Chapter 8
Training Begins
Well past midnight, Harry returned from Grimmauld and fell to his bed, sweaty and exhausted. His training wasn't going nearly as well as he had hoped. First, Moody and Tonks had gotten the better of him, then he couldn't perform to McGonagall's standards and so received a four roll essay assignment on defensive transfiguration and, Flitwick had positively destroyed any illusions Harry may have had that he was a decent Dueler.
It didn't help matters either now that Moody had taken every opportunity to "surprise attack" Harry several times a day, he had even done it during Harry's lessons with the others. The fact that Harry had been unprepared to defend himself in time during each of these "attacks" seemed only to fuel Moody's desire to increase the frequency of them.
"You never know when you might be on the wrong end of a wand boy," Moody had admonished after the fourth attack, "you aren't going to be able to tell when a Death Eater is coming for you, so it's best to just be prepared at all times."
Every creaking, popping, cracking, whooshing, and murmuring sound currently had Harry's hair on end, wand pointed at the ready, and his left eye twitching uncontrollably. It seemed that because Moody had no children of his own, he had taken it to heart to create a duplicate of himself in Harry.
So once again, he found himself tired, depressed, miserable, and for the first time, truly paranoid. If none of his mentors could defeat Voldemort, how exactly he was supposed to do it he still hadn't a clue. He couldn't even defend himself against Moody's repeated assaults.
The feeling of hopelessness had returned full force and strangely, a feeling of peace with the inevitable. Destiny seemed to have called for his death, and as the days went by, Harry not only became more aware of it, he became more accepting of it.
Harry closed his eyes and attempted to recall the events of the past few days, certain that Moody wouldn't dare accost him at his Uncles house, after all Harry wasn't allowed to do magic here. And truth be told, at the moment he was so sore and drained, Voldemort himself could come waltzing into his bedroom and Harry would welcome the opportunity to be put out of his misery.
Sighing heavily, Harry began the mental rituals Hermione had instructed him to do every night before going to sleep in her first letter. He quickly learned that they were necessary for him clear his mind and reflect properly.
A smile crept onto his face. Hermione had helped him already, and she wasn't even around to do so. He thought it quite funny that she had taken to writing him every day again. In fact, the first letter explaining the mind clearing techniques Dumbledore had taught her had been written on airline stationary, which led Harry to strongly suspect that she had started her letter while on the plane to France.
Seeing Hedwig had been a real treat also. He was happy to see that she looked in high sprits once more and made a point to pet her affectionately. It seemed that being with Hermione had done his pet good; she had obviously taken extra care of her. Harry hoped that Hermione would feel the same once he returned Crookshanks, and at that thought, the part Kneazle jumped onto the bed, purring loudly.
"Hello old boy," Harry began as he scratched Crookshanks behind the ears.
"I'm sorry I have to keep dragging you back and forth between here and Grimmauld. It's just that I can't let you run around here too much… you know how my relatives are."
Actually, Harry had seen very little of them. They seemed to have taken on extra curricular activities outside the house. They were seldom home these days. It was as if Hermione had actually put Uncle Vernon completely out. He hadn't said two words to Harry since, and avoided him like never before. Harry still had a hard time believing what she had done. He had been stunned into silence at the time, though `scared' into silence might be a better description now that he thought about it. A confrontation with Voldemort seemed a wiser choice, he decided, opposed to an angry and hostile Hermione. Harry grinned fondly at the memory. He hadn't seen Uncle Vernon with such a look of abject terror since before first year when Hagrid gave Dudley his tail.
It seemed so long ago. If he knew then, what he knew now, would he still have followed Hagrid into this strange world? At the time, he had thought that anything would have been better than where he was, but now? Harry wasn't as sure anymore.
It used to be one adventure after another. He realized that he had felt younger then - time would last forever, and he, along with his friends, were immortal. The situation had become much grimmer since, and the certainty of survival had long since passed. He found himself in quite desperation; hoping both Ron and Hermione would not only survive being his friend, but that they would also go on with their lives, and not take the responsibility for his death.
Harry had begun to think of his own demise with such ease now that he no longer shuddered. In fact, he had taken a note out of his Godfathers book and had written a will of his own. He had been quite surprised to find how easy it was to write of such things.
In it, he had thanked every one he knew for helping him prepare, and for all their offerings of friendship. He told Remus not to blame himself, and that he would tell both his parents and Sirius how much he tried and cared. He especially thanked both Ron and Hermione for being his best friends through it all, and he had even taken the time to write how sorry he was that he could no longer be with them, but hoped that the reading of his will meant that he had at least taken Voldemort with him, and they could all live safely now.
He would leave one third each of his inheritance to Lupin, Ron, and Hermione. Grimmauld would go to Lupin, the chocolate frog cards to Ron, and the two possessions that Harry cared about the most would go to Hermione - Hedwig and his photo album. Hedwig did seem perfectly happy to stay with her, and vice versa. His album was another story all together; he had fist thought of Lupin, as there were of pictures of his parents and Sirius. Though curiously, he couldn't find any with Lupin, and that had made Harry fell uneasy for some reason he couldn't quite grasp.
There were plenty of pictures of him with Ron and Hermione however, courtesy of one Colin Creevey, and curious still, the majority of those were of just he and Hermione. Of course, most were from fourth year when Ron wasn't talking to him, and Colin had gone absolutely nutters with his camera in a futile attempt to capture every moment of the Tri-Wizard tournament, especially those of the Gryffindor champion. Besides, Hermione was a girl, and Harry supposed she would appreciate something more sentimental than his chocolate frog cards.
Harry took a deep breath and concentrated on clearing his mind once more as Crookshanks climbed up onto his lower chest and curled into a ball. It seemed to have become his custom every night since Harry started taking care of him. It kept Harry quite warm, and he felt that he slept better for it.
A cool breeze wafted through the open window and the scents of Hermione's coat hanging on the back of Harry's study chair entered his consciousness. He had draped it over the chair shortly after she left, hoping to get all the wrinkles out of it so that he could return it properly. At first, he thought of hanging it in his wardrobe, but peculiarly he gained comfort in seeing out in the open. As the nights went by, he found himself pushing the coat-covered chair closer and closer to the head of his bed. She seemed to be closer that way… and he felt less alone.
Regardless, he hadn't had a single nightmare since he had obtained it. But, he guessed that it had more to do with Crookshanks than anything else. After all, the Kneazle did make him feel rather warm and comfortable. He supposed that was one of the many reasons Hermione was so fond of her pet.
"Is this how you sleep with Hermione too?" Harry mumbled sleepily.
Crookshanks merely purred louder in answer, the vibrations relaxed and soothed Harry's aching body even more than he had grown accustomed too. He grinned goofily at the pleasant sensations and envisioned the bandy-legged cat similarly resting on Hermione as she slept.
Harry tightened his closed eyes and began breathing slowly, deliberately, and rhythmically, focusing on the imaginary Hermione as she breathed until her chest rose and fell in sync with his. Crookshanks' purrs became more pronounced, and Harry could feel the calming vibrations throughout his body and imagined Hermione feeling the same. He could clearly see the ginger paws resting at her pajama top's V, where her cream-colored skin met the flannel, highlighting the little freckles like stars in some distant, glorious milky painted galaxy… rising and falling, rising and falling…
A sudden rush of heat entered Harry's face, and he suddenly felt as if on fire when he came to the crashing realization that he had been focusing not on Crookshanks, but on Hermione's chest. Embarrassingly, he quickly adjusted his mental mechanics and forced the image from his mind, concentrating instead on the first days of training…
…Harry found himself in the basement kitchen at Grimmauld. It was four in the afternoon and he was prepared to meet Moody for his first lesson. He looked around and found a hot teakettle, two cups, and some crumpets on the middle of the giant table. He noticed that one of the cups sat half full and supposed it belonged to Moody. Too nervous for food or drink, Harry sat and waited for his first instructor to return.
His thoughts returned once more to the events earlier in the day. He couldn't get his mind off of what Hermione had done. She had really surprised him, not with just her cooking, but the way in which she helped him with Sirius. Their talk had made him feel a bit better in spirit, and she had even defended him rather like a mother bear protecting her cubs. He hadn't seen Uncle Vernon run off, but by the time Hermione had left with Kingsley, and Harry turned to head back into his room to prepare for the day, Uncle Vernon was nowhere to be found. Harry grinned rather stupidly at the image; Hermione seemed to have frightened Uncle Vernon more so than the Order had back at the train station.
And what exactly had she been embarrassed about when he caught her in the process of making his bed? Harry had returned to his room only to find his knickers untouched in his trunk, nevertheless she had acted so oddly…
Harry's musings were interrupted by the opening of the kitchen door, but when he looked, no one was there.
"Moody?" asked Harry hesitantly.
To which there came no reply.
"Dobby?" called Harry questioningly.
The silence of the house remained, and Harry was growing anxious.
He pulled his wand out of his jeans and headed cautiously out and up the stairs into the main hall. It was there in the middle that he could feel the prickling return to the back of his neck. He knew immediately that he was being watched, so he narrowed his eyes and began searching about in an attempt to locate Moody's eye.
He caught sight of the bluish beam emanating down the main hall from what Harry remembered to be the study.
`What is Moody doing in there?' Harry wondered.
Harry approached the closed door and knocked softly, whispering "Mr. Moody?"
Silence reigned once more as Harry slowly opened the door. He looked to back of the room and against a large bookcase where the "eye" obviously stood hidden behind the opalescent sheen of an invisibility cloak.
"Honestly Mr. Moody, don't you remember that I can see you under that cloak?" Harry heard himself say, and then roll his eyes as he realized that he had just sounded just like Hermione.
The only thing Harry heard before he fell to a heap on the ground was a woman's voice from behind him as she whispered, "stupefy!"…
"…Alright boy, sit up and take it easy," Moody's gruff and raspy voice said as he propped Harry up against the back of the door.
Harry's head hurt as his vision spun wildly about the room.
"Wha-what happened?" Harry managed to say.
"Sorry Harry! It was Moody's idea!" exclaimed a voice that unmistakably belonged to Tonks.
"T-Tonks?" questioned Harry as he looked bleary eyed at the obviously feminine figure hunched over his right, she appeared very concerned.
"I told you this was a bad idea! We should have given him some hint of what was going to happen today!" berated Tonks to a very unapologetic Moody.
"What? You think that the Death Eaters will give the boy some kind of advanced notice before they attack him?" Moody growled. "You know better than that Tonks! He needs to be prepared!"
"Here Harry, drink some of this," whispered Tonks as she handed him a small vial of white colored liquid.
She uncorked it and a strong smell of peppermint entered Harry's nose.
Harry took a sip and noticed that it tasted just like the Pepperup Potion he was all too familiar with, but a bit stronger. His head and vision cleared the instant he swallowed.
"That's it Harry, a sip is all it takes," said Tonks as she re-corked the vial and placed it in her robe pocket. She stepped back with an appraising look.
Harry quickly got to his feet before replying.
"Why did you guys attack me?" he asked incredulously, rubbing the back of his head.
"You got to be prepared boy," Moody reiterated. "You got to be aware of your surroundings at all times. You can't think that you're ever safe - ever!"
Harry thought Moody was being a bit unfair; after all, he had prepared himself for a lesson, not an attack that's for sure.
"Well, at least you had enough sense to have your wand out," Moody finished, shaking his head in thought when Harry failed to reply.
"Harry, Death Eaters aren't going to attack you by themselves. They always work in pairs at the very least, much as Aurors do. With any luck, Alastor and I will show you what it takes to handle yourself against multiple attackers," Tonks said, looking more serious than Harry had ever seen.
The rest of the afternoon proved to be no better. Harry had a difficult time at best defending himself against the two Aurors, let alone return hexing. Though he had managed to stun Tonks on two separate occasions, Moody seemed to be cut out of an entirely different cloth. Harry quickly saw why he was considered the best Auror that had ever lived, he was damn near impossible to defend against even when Harry knew where he was and what he was going to do.
It didn't get any easier when Moody decided to chuck his invisibility cloak and remove his magical eye, because then, he became truly invisible to Harry. Why he could see the magic in those items, but not in the two Aurors like Hermione had supposed he would, he hadn't a clue. He didn't think it would help much anyway, it would just confirm his depressing suspicions that he was already magically out classed by his two instructors.
After the sixth time Harry regained consciousness, they called it a day…
…"Alright Potter, what we are going to attempt to do today is considered N.E.W.T level. It has been referred to as `defensive transfiguration', but all it simply is, is making those objects which are inanimate around you, animate - to serve the purposes of either protection or distraction or both," Professor McGonagall declared sternly as she stood in the middle of the basement training room and looked over her glasses at a confused Harry.
The basement training room looked at first to be similar to the room of requirement back at Hogwarts, that is, empty until something specific was needed. Currently, there sat a large wardrobe at one end to Harry's right, and a writing desk at the other to his left. The walls appeared to be padded with heavy rolls of cloth, and the door through which they entered had disappeared. The floor looked wooden, but felt spongy with every step, and the ceiling seemed to have recessed lighting, much like his Aunt Petunia's kitchen. Other than that, the room didn't seem unusual at all.
"I see by the look on your face that a demonstration is in order. Please retreat ten paces and have your wand at the ready," the Professor said, as she too removed her wand from underneath her emerald green robes, and stepping a few feet back.
"Now, hex me Potter… if you can," McGonagall stated as a small, challenging smile curled the corners of her thin lips.
"B-but Professor, I can't attack you!" Harry sputtered; astonished that she would make such a request.
"Please do Mr. Potter," she replied somewhat impatiently.
Still uncertain, Harry raised his wand, hesitated for a moment, then pointed it at her and yelled, "Expelliarmus!"
Just as the incantation left his lips, the Professor motioned her wand towards the wardrobe at the far right of the room, which sprung to life and dashed in between Harry's spell and McGonagall, effectively blocking it.
"There is a great benefit to this spell if you can master it," she said pointedly. "Try again if you please."
"Rictusempra, Stupefy, Incendio!" Harry yelled in quick succession.
Just as the wardrobe came to life again, McGonagall pointed her wand at Harry yelling, "Tarantallegra!"
The wardrobe threw its doors open and danced around catching the first two spells without effect. Harry's third spell, however, completely incinerated it.
He motioned his wand up and down as he shouted, "Protego!" thereby blocking McGonagall's counter attack.
McGonagall straightened, tilted her head to one side, and raised her eyebrows in mild surprise.
"I can honestly say that I've never seen the Incendio spell have that exact effect before," she said, conjuring a duplicate wardrobe with her wand and setting it back against the far right wall.
"But Professor, why transfigure the wardrobe at all? I mean, why not just summon it so that it's in the way of the spell?" Harry asked, frowning. He reasoned it would be much simpler, and besides, he already knew how to do that.
"I'm sorry Potter, I thought that to be obvious," McGonagall answered wryly, "If you're concentration and spell is fixated on an object during your defense, how are you supposed to counter?" she questioned.
"Ok, you've got a point," Harry replied sheepishly.
"As you may have noticed, by animating the wardrobe, and giving the specific instructions to intercept all the spells aimed at me, I was free to return my attention to you and counter with my own offensive spells," she patiently explained.
"But how do I do that?" Harry asked, completely perplexed.
"It's no different than the tea cup exercises you do in my class, though the wardrobe and table may be bigger, the principle remains the same," the Professor encouragingly replied. "Shall we give it a try then?"
"I suppose…," answered Harry, a bit concerned.
He hoped he didn't make a complete fool of himself. He remembered that he could barely get his teacup to stand, let alone move around on its own accord, whereas Hermione could make hers run circles around his.
It would be so much simpler if he were allowed to dodge the spells instead, he mused.
"Tarantallegra!" yelled McGonagall.
Harry pointed his wand at the table, mentally ordering it to intercept the hostile spell; which immediately came to life, tripped over its own legs, and crashed loudly to the ground. With nothing to stop it, and no time to utter a defensive spell, McGonagall's struck him, to which Harry's legs began moving about with a mind of their own.
This precise scene played itself out four more times in a row, and he was becoming completely frustrated that he couldn't get the table to move without damaging itself. Now Harry's legs were getting tired, and he felt he was losing his concentration.
"Finite Incantatem!" commanded the Professor, teetering on the brink of exasperation, "Honestly Potter, must Ms. Granger be right next to you for you to get the…AAAHHH!"
Harry didn't understand what just happened. One second Professor McGonagall was lecturing, the next screaming, and then, apparently, he passed out, only to wake up moments later with his back to one of the padded walls in the training room, with both Moody and McGonagall hovering over him - his vision blurry, and his head in an uncomfortable spin.
Harry's mood grew darker as the sudden realization that he had been stunned for the seventh time in two days hit him. He was not growing fond of the experience.
"Here, drink some of this son," growled Moody, "You'll pick right up."
Harry recognized the vial as the same type of super Pepperup Potion Tonks had given him the first day.
"What is the meaning of this Alastor?" shouted McGonagall, completely incensed.
"Preparing Harry of course," answered Moody matter-of-factly as he straightened himself, satisfied that Harry had sipped enough of the potion and was coming around.
"Preparing?" spat McGonagall, "Preparing for what exactly? You Disillusioned yourself, hid in the corner of this room, and then stunned Potter with his back turned - in the middle of my lessons no less!"
"Minerva!" retorted Moody in his gravelly voice, "The boy's got to be ready for anything! Constant vigilance I say! Constant Vigilance!" he finished, yelling as he pounded one gnarly fist into the palm of his other hand.
"Constant…?" started McGonagall in disbelief, clutching her chest with one hand and stepping back, "Have you gone completely mad?"
"How else is he supposed to be ready? He's got to be aware at all times!" stated Moody defensively.
"Why on earth are you wearing that ridiculous thing?" demanded McGonagall, completely ignoring Moody's answer, staring intently at his disfigured face.
It was then that Harry noticed the black patch covering the socket where Moody's magical eye should have been.
The old Auror contorted his face, scrunched his real eye even more than usual, and cracked a crazed toothy grin. With his wild - scraggly hair flailing about, and wooden clawed leg, Harry felt certain that a pirate's hat would have made Moody's look complete.
"Didn't Dumbledore tell you? Potter here can see magical objects, I would have given myself away!" responded Moody the pirate rather proudly.
"I see," said McGonagall, as she gave Harry the first true smile of the day, "Never the less, four rolls of parchment detailing what we've attempted. I'll expect it by next week Potter… "
"…Oh, I was so excited when the Headmaster asked me to instruct you in the fine art of Dueling!" squeaked Professor Flitwick as he happily clapped his long fingered hands together.
He stood at one end of the training room, now devoid of furniture, and instructed Harry to stand facing him at the other. For the first time, Harry really took a good look at the short Professor. He unexpectedly had the brief thought that Flitwick might some how be related to the Goblins…
It didn't surprise Harry to see that the little Professor stood no taller than a few feet; he came to the quick conclusion that his small stature definitely would be a strong asset in Dueling - he simply presented a smaller target. He was surprised, however, at just how ancient Flitwick seemed to be. His mannerisms and youthful disposition stood in stark contrast to both his shock of white hair, and the wrinkles that lined his face.
Flitwick grinned happily and pulled his wand out from his brightly colored green-teal robes as he hummed a strange, light tune. He pointed his wand about the room, causing the walls, floor, and ceiling to give a faint bluish glow.
"An absorbent charm," answered Flitwick, noticing Harry's questioning look.
He then brought his wand to his chest and played with the tip of it with the fingers of his left hand, lecturing as he bounced on the balls of his feet.
"The most important aspect of dueling is not simply dodging your opponents volleys, but in knowing what the spell that is being cast actually is, and therefore, blocking, deflecting, or altering it all together," started Flitwick.
"I'm sorry Professor, but what do you mean by `altering'?" questioned Harry.
The old Professor looked up in thought for a moment, and then responded, "It involves the varying degrees of spells. Some can be blocked, some deflected, and some altered. To block, your defensive charm's power must be greater than your opponent's. If both your opponent's and your defensive spells are of equal strength, then the offending spell will be deflected. If the offending spell is of greater power than your defensive one, you will be struck. The key here, and this is what separates the great Duelers form the average, is to alter the spell itself. If you happen to be struck by a restraining charm, for example, you must override its basic command structure to suit your own needs."
Harry furrowed his brow in confusion.
"I see a demonstration is in order," began Flitwick excitedly, "Please attempt to disarm me Mr. Potter."
Harry assumed his dueling stance and prepared to cast, the Charms Professor however, didn't move at all.
"Expelliarmus!" yelled Harry, pointing his wand at Flitwick.
With surprising speed Harry didn't think Flitwick possessed, the old professor thrust his wand in an up and down motion while muttering, "Protego!", and the disarming charm became completely absorbed by the shield spell.
"How about something a bit stronger this time Mr. Potter," requested Flitwick pleasantly.
"Petrificus Totalus!" shouted Harry, aiming the spell at Flitwick once more.
Once again, Flitwick cast his shield charm, but this time, instead of Harry's spell being absorbed, the body-binding spell ricocheted off with a low `twang' and struck the ceiling.
"Oh, this is going to be so much fun!" Flitwick gleefully exclaimed clapping his hands together once more, "Let's try something truly nasty now shall we?"
The old professor thought for a moment before excitedly stating, "Minerva tells me you're a natural with fire charms! Let's have you set me on fire!"
If Harry never thought the little Professor entirely insane before, he surely would from this point forward.
"P-Professor… I can't do that!" exclaimed Harry, horrified at the very idea.
"It's quite alright I assure you! It wouldn't be the first time you know!" he responded confidently, "Go on!"
Harry felt sure he was going to regret this, maybe if he cast a small one…
"Incendio," he mumbled softly, not putting any effort into the spell at all.
A small, pencil thin stream of fire escaped Harry's wand, easily deflected by Flitwick's shield charm.
"Come now Mr. Potter, don't embarrass yourself so! How often do you get the chance to attack a teacher?" he cajoled.
When Harry hesitated, Flitwick switched tactics.
"Pretend I'm Serverus," he suggested, "We've all wanted to hex him at one time or another!" he finished, covering his mouth with both hands in mild surprise.
Harry couldn't help but chuckle at his Charms Professor as he dropped his hands and grinned roguishly, twirling his wand with his long fingers.
"Ready when you are Mr. Potter."
Might as well do as asked, he was a Dueling champion, Harry reasoned.
"Incendio!" yelled Harry.
Harry grew immediately concerned, though Flitwick had said he was ready, Harry didn't think he was prepared for the ball of fire that hurled itself towards him at an alarming speed. He watched as a wide-eyed Flitwick motioned his wand side to side, and then become completely engulfed in flames.
Harry quickly panicked, thinking he had killed his teacher, but just as he started to run forward, the flames surrounding Flitwick changed from a dark red and orange color to a white. Then, to Harry's continued astonishment, Flitwick emerged unscathed from a plume of feathers, breathing heavily, but smiling.
The Professor took a few steps towards Harry, then turned, pointed at the feathers still suspended in the air and said, "See Mr. Potter, I altered your spell since I was incapable of either blocking or deflecting it."
The little Professor paused, bent over, and placed both hands on his knees. He took a few deep breathes then stated, "Whew! That was quite the fire charm Mr. Potter; remind me not to be so foolish next time! Now… let's Duel shall we?" he asked, straitening and smiling once more.
Harry didn't need to Duel with the Charms Professor more than once to realize just how out-classed he was. Flitwick had easily disarmed, body-binded, jelly-legged, babbling cursed, bat-bogied, twitchy-eared, silenced, petrified, and roped Harry in succession. All and all, Harry felt this wasn't the best confidence building session he had ever had.
"I think that's enough for today Mr. Potter," said Flitwick softly, "Just go over the altering techniques you learned today with Mr. Lupin. You are a quick study young man; this is only the first day. I had the same troubles with my first lesson. Now that you have been exposed to this new way of Dueling, I guarantee a better outcome for you when we meet again next week," he finished encouragingly.
"Thanks Professor," Harry replied, shoulders drooped, aching and worn-out, "I think I'll just rest here a while."
Flitwick gave Harry one last smile, then turned and left the room.
Harry fell to the floor and groaned. He lay completely sore, every joint in his body stiff from the bombardment of hexes.
`Now THAT was a workout,' thought Harry ruefully.
A creaking sound from the corner of the room sent Harry's nerves into high gear. He sat bolt upright and directed his wand to where he heard the sound and noticed the door had been left open, possibly by Flitwick… but with Moody running around, he couldn't be sure…
He caught a shimmering movement out of the corner of his vision, and using every ounce of reserve; Harry jumped to a crouched position, pointed his wand, and yelled, "Incarcerous!"
Harry saw the silver colored ropes shoot out of his wand before he passed out once more, only to wake up moments later with his back to a padded wall in the training room, with Moody hovering over him - his vision blurry, and his head in an uncomfortable spin.
"Here, drink some of this son," growled Moody, still looking like a pirate and handing Harry the same vial of Pepperup Potion.
If it were possible, Harry's mood grew darker still, as the sudden realization that he had been stunned for the eighth time in three days hit him. He was not growing fond of the experience, and now it seemed his left eye wanted to twitch uncontrollably…
"…Enough reminiscing Crookshanks," mumbled Harry sleepily, quickly falling into a deep slumber.
To which the ginger cat yawned, and gently pawed Harry's chest - as yet another gentle breeze delivered yet another night of pleasant dreams, and the sweet scents of what Harry could only describe as `home' …
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