Unofficial Portkey Archive

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Having just dismissed the seventh-year Slytherins and Gryffindors, Severus Snape stood alone at the front of the Potions dungeon, grinding up a mound of live scarab beetles with a large mortar and pestle--a task which gave him an inordinate amount of satisfaction. His enjoyment didn't last long, however, as an assortment of fourth-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws noisily began to enter the classroom, snippets of their inane chatter floating towards him.

"I heard You-Know-Who poisoned his Butterbeer!"

"Well, I heard he was attacked by a Nundu and left for dead!"

"Silence," Snape demanded irritably, but no one seemed to hear him.

"I heard he's on his deathbed after suffering the Cruciatus Curse!"

"I heard he got lost in the Forbidden Forest and was trampled by a herd of centaurs--he was barely alive when they found him!"

"Silence!" Snape ordered, raising his voice this time, but again, his command fell on deaf ears.

"I heard he was eaten by a Lethifold in his sleep last night!"

"Nah, it was the Dementor's Kiss that did him in--poor sod's in the Hospital Wing now, completely vacant and lifeless!"

"SILENCE!" the professor bellowed. Immediately, a hush fell over the class. "What is all this commotion about?" Several students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes cast downward. "Well?" Still, no one volunteered any information.

"Miss Madley?" A Hufflepuff girl turned red and shrunk down in her seat. The Potions Master turned his eyes to the Ravenclaw boy sitting next to her.

"Mr Ackerley?" The student in question opened his mouth and closed it again, before shaking his head fiercely.

"If someone does not tell me what is going on this instant," Snape said, his voice soft but menacing, "I shall take 50 points from both your houses."

At the back of the dungeon, Eleanor Branstone timidly raised her hand. He regarded her coldly.

"Miss Branstone."

"Well ... everybody's saying ... I mean, is it true that"--she bit her lip, and the rest of the words rushed out in a torrent of emotion--"that Harry Potter mysteriously collapsed and is lying deathly ill in the Hospital Wing?"

Her question unleashed another cacophony of horrified gasps and whispers.

"SILENCE!" the professor's voice thundered for the second time in as many minutes. How very typical of Potter to disrupt his classroom without even being present, let alone incite the student body to a false state of agitation over his well-being. Potter had been in perfectly good health the previous evening, when the Potions Master had caught him, Weasley and Finnigan returning from a midnight snack in the kitchen and sentenced them to detention. Still, Potter hadn't shown up for seventh-year Potions class with the Slytherins this morning ... the wheels in Snape's mind began to turn.

"The rumours of Mr Potter's demise are, I'm sorry to say, greatly exaggerated." The students couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved by this news. "Miss Branstone. Ten points from Hufflepuff for evoking such hysteria. A further 20 points from both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for not only falling victim to idle gossip and rumour, but perpetuating it by participating in such a ridiculous outburst in my classroom. And a further 50 points from whomever dares to breathe the words 'Harry Potter' again during the remainder of this class. Do I make myself clear?" No one was brave enough to meet Snape's beady black eyes, let alone reply. "Now. You've wasted enough of my time--turn to page three hundred and ninety four and let us begin."

Harry strode over to the window and threw back the white curtains. The window was open slightly and he took in a deep breath of the fresh spring air. "How could I possibly be expected to handle classes on a day like this?"

"This is the seventh day I've had off this term," he mused to himself. "Which sounds impressive, but really, it isn't. I mean, all the other times I haven't been in class, Dumbledore's had me secretly dealing with the Dark Arts in some shape or form: Secret meetings at Order headquarters ... private tutorials on advanced Dementor defences ... skirmishes with Death Eaters in Knockturn Alley ..." He sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. "It's enough to drive you barmy sometimes, knowing that you alone have been marked for death for the past 17 years by the most evil and sinister creature known to wizardkind, and that you alone have the power to stop him--and by means of murder, at that. So is it any wonder I want a bit of a break? Just one day where I can be a regular bloke living a normal life, instead of--well, you know."

He hopped down from the ledge and walked down towards the other end of the room, where Terry, Millicent and Justin were deep in sleep. "I know I could probably ask Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall for some time to myself away from all this madness, and they'd probably indulge me, as well--but they'd send Hagrid or Lupin along for protection, or worse, want to accompany me themselves. And that isn't much of a break, really. So I had no other choice than to take matters into my own hands. I hate lying to them--I do--but today, it was a bit of a necessary evil. I'm just bloody floored it actually worked."

Harry sat down on the bed next to Justin and picked up one of Justin's arms by the forearm. Justin's wrist flopped down limply. Harry smirked as he propped Justin's wrist up with his other hand.

"See, the key to conning your teachers is the clammy hands. It's a good non-specific symptom--I'm quite an advocate of it. Of course, a Skiving Snackbox works wonders, too--nothing beats a couple of Puking Pastilles or Fainting Fancies to convince Madam Pomfrey you're on your last legs--but if you don't have one of those at your immediate disposal, this will do in a pinch.

Now, many people may tell you that a good phony fever is a dead cert, but, eh ... you make Professor McGonagall too nervous, you could wind up at St Mungo's. That's worse than school." He shook his head. "So, you fake stomach cramps, and when you're doubled over, moaning and whinging, you lick your palms ... It's a bit dodgy, but then again, so is repeatedly taking on the Dark Lord when you're only a teenager."

Harry lowered Justin's arm down gently and patted him on the head. "Yeah, life moves rather quickly. If you don't stop and look about every so often, you could miss it."

He began walking back towards his own bed. "I do have a test coming up--that wasn't a load of bollocks. That it was today, or that I care about it was. It's on the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. I mean, really--what's the point? I'm not a goblin. I don't plan on being a goblin. So, who gives a toss if they rebelled? They could be bloody buggering Death Eaters, for all I care."

Reaching the bed, Harry sat on its edge and ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up like the spines on a hedgehog. "Not that I condone Death Eaters, or any form of Dark Arts worship for that matter. Blind devotion to false messiahs, in my opinion, is not good. A person should not believe in messiahs, he should believe in himself. I quote Gilderoy Lockhart: 'I don't believe in magic, I just believe in me.' A bit of a wanker, our Gilderoy, but he had a good point there. After all, he was a celebrity who lived off the hype surrounding his name. I could be a celebrity who lived off the hype surrounding his name--I'd still be responsible for carrying the weight of the entire wizarding world on my shoulders."

Just then, Harry heard footsteps approach from outside the hospital wing. He dived under the covers and closed his eyes just as Madam Pomfrey opened the door. She tiptoed to his bedside, where Harry appeared to be sleeping peacefully, the corners of his mouth faintly turned up in a tragic, waif-like smile.

"Poor little Puffskein," she cooed softly, smoothing down a wayward tuft of hair. She hated to wake a sleeping angel, but now that she had changed Hagrid's bed linens and started a cosy fire, it was time to move her favourite patient to his new quarters.

Professor Binns swept into the History of Magic classroom through the blackboard in his typically slow and placid fashion. An assortment of muttered epithets, moans and sighs greeted his arrival--it was no small secret his class was widely thought of as the dullest at Hogwarts. Ignoring the protestations, he opened a dusty tome and began to call the roll. He was the only teacher at the school who still engaged in this practice, but Professor Binns was a firm believer in upholding traditions (not to mention, he could never seem to remember the students' names).

"Brown?"

"Here."

"Finnigan?"

"Here."

"Granger?"

"Present."

"Longbottom?"

"Here."

"Patil?"

"Here."

"Potter?" Silence filled the room. Professor Binns continued to repeat himself, much like an antique gramophone with a stuck needle. "Potter? ... Potter? ... Potter?"

"Um, he's sick," Lavender piped up. "Parvati's sister Padma's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from Dennis Creevey who knows this Hufflepuff Owen who's going out with this Ravenclaw Orla, who saw Harry pass out at Florean Fortescue's last night." Hermione looked down, rolling her eyes as Lavender continued. She exhaled, nodding very matter-of-factly. "I guess it's pretty serious."

"Thank you, Miss Black," Professor Binns droned.

Lavender beamed, ignoring his error, glad of the opportunity to pass along some useful gossip. "No problem whatsoever!"

In a dreary voice, Professor Binns continued to call the roll. "Thomas?"

Dean looked up sullenly from his parchment pad, where he was fully engrossed in drawing little figures of the members of West Ham Football Club. "Yeah?"

Professor Binns ignored him, moving down to the next name on the list.

"Weasley?" As with Harry's name, there was no response. "Weasley? ... Weasley?"

"Ron?" Harry's tousled head appeared in the fireplace in the lounge at the Burrow.

A pyjama-clad Ron Weasley lay on the couch, covered by three duvets and surrounded by an assortment of sweets, a pot of tea and various medicinal potions Molly Weasley had purchased from the Slug & Jiggers Apothecary in Diagon Alley. Open on his lap was the latest issue of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.

"All right, Ron?" Harry grinned at the sight of the familiar redhead. "What's happening?"

"Very little," Ron deadpanned, adjusting the poultice on his head that his mother had prepared.

"How're you feeling?"

"Knackered."

"Is your mum home?" Harry asked.

Ron tore the wrapper off a Honeyduke's nougat bar and began devouring it. "No, she's at an Enchantments in Baking cooking class today. Where are you?"

"Hagrid's."

In spite of a foreboding feeling of regret, he was curious. "Why?"

"I'm skiving. So put some clothes on and Floo yourself over to Hogsmeade," Harry instructed.

"I can't," Ron sniffled. "I'm sick."

"Bollocks! That dragon pox was all in your head. Compared to how Millicent Bulstrode looked this morning, you're the picture of health."

"I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of centaurs, Harry. I'm in no fit state to go anywhere. Madam Pomfrey had to send me home to get better, remember?"

"Truly, Ron, that is a shame," his best friend began sympathetically. "But that was last week--you're well on the mend by now. So get dressed, grab some Floo powder and meet me in Hogsmeade!"

With that, he vanished.

"I'm dying," Ron muttered to himself. No sooner had he spoken the words when Harry's head appeared in the fireplace again.

"You're not dying," he chided. "You just can't think of anything better to do."

He vanished a second time, leaving Ron to mull things over. Ron lay back pitifully against a small mountain of pillows, feeling tremendously sorry for himself, not only for feeling so poorly, but for the additional misfortune of having a best friend who absolutely refused to give him any sympathy.

"When Ronald was in Potter's land, let my Ronald go," he wailed piteously to himself.

Back at Hagrid's hut, Harry leaned against the edge of an oversized wooden chair and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

"Y'know, if anyone needs to skive off for a day, it's Ron. There are a lot of things that need sorting in that head of his before he leaves Hogwarts. He can't be this wound up if he goes to Uni--his dormmate'll murder him," Harry frowned. "Of course, I've come close to doing that myself on occasion, especially during fourth year. But I love the daft git, he's my best mate--besides Hermione, of course, but that's all together different."

He began rummaging through Hagrid's cupboards, looking for something to eat. All this coaxing and planning was hungry work.

"See, Ron's a bit easier to suss out when you know why he is the way he is," Harry continued, finding (and immediately discarding) a few mouldy stoat sandwiches. "He always feels like he has to prove himself--I suppose that's only to be expected, with five older brothers. Still, he can get a bit of a chip on his shoulder about it. I mean, pardon my Trollish, but Ron gets so wound up sometimes, that if you stuck a bezoar up his bum, in a fortnight you'd have the Philosopher's Stone."

He took a large bite out of a semi-stale rock cake, chewing vigorously as he spoke. "And then the poor sod would whinge that he'd owe taxes on it."

"Professor McGonagall."

The Transfiguration professor turned at the sound of her voice. She was about to enter her office, a stack of parchments in one hand, when Snape had called out to her from further down the first floor corridor. He was gripping a piece of parchment so tightly his knuckles had turned white. From the look on his face, his mood was sourer than usual, which she supposed could be attributed to any number of things--but there was usually only one thing--or person, actually--in particular that ever caused him to look this aggrieved.

"Oh, dear," she murmured to herself, then smiled contritely at him. "I am sorry, Severus. I completely forgot to let the faculty know."

His tone was unctuous, and almost accusatory. "Then you are aware Potter is not in class today?"

"Mr Potter is ill." It was a statement, not an explanation. "I meant to inform the rest of the staff, but I had to administer a test to the third-year Gryffindors and Slytherins first thing this morning, and it slipped my mind."

"Are you also aware, Professor McGonagall, that Potter does not have what I would consider to be an exemplary attendance record?"

She frowned at the aspersions being cast on her pet pupil. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"He has missed an unacceptable number of school days. In the opinion of this educator, Potter is not taking his wizarding studies and academic growth seriously. I examined his records this morning--if Mr Potter thinks he can just coast through this last month and still graduate, he is sorely mistaken. I have no reservations about making a recommendation to the Board of Governors that he be held back another year."

"Well, this is certainly news to me--"

"Yes, quite." He looked at her disparagingly, a cold smile twisting his lips into a sort of rictus. "This term alone, he has been absent seven times."

"Seven times?"

"Seven times," Snape repeated firmly, enjoying the look of incredulity dawning on the deputy Headmistress's face.

"I don't recall Mr Potter being ill seven times," Professor McGonagall pursed her lips in a thin line--but the scepticism in her voice was directed towards her colleague, not her student.

"That's because he wasn't ill--he was playing truant!" he sneered. "Wake up and smell the Gillywater, Minerva! You are living in a fool's paradise. Potter is just leading you down the puffapod path."

"I cannot believe this, Severus. Surely, there's been some mistake--"

"I have it right here in front of me," the Potions Master insisted, waving the piece of parchment. "Potter has missed seven days ..."

Except, that no longer appeared to be true. Before Snape's eyes, the ink on the parchment indicating the number of absences began to move, reshaping itself into the number six, then five, then four, three and two, before finally resettling in the shape of the number one.

(Back at Hagrid's, Harry grinned to himself as he completed a doctored version of a traditional Wand Writing spell. "I wanted a normal life--I got a scar and rare magical abilities," he shrugged. "Professor Trelawney always said I was born under a bad sign.")

Professor McGonagall drew herself up to her full height and stared at Snape with as haughty a look as she could muster. "I can give you every assurance, Severus, that Mr Potter is gravely ill. He is recovering in isolation at Hagrid's as we speak--in fact, I debated whether or not I should even admit him to St Mungo's. Now, I can appreciate that at this time of year, children are prone to playing truant. However, in Mr Potter's case, he is truly a very sick young man." She regarded him with an icy stare. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some essays to mark."

With that, Professor McGonagall entered her office and closed the door behind her, leaving an apoplectic Snape on the other side, still staring at the parchment in his hand in rage and disbelief.

The members of Professor Binns' History of Magic class were almost numb with boredom. Dean Thomas, having now completed full sketches of the entire West Ham Football Team, had moved on to the Appleby Arrows' players, whilst Seamus and Neville were trading various Chocolate Frog cards back and forth. Lavender and Parvati giggled furiously over something in the latest issue of Witch Weekly. Even Hermione was fidgety and fought to keep her eyes open. She liked Professor Binns, and didn't even mind History of Magic that much, but even she had to admit the topics being covered in their double class today were deadly dull. The professor droned on in his flat, monotonous voice, oblivious to them all.

"... Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the dawn of an era of Muggle civilization known as the ... anyone? Anyone? ... The Renaissance, began a period of scientific enlightenment throughout the world. This caused a schism between the Muggle and Wizarding cultures. Does anyone know why? Anyone? ... Because the Muggles were relying more and more on this new methodology to explain phenomena and occurrences previously subscribed to magical entities. As the fifteenth century came to a close, it became increasingly necessary to ... anyone? Anyone? To secret the existence of all magical elements from the Muggle community. Does anyone know why this was necessary? Class? ... It was necessary for two reasons: one, because of the record number of Muggle persecutions of magical folk, and two, because of the exploitation of magical power to further Muggles' own gain ..."

Malfoy hadn't bothered to go back to Potions class after he left the Hospital Wing. Instead, he stormed into the Slytherin common room in a fit of pique, coming dangerously close to kicking Medusa, Blaise Zabini's Siamese cat, for accidentally straying into his path. Potter, the odious worm, had somehow managed to convince Pomfrey, McGonagall and Dumbledore that he was on his deathbed, when Malfoy knew--he knew!--the mingy little twat was perfectly fine and up to something. But what? He hurled himself down into an overstuffed green velvet wing chair to contemplate the possibilities.

A short while later, Crabbe and Goyle lumbered into the room.

"Did you hear?" Goyle asked.

"About?" Malfoy snapped.

"Potter," replied Crabbe. "He's really sick."

Small crimson spots began to burn on Malfoy's cheeks. "Really," he said dryly. "And where, pray tell, did you hear this?"

"The entire Great Hall was talking about it during breakfast," answered Goyle.

"They said he's on the verge of death," Crabbe added helpfully, unable to comprehend why such news didn't delight Malfoy. Instead, he was staring at the pair of them, flames from the nearby fireplace reflected in his eyes.

"Pansy said she overheard some Hufflepuff girl in her Arithmancy class say that if Potter dies, he's giving all his fortune to St Mungo's to find a cure for Longbottom's parents' insanity," Goyle explained.

"She made him sound like he was going to get the Order of Merlin or something," Crabbe noted.

At that, Malfoy leapt up, his Peruvian Vipertooth dragonskin boot connecting with the first solid object it could find--which, unfortunately, was Medusa. As the poor creature sailed across the long room, barely missing a round, green lamp that hung from a chain from the ceiling, Malfoy uttered a Jarvey-like string of curses and rude words that caused even Crabbe and Goyle to blush.