry raised his head tiredly. Professor McGonagall was striding towards him. He waited for the reprimand to come, but surprisingly, it didn't.
"Potter, can I have a word?"
Harry nodded, and she drew him aside. "I heard you accepted the position."
His muddled brain sorted this information slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."
She smiled. "When are you beginning tryouts?"
Yes. Tryouts. Harry had forgotten. He had been so caught up with managing the team that he forgot about getting one.
"Whenever you're ready, of course, Potter," McGonagall urged him.
Tryouts would be ideal to take his mind off everything. Maybe Quidditch could keep him focused.
"Tomorrow. I'll start the tryouts tomorrow." Despite himself, Harry felt a quiver of excitement in his stomach.
McGonagall looked positively faint with happiness. "Well then, Potter, good luck to you. But if you ask me, I haven't seen a sorrier bunch of players in years." She peered at him sternly over her spectacles. "Make sure you choose appropriately for the team. I trust in your abilities."
Another person not to let down.
"Thank you, Professor," said Harry.
"Don't overwhelm yourself, Potter."
* * *
"Despite it being suspiciously like homework, this is almost fun!" exclaimed Ron. He was waving his wand around, experimenting with different colors.
Harry grinned, while Hermione clicked her tongue.
"Homework is fun, if you appreciate it," she said. Harry and Ron grinned at each other as she leaned forward to add a splash of crimson tint to the flyer. "When you're older, maybe," she added.
Ron rolled his eyes so she couldn't see. "Okay, Hermione."
He seemed determined not to make a scene out of berating her. Harry found it relieving, especially now, as all he needed was peace and quiet. He supposed they both had collaborated on the attempt to remain civil towards each other, but he appreciated it all the same. He had come back from his talk with McGonagall feeling slightly happier, telling Ron and Hermione about the scheduled tryouts the next day. Hermione had immediately suggested flyers. To his relief, they had both offered to help.
"We'll just put this up on the bulletin board when we're done," said Hermione, smiling at her work.
"I can't wait!" said Ron happily. "Wonder who'll show up?"
"You, me, Ginny," said Harry, counting off on his fingers. "Who else?"
"I suppose Ginny would want to be chaser now that you're back," said Ron, grinning slyly at Harry.
"Oh please, Ron, not this again," Hermione said snappishly, cutting into the conversation.
"What?"
"Harry and Ginny. You know she doesn't fancy him anymore."
"Still," said Ron. "It's worth a shot."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "But Harry doesn't fancy her."
"How do you know?"
"It's obvious."
"But -"
"Could you please stop talking like I'm not here?" Harry interrupted, as Hermione turned back to the flyer with a tetchy huff. Ron's teeth ground together.
The trio sat in silence for another few minutes, working on the flyer. Finally, they were done.
"I think this is the best work I've done, ever," said Ron.
Hermione was smiling at the finished product.
Harry grinned. "Not too shabby."
* * *
Harry was a complete nervous wreck when he walked down to the Quidditch pitch the next evening. He was dressed in his uniform, Firebolt slung over his shoulder, feet quaking in his boots. Thoughts, welcome and unwelcome, flooded his mind. What if he was a terrible captain? What if no one showed up? What if he made a fool out of himself in front of everyone? Harry knew he was a strong player, but he had never even considered if he could lead an entire team.
Ron noticed his far-off expression. "You'll be fine."
"Yeah," he murmured.
From his side, Hermione said soothingly, "Don't worry, Harry. It's always hard the first day. Remember the D.A.?"
Harry sighed. She was right.
As they neared, Harry spotted a crowd gathered near the stands. A few were sitting, their chins resting on their hands. He walked up to them, and they looked up. His throat went dry; nearly thirty or more Gryffindors had shown, all looking cool and expectant. He felt a small nudge at his side and saw Hermione point to the stands and mouth, 'I'll be up there.' As she left, he felt his courage falter slightly. Some people watched her curiously until she sat down.
"Hi everyone," said Harry. He shifted where he was standing. He clutched Hermione's folder tightly. "Thanks for coming."
Some people nodded.
"Er, I guess I'd better introduce myself." Harry cleared his throat. "My name is Harry Potter, and I'm Gryffindor captain this year." He saw the typical double take concerning his scar, but ignored it as always. "To be honest, I'm a bit nervous this evening, so don't be surprised if I do something extremely stupid."
There was some laughter. Harry felt his hopes rising.
"It's simple, really. We'll have different stations, you could say, for each position." Harry pointed across the pitch. "Because of a shortage of players, I've decided to just wipe the slate clean. Er, every position is open except for seeker, which is what I play."
The crowd seemed to be hanging on to his every word.
"Let's get to it then! Everyone have their broomsticks?" There was a murmured 'yes.' Harry pointed out each station. "Keepers by the far goal posts, beaters in the middle … over there … and chasers right here. Okay?"
Harry glanced up at Hermione. She smiled.
"I didn't know you were going to do that," said Ron. Harry turned his eyes away from Hermione.
"What?"
"Just make a whole new team," Ron said bluntly. "I didn't know you were going to do that."
Harry rubbed the back of his head. "It's not you, Ron. Or Ginny. You two are almost guaranteed a spot. I just want to start the whole team over, that's all."
"Oh. Okay." Ron looked mollified. "I guess I'd better go then."
Harry grinned. "Break a leg."
Ron raised his eyebrows. "I'd rather not, actually."
"Get going," said Harry, grinning, "or I might have to throw you off the team."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm going, I'm going."
Harry hugged Hermione's folder closer to his side and sat down to watch the chasers.
It seemed like the night lasted forever, yet took no time at all. Harry's eyes were beginning to strain as he watched everyone strive to impress him. There were some good players with a few problems, some weak players who could become better with practice, and some lousy wannabes who seemed to have shown up just to see the famous Harry Potter. Harry ignored these people as best he could, though they seemed to move in his line of vision like a moth to a light.
It was sometime later that Hermione tapped his shoulder and announced her departure. At this point Harry began to wish for the end of the tryouts. He looked down at the notes he had taken and the names he had written down as prospective teammates. He rubbed his eyes and watched Ron block another potential goal. Even though he still wasn't extremely confident about his skills, Harry had to admit Ron was getting better. He supposed he had practiced over the summer. Harry looked at his broomstick lying against the ball crate. He was itching to fly. It was almost overwhelming.
Finally (hours later, it seemed), Harry called it quits. "Good job, all of you!" he said proudly. He grinned at the group, and saw some girls turn their heads together, cheeks burning. "Well, er, I think I'll have the team figured out soon … so check the board in the common room. I'll have it posted there."
The crowd quickly dispersed, talking together loudly. A few people came up to him, looking breathless, asking how they did. Harry recognized these as the tagalong hero-worshippers, and though he was polite, disentangled himself from their midst as swiftly as possible and hurried up to Ron.
"All right?" he said as soon as Ron was in speaking range.
Ron was grinning over Harry's shoulder. "Those girls have been eyeing you all night."
Harry didn't have to turn around. "I know. They're bloody frustrating. Don't know a thing about Quidditch."
"You mean to say you're not completely flattered by their infatuation?" asked Ron in mock surprise. He grinned at Harry's huff of impatience and waggled his eyebrows. "If I were you, mate -"
"Don't even start, Ron," said Harry, gathering together the balls into the crate. Ron grinned good-naturedly.
"Spoilsport."
"At least I'm not desperate."
"Ouch."
Harry panted as he strapped in a struggling Bludger. "Listen, Ron, go ahead. I'll be done in a minute."
As soon as Ron was gone, Harry sat down on the grass. The tryouts had gone wonderfully, Harry thought with a surge of pride. Everything had gone according to plan. And it had also executed his wishes perfectly - his mind had been blissfully blank for hours, lingering only on Quidditch and its players. Nothing could have helped him more.
But now …
Sitting here, Harry realized how wrong he was. It was when he was alone that his thoughts rushed back. He thought he could escape, he thought he could sweep his problems under the rug and let them rot. He was wrong.
Harry shut his eyes tightly. Maybe if he thought too hard the damn thoughts would destroy his mind. Maybe they would kill him. Painlessly even. If he could just end it now -
No. He shuddered. No.
Suicide. The word was bitter. Atrocious. Shameful.
Was homicide better? To kill another, take a life.
Genocide. Racial extermination. Was that what he was fighting to stop? He was the protagonist, wasn't he? The hero?
Harry shuddered again. He grasped his broom in his hands.
"Harry! Harry!"
A shock wave raced through his body so quickly his breath caught. He turned. Hermione slid to a stop right next to him; Harry had to grab her shoulders so she wouldn't fall forward.
Her face was red against the cool night air, and she clutched a stitch her side. "Harry," she panted, breathless.
"What?" he asked worriedly. His eyes searched her body for any harm. To his embarrassment and hers, Hermione pulled her cloak around her winded form rather quickly. Her cheeks flushed a brighter red, and Harry was sure it wasn't from the cold.
She stammered, "Harry, I - I know who the Pensieve belonged to."
"What?" He was stupefied.
Hermione was looking at him now with an almost pitying expression. She spoke with a hushed voice that brought chills down Harry's spine. "I don't know if you really want to hear this, but … Harry, the Pensieve - it belonged to your father."
* * *
Again, sorry it took so long for me to update. I hope you like this chapter - this is the longest I've written, ever. Consider it a record - and a one-timer thing at that.
Two and a half more days of school! I'll update more in the summer, I promise.
Cheers!
-Lauren