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Author: Ash Story: Harry Potter and the Year of the One Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-HBP Status: Completed Reviews: 25 Words: 204,652
Harry and Ron walked through the empty halls, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls and on up the staircases into the darkness that always hid in the corners and crannies at Hogwarts. Half of Harry wanted to crawl into one of those corners and pull himself together—alone; the other half felt the darkness like danger lurking just out of sight and craved Ron’s companionship. The altercation with Susan had left Harry feeling shaky. He hadn’t been able to explain to Ron why he had reacted so forcefully, since there was no death threat involved, but his friend seemed to understand enough, anyway. At least enough to drop the subject for now. “I’d have done the same thing, pro’lly,” Ron owned up as they started up a long flight of rickety stairs, careful to miss the trick step in the middle. “I mean, Susan Bones? Not exactly my . . . you know, type,” then he looked away uncomfortably, as though getting too close to a subject he didn’t want to broach. Harry sent him a sidelong glance. “So,” Ron went on, “what was it that Dumbledore wanted you for, anyway?” Harry gave a small smile. “I reckon he was testing my Legilimency progress, for one thing, and then, we also had to go over what happened on the way here.” Harry cut off there, abruptly realizing that he still hadn’t told Ron what had happened with the Portkey. His friend had halted, staring at him. “What happened to you on the way here?” he asked slowly. “You Portkeyed to the grounds, right? What—was there trouble?” Harry stopped and waited as the stairs they were on rotated ninety degrees, effectively shutting them off from their dormitory for a few minutes. He muttered a curse under his breath and then looked over at Ron. “Of course there was. Tom had found out I was using a Portkey and managed to hook on through the scar. He stopped me right outside the Shrieking Shack, where there just happened to be waiting a very nice present.” “Stopped you?” Ron asked, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. “Is that even possible?” “Apparently.” “How?” “Dunno. The connection or something,” Harry said shortly, feeling more sure than ever that he would never willingly use a Portkey again. “So . . . what was the present, then?” Ron asked, each word coming slower than the previous. “Manticore.” Ron gaped again. “At the bloody Shrieking Shack?” He was so loud that several students on other stairs turned to look over at them. Their stairs had now reached the third floor, just outside the door when Fluffy had been housed in their first year. “Come on,” Harry muttered, gesturing to the landing. Ron loped off, one hand clutched to his head. “I thought you got here safe!” he exclaimed. “I thought Charlie was the one in danger. Because, bloody hell, I knew it was too good to hope that Malfoy would get attacked.” A wry grin appeared on Harry’s face. “Well, Malfoy did, in a way.” Ron turned to look at him, eyes eager. “Was it the Manticore? Yesssssss!” he yelled, pumping a fist when Harry nodded. “Did he piss his pants—the great bleeding coward?” Harry snorted and started walking the long away around to the Southern Staircase. “He screamed like a girl. Started yelling about having nightmares about them all his life.” “Afraid of Manticores, is he?” Ron said with glee. “Oh, this is too good. So how did he end up with you?” “I Accioed my broom.” “Brilliant!” Ron crowed. “And Malfoy was on it? I’d have given anything to have seen his ferret face when he saw the Manticore!” “Me, too, actually,” Harry admitted as they headed down. “He was Disillusioned at the time, and slammed into me before I even knew he was there. But after he raged at me for dragging him there, I reminded him of his Portkey and he took off.” Ron made a disgusted sound. “Just left you there, did he? Bastard.” Harry shrugged. “I wanted him to. He’s not much good in situations like that.” Ron cursed colorfully before turning back to Harry. “So you just flew off, then? Or did you kill the Manticore?” “Kill it? Every hex I threw just bounced off its hide. No, it would have had me if I hadn’t gotten my broom in time. But yeah, I flew on to Hogwarts, and when I got here, there was a welcoming committee.” “What? Reporters or something?” “Death Eaters,” Harry corrected his friend as he took the stairs up to Gryffindor Tower two at a time, wincing as his bruises complained. Ron ran up beside him, highly agitated, scruffing at his hair. “What the bloody hell—? Death Eaters? Why didn’t you tell me?” “I haven’t had time,” Harry said with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but I didn’t want to tell everyone else. Just Hermione. And Ginny, I guess.” Harry summed up the rest of his adventure as quickly as possible. He couldn’t give Ron a very detailed account of the fight, but was sure to mention Grawp’s part and the nifty little communicator Dumbledore had put on his broom. He frowned when he remembered that he was supposed to have asked Dumbledore about that. The thought had struck him as he lay in the hospital wing that having something like that for the D.A. would be very helpful this year if anything were to go wrong, as well as special Portkeys made for use within in the castle, in case someone needed to make a quick getaway. He outlined his idea to Ron, who thought it was brilliant. “If we key them to go to Dumbledore’s office, then no matter what’s happening, he’ll know right away, and the person can get away as well. Good thinking, Harry,” Ron clapped him on the back as they stood before the portrait of the Fat Lady. “We’ll just need to make sure you carry about fifteen of those, and that You-Know-Who can’t get hold of you in here. ‘Cause, well, no—I guess that would be even worse than staying to face whatever it was. I mean, if he could get a hold of you that way.” “No more Portkeys for me,” Harry said in a tone that brooked no argument. “What’s the password?” “Salutatory salutations,” Ron said promptly. “Welcome back, boys,” the Fat Lady said with a smile. “My, haven’t you both grown!” They gave her embarrassed nods and stepped through the entry. Once inside, Harry took advantage of the chaos of the Common Room with its group of overeager first years and escaped straight up to his room before he could be noticed. Ron stopped to whisper something to Hermione, who was still marking things off her clipboard, looking capable as always. In his usual room, his dorm mates, minus Ron, waited to hear the details about his summer that had been hinted at during the feast. He dodged as many questions as he could, and gave short answers to the rest. Dean and Seamus eventually started grousing about Harry’s tight-lipped answers, and Ron, having joined them earlier, all-too-willingly picked up a full narration. Harry stood on the far side of the bed from them as he got ready for bed, more self-conscious now than ever before while undressing. He still had bruises from his encounter with the Manticore that hadn’t been healed, a new, thin, jagged scar that almost went the length of his right arm, as well as the potion band and the spring-loaded wand holder attached to his wrist, none of which he had yet explained. The guys weren’t watching him now, though; they were too caught up in the story. Harry listened with a detached air as he changed into his pajamas. It was interesting, if disturbing, to hear the events told secondhand and with all the sensitivity of a wildebeest dancing the tango; Ron often got lost in the story. “So then it was my turn to be bodyguard, and what do you know but an eagle owl comes pecking at the window and it’s— “Not Malfoy’s owl,” Seamus burst out, and the other boys looked alarmed. “One and the same,” Ron said, nodding solemnly. The boys exchanged looks then looked over at Harry. He saw several eyes go to the band on his arm, but no one asked. “So—so what did Malfoy want?” Neville asked nervously, eyeing Harry. “I mean, you guys hadn’t been writing to each other—” “Oh, screw your brain on, Neville,” Ron said, his voice a growl. “It was a trap.” “A warning,” Harry corrected tersely while buttoning on his pajama top. “. . . that was the beginning of a trap,” Ron continued adamantly before spearing Harry with a look. “If Malfoy hadn’t sent it, you wouldn’t have gone outside that night.” Harry paused. “Sure I would’ve.” Ron rolled his eyes. “For Malfoy. Right.” Harry paused again. “Yeah.” He was trying to sort it out for himself before saying more, but Ron beat him to it. “So, in fifth year, you leave Hogwarts and the last thing you hear from Malfoy is a threat against your life.” “What?” Dean said, startled. “Oh yeah,” Ron nodded at him, “death threat, big as you please, right there in the corridor. So over the summer, if Death Eaters show up outside your house with Malfoy in tow, the first thing in your mind is: trap. Right?” “Of course,” Seamus agreed, “you’d have to be a complete loon to think otherwise. Bloody ferret.” “But,” Ron added triumphantly, “you get a note warning you of danger if you leave the house from the great Slytherin prat, and suddenly, you’re waffling. They know you, Harry. It was a brilliant plan.” “Death Eaters, outside his house?” Dean asked, confused. Ron obliged by telling the whole story, while Harry went over the course of events in his mind. It was true that Malfoy’s note had made him question the other boy’s safety at the hands of Death Eaters, but then again, seeing anyone that way—beat up and bleeding and held at wand point—would make Harry want to interfere. “See,” Ron concluded, “the handkerchief was a Portkey and Malfoy, the wanker, made good on his threat.” “No,” Harry insisted, “Malfoy didn’t know it was a Portkey.” Dean and Seamus snorted; Ron flushed. “Don’t be a dolt, Harry! Of course he did.” “He was Obliviated.” “Oh, yeah,” Ron said sarcastically, “I’m sure that happened right after he snogged Umbridge.” That sent the other boys off into peals of laughter, but Harry wasn’t laughing. He believed Malfoy. Ron was eyeing him as he went on, “Well, even if Malfoy didn’t know, his Dad was the mastermind, and used him like an arse-wipe, and it was still a bloody brilliant plan.” “Oh yeah,” Harry turned away, “brilliant.” “Uh, Harry,” Neville spoke up. “What was that thing on your arm?” Harry turned back. “Poison antidote—crystallized pellets—just in case. I think they were made from a bezoar.” “Oh,” the tow-headed boy looked down miserably. “I see.” He seemed to be taking Harry’s story very hard, as if he were somehow responsible. “So the—the trap worked, then?” Dean asked hesitantly, not looking at Harry. Ron continued the story on and Harry took that as his cue to leave the room, taking as long to brush his teeth as possible. He didn’t want to hear anymore about what happened; he remembered it completely. That kiss tonight, and the feelings that came with it, for some reason had brought it back in brilliant detail and all Harry wanted to do was forget. By the time he came back in, they were at the end of that episode. “So, if it hadn’t been for me and Ginny, Harry would’ve bled to death for sure,” Ron said soberly. The looks of the other boys had turned into pained grimaces, and Neville looked as if he might cry. “That’s horrible,” he managed to get out in a watery voice. “It wasn’t that bad,” Harry muttered, desperate to take the pity off their faces. Ron snorted. “Not bad at all. That’s why you were laid up for two days at my house without speaking.” “What?” Dean and Seamus chorused. Neville’s eyes were as big as saucers. Harry couldn’t stand it. “It wasn’t that big a deal. I just didn’t feel like talking, all right?” He jerked away and opened his trunk, stowing his toiletries, angry for some reason. By the time his temper stopped churning, Ron was finishing the Dementor story, finally skimming now that Harry’s ire was raised. Harry stood up and glanced over, disgusted to see Neville’s face in his hands and the other boys eyeing him as though he were a ghost. He glared at Ron, who returned his look with such a weary look of grief that he was cut to the heart. Ron hadn’t enjoyed reliving that story at all. “So . . . Harry is the One we’ve got to protect in Gryffindor that the Hat spoke about,” Dean said soberly, “not that I really had any doubt.” “And that’s why you’ve been assigned bodyguard duty, eh,” Seamus added with a nod to Ron. “That’s good to know, if the year’s going to be anything like Harry’s summer. We’ll have to be on our toes; keep an eye out on Slytherin, especially Malfoy.” Neville just nodded, his head still down. “Especially during Quidditch,” Dean agreed. “Hey, now that Lee’s gone and graduated, they need someone to commentate the matches. Maybe I’ll try my hand at it and keep an extra sharp eye on Harry.” “You mean try your mouth at it, mate,” Seamus said with a short bark of a laugh. Harry, who was startled at the thought that Quidditch might be more dangerous now, nodded quickly. “That would be great. Thanks.” “And I can keep an eye on all the girls for you,” Seamus added with a sly grin. “You know, in case there’s an ulterior motive somewhere in all that adoration.” Harry felt his smile freeze on his face. Ron was staring at him. Grinning, Seamus went on. “And you know, help myself to any leftovers.” “Hey!” Dean said indignantly. “And would you be wantin’ him to have all the girls?” Seamus exclaimed. “He’s only got one pair of lips and two hands, you know.” Harry went scarlet and turned away, smiling as Seamus added in a high-pitched, girly voice, “More’s the pity!” After several more randy comments and bouts of raucous laughter, the other boys told the stories of their summers, all of which had been less painful and more carefree than Harry’s, though the shadow of Tom had fallen over all. Their stories helped Harry relax a bit and he felt better by the time they each pulled their hangings over to go to sleep. His ribs were sore from laughing, but sleep seemed only a breath away. It was when he was lying still that the picture of the first years downstairs came back to him and he realized with a start that Ron hadn’t been with Hermione doing Prefect duty. Harry sat up quickly, wincing at the continuing pain in his abdomen. Why wasn’t Ron a Prefect? Then he knew. Harry jerked back his hangings, put on his glasses and strode over to Ron’s bed. “Ron!” he hissed as quietly as possible. “Wha?” came a sleepy voice from the other side. After a moment, the curtains fumbled open and Ron’s pale face showed up from the depth of crimson velvet. “What is it?” “You’re not a Prefect,” Harry said tersely. “No, that’s righ’. I’m not,” Ron said before yawning. “Now go back to sleep.” Harry stopped him from pulling the curtains back together. “Why aren’t you?” Ron met his eyes hesitantly, speaking with the air of someone stepping in front of a firing squad. “Because I’m on Potter duty—remember?” His weak smile did nothing to help. “I can’t believe this!” Harry hissed. “So you won’t get to be Head Boy all because of me!” “No,” Ron shook his head, “it’s not like that. Dumbledore says I’m sort of an unofficial Prefect now. No pratty badge or anything, but if I do my job well now, then I’ll still be up for Head Boy when it’s time, see?” Ron said hopefully. Harry calmed somewhat, but didn’t give in completely. “You liked that pratty badge.” “Not as much as I like having you around,” Ron pointed out easily, then yawned again. “Go back to sleep. Who bloody well cares if I’m a Prefect or not?” Harry hesitated, but couldn’t see any resentment in Ron’s attitude. If Ron didn’t mind, then why should he? “All right, then,” he said softly. “Go on back to sleep.” Harry padded back over to his bed and sat down. He wasn’t sure if—no, he was sure that he didn’t deserve a friend as good as Ron, someone who was putting his whole life on hold just to be around him and protect him. Apparently, while he’d been training those last few weeks before school, a lot of decisions had been made without him. Harry pulled off his glasses and retreated back into bed. He glanced over and called out, “Thanks, Ron.” A sleepy, “Forgettaboutitmate” rumbled out from behind the curtains. Harry pulled his own hangings around, got under the covers and relaxed. Sleep came quickly, escorted in on the gray screen in Harry’s mind. ****** He should have gone up to the Infirmary to get those last healing spells. That was the first coherent thing Harry thought after waking. His ribcage was stiff and uncomfortable and his entire body was sore. He wondered why until the memory of the previous day overtook him: Portkey squeeze, brush with a Manticore, collision with a Malfoy, a life-or-death ride to Hogwarts, then the episode with Susan that had taken a powerful surge of magic to deal with. All in all, he guessed it just made sense. Turning over with a groan, he suddenly realized it was quiet in the room, but some sort of noise had awoken him. What had it— “Uh, Harry,” Neville suddenly asked from over by his bed. “It’s a quarter of eight. You’ve got to get up and get your schedule. I brought you a piece of toast. Here,” and there were footsteps over by his trunk. “Thanks,” Harry mumbled and started to get up. First day of school and he was already behind schedule. Why hadn’t Ron woken him? He opened his bed hangings just as the sound of feet came pounding on the stairs outside the room. Someone was running full-tilt, as though something terrible had happened. Harry’s stomach lurched. Not again—another normal moment twisting into a nightmare. Anything could have happened. But his scar wasn’t hurting at all . . . By the time the door was flung open, Harry was on his feet, wand drawn, heart pounding. “Mate!” It was Ron standing in the doorway, clutching a napkin full of breakfast to his chest, staring at the drawn wand. “What—” he looked around for an attacker, drawing his own wand awkwardly, “dammit, where’s—” Harry, breathing again, lowered his wand and Neville took the opportunity to squeak out the door behind Ron, mumbling something about classes. “Neville?” Ron turned around to call after him, perplexed, but received only a mumbled answer. Harry felt a flush creep up his neck as Ron turned to stare at him again. Harry pushed his wand back into the wrist holster and cleared his throat. Suddenly, all his aches reappeared, aggravated by his quick motion, and he bit back a groan. “Merlin, what happened?” Ron asked again, finally relaxing enough to lower his wand. “Where’d you go?” Harry asked grumpily, loathe to admit he been spooked by nothing but pounding footsteps. “I met Hermione for breakfast early, and I didn’t think you’d sleep this long,” Ron sounded slightly defensive. “I came as soon as you woke up.” He paused a moment before coming over. “Why’d you have your wand out?” Harry turned to his trunk and picked up the napkin with toast on it, shifting it to his bed. Then he opened his trunk and got out his toiletries. “I was half-awake when I heard you running toward the door, and it sounded like—like something was happening and—never mind. How’d you know I was awake?” “Huh? Oh—this,” Ron reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small, oblong stone the color of cornmeal. Harry stepped closer to see. “It’s a dragon kidney-stone, takes real well to spells. Charlie spelled it to you, so I’d know how you were doing. So far, it’s working great.” “How does it work?” Ron chucked into Harry’s hand and he turned it over, fascinated, if a little bothered by the lack of privacy it represented. “Well, it’s not too complicated. Temperature and color tell the different states you’re in. That color right there means you’re hungry, which is why I brought all the food, of course. If it’s that color and gets hot, you’re really hungry. Let’s see . . . purple is sick; blood-red is for hurt; black is for unconscious; sleeping is kind of blue and waking up is yellow. I like that one,” he confided, “very nice. It’s normally just a grayish-limey green color. If it ever goes back to that color, then—well . . .” Ron checked himself and trailed off awkwardly. “Right. Could have used one of those this summer. When did Charlie do all of that?” Harry’d been told during those last weeks at the Burrow that some extra protections were being made to keep him safe, but this was the first time he’d seen any yet. “Dunno exactly. He came by when I was standing outside of Dumbledore’s office and gave it to me.” Harry stood straighter. “So Charlie did decide to stay then?” “Oh, yeah,” Ron said with a grin. “Dumbledore tried to get him to leave, but couldn’t exactly order him to. So Charlie’s hanging around, keeping an eye on the students. He said to call if you needed him. I meant to tell you all of this last night, but then Susan came up and . . . well, it flew out of my head.” Harry had to smile at the thought that Charlie was staying around; it made him feel better, somehow. “I’ll be quick,” he promised Ron and then strode quickly to the bathroom. “So who brought you toast before me?” The redhead called after him. “Er—Neville, I think,” Harry yelled over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I brought you three pieces of toast and two pieces of bacon!” Harry brushed his teeth and washed his face as quickly as possible, returning to the room at a jog. “See, the grea’ fing about bein’ a bo’yguar’,” Ron said with a full mouth as soon as Harry reappeared, “is tha’ if you’re la’, I’m la’, but it’s not my fau’.” He grinned and swallowed. “Not a bad deal, all the way round.” “Yeah, but I don’t even know if I’m going to be late! I don’t know my schedule yet,” Harry lamented as he grabbed clothes and robes out of his trunk. “Yeah, we’ve got to get a move on. McGonagall’s giving out schedules already.” Harry pulled on some trousers with a jerk. He couldn’t help but feel that Ron really could have woken him up earlier. “So what were you and Hermione meeting about, anyway?” “Oh,” Ron straightened up and paced over to the door, “well, I wanted to see what she thought of . . . how things were going. You know.” Harry finished dressing, suddenly angrier now that he had a full picture of why Ron had left him in bed. He turned and straightened his covers with such a jerk that toast and napkin went flying. “So what did she think of my behavior last night?” With an aggravated sigh, he peered under the bed. “Nothing. I mean, yeah, okay, I told her what happened with Susan, but only because I wanted her to . . . you know . . .” “Try to figure me out?” Harry glared at Ron from the floor where he had been kneeling; the toast had disappeared. “Of course not,” Ron hastily added. “She’s just worried about you, mate, and you know, she’s . . . smart. She thinks of loads things that I don’t.” The look on Ron’s face made Harry sigh. Ron couldn’t help it. It was just part of the way he thought. Harry stood up and grabbed his robe, sliding it on expertly. “So, what did Hermione decide? Is Susan off her rocker,” he asked in a nonchalant voice, looking down at the zipper as he pulled it up, “or am I?” “She . . . wants to keep an eye on Susan,” Ron said quietly. “She says Susan shouldn’t be acting that way; that it’s . . . too forward for her. She’s going to poke around a bit, see if she can figure something out, you know.” Harry could fill in the blanks himself. With a deep breath, he reminded himself that his friends were only trying to help and that they had spent a long summer worrying about him. It was only natural that they had . . . bonded. But the pang in his stomach wasn’t very nice. Harry shook it off. “You were right, Ron, last night. Next time I ask to be alone with somebody, especially a girl, hex me.” Ron looked startled, then grinned, “You got it, mate.” ****** Harry ate the piece of bacon Ron hadn’t eaten yet as they headed downstairs and talked lightly of Quidditch plans. Katie Bell was captain this year—her last, and things were a bit up in the air after the disastrous last year, when Harry hadn’t been able to play at all after attacking Malfoy. Of course, that ban had been lifted, but Ginny was already the Seeker. It helped that she wanted to try Chasing, but Harry worried slightly that the only spot open for him would be something he didn’t want. Ron wouldn’t hear of it. “Katie would have to be completely nutters not to put you in at Seeker. And Ginny won’t care,” he said earnestly, “she really is good at Chasing. We tried her out a few times and she was really fast!” It was apparent that the breakfast rush was quite over at they reached the Great Hall. The Heads-of-House were walking amongst the students, giving out schedules and discussing problems. Still up at the Faculty Table were the Headmaster, Madame Hooch, Professor Haverlime and Hagrid, who waved cheerily at Harry and immediately started making large motions, as if trying to do sign language. Harry caught Ron’s sleeve, “Hold on, what’s Hagrid saying?” Ron squinted to see that far. “Well . . . either he’s bought a big box and wants to . . . stuff you inside or . . . no, that’s gotta be it. Big box. Apparently wants to make a present out of you. Oh. Hey! I know. He wants you to come see him later. Yeah, yeah, that’s it!” Harry nodded in agreement. Those large, waving arms seemed to be indicating he wanted them to visit. Harry nodded to Hagrid and moved on. “There’s got to be a more secret way of communicating that,” Harry muttered. “Yeah. Why didn’t he just use an owl?” Ron shook his head as they resumed their walk over to the table. Harry noticed a red head swiveling round for a glance at them, and then Ginny was quietly making her way toward them. As her brown eyes met his, his stomach quivered unexpectedly. “Harry!” Katie Bell had just called out his name, and everywhere, heads turned his way. “Harry!” “He’s here!” “Hi, Harry!” The sound of voices swelled around them, and then another curious sound rose above it—wings. But not just a few, or the usual whirring of the mail call, but . . . “Look sharp, Harry,” Dean called out loudly from the Gryffindor Table. “Duck!” yelled Seamus, “or you’ll get . . .” and his voice was drowned out by the flurry of owls over Harry’s head. Ginny reached them just in time to put up her wand and yell a spell. The red light hung there, suspended, then exploded into a round, curving disc over Harry’s head. When all the owls dropped their parchments, packages and scrolls, they fell onto the shield, bounced and rolled to the ground on either side of him. It was raining letters for almost half a minute. “What’s happening?” Harry tried to yell to Ginny over the noise. She was the closest to him now and bellowed something in return, her eyes still fixed on the shield. Harry paused, watching her. Did she just say “fan mail?” Ron and Hermione were outside the shield, keeping the crowd back, using a few stinging hexes when necessary. Two more shields suddenly sprang up to block the students, cast by Professor Dumbledore and Professor Haverlime. By the time the letters had ceased, the Hall was completely silent. “Bloo-dy hell, Harry. When’s the rest of your mail getting here?” Ron said weakly. There was a second more of silence, then laughter rolled through the crowd. Ginny ended her shield, but caught hold of Harry’s arm when he tried to step out of the circle. “Don’t!” she said with a fierce note in her voice. “Nicely done, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger and Miss Weasley,” came Dumbledore’s patient voice as he headed in their direction, canceling his shield with a flick of his hand. “And thank you for the back-up, Professor Haverlime,” he gestured to her grandly and she nodded in return, her shield disappearing. “Now if you will please move aside,” he said gently to the crowd of students in front of him. They parted in a rush. “And don’t touch anything.” With another wave of his hand, the whole deluge of parchments and packages disappeared. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. There must have been some sort of error. Those couldn’t have all been for him. Dumbledore was standing just in front of Ginny now, who was paler than Harry had noticed at first. In fact, Hermione and Ron were standing close together now, both looking extremely relieved. Harry turned to Dumbledore, puzzled. “Quick thinking, indeed, although, Miss Weasley, there was already a spell in place to sort Mr. Potter’s mail and check it for nasty hexes or harmful charms. Had the mail been allowed to fall any closer to him, they would have all been drawn up automatically and sent to the Owlery where Mr. Filch has the honor of sorting Harry’s mail himself.” Harry looked askance at Ron here and found his mate with raised eyebrows, thinking the same thing—that Filch might be likely to overlook a few things if they would hurt Harry. Filch had a vendetta against any rule-breakers who got off with anything less painful than the rack. Dumbledore continued on, “Only letters and packages that are without evil intent will be allowed to come to you, Mr. Potter, and only after they are cleared. Today’s mail may take a day or two to sort. I trust that is no problem?” Harry shook his head vigorously, half-hoping that most of it would be questionable, to keep it from being his responsibility. How would he ever get time to read all of them? “Professor, why did I get so much mail? That’s never happened before.” “Students, return to your tables, and if you have completed your breakfast, then let’s move on toward class, shall we?” With disappointed looks, the students turned away in a wave. Harry could tell by the long-held glances in his direction that some of them had hoped to speak with him, and he was glad the opportunity had been thwarted. “Now then, Harry, most of your mail this summer was directed here to Hogwarts, unless it was from one of your known correspondents. Some of that mail was left over from then. The remainder of it, I’m afraid to say, is my fault,” he said with a sad shake of his head that was belied by the twinkle in his eyes. “Ms. Skeeter’s article has sent quite a shockwave through the wizarding community, rife with quotes from your rather ingenious speech last night.” Harry let his head fall forward and squeezed his eyes shut. Why had he mouthed off like that? “I’m afraid, Harry, that you are once again, famous, but this time, it is for your determination to do right and your unflinching ability to speak the truth even in the face of unspeakable evil. It was only right that your words make it out to the public, where it could do the most good, and,” here he leaned down to capture Harry’s eyes with his own, “where it will irritate Tom the most.” He chuckled. “I must confess—I laugh every time I think of Tom reading that article.” And he did laugh now. “Well done, Harry. Oh, well done! Fifty points to Gryffindor!” he called out as he crossed the floor. Applause rang out from the Gryffindors and they pounded on the table. “Way to go, Harry!” Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table out of curiosity and found them once again divided. The Twitchtie girls were standing by the table, watching him with sober faces. One of them nodded in his direction. Most of the other first years were already heading out the door to go to class, followed by the other younger years, a few glancing toward Harry. The older students were still lounging at the table, all pointedly ignoring him. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. Harry turned to his friends only to find Ginny with her arms crossed over her chest, eyeing him defiantly. “I just thought it would be better to be safe than sorry, and if it made you mad, then . . . I don’t care.” Harry blinked. “I’m not angry. That was a brilliant shield, Ginny. When did you learn it?” “Over the summer,” she said, her posture slowly defrosting. “But if I’d just let the bloody letters fall, they would have disappeared anyway. I thought you were in danger,” she said sheepishly, her cheeks tinged pink. Danger? “Yeah, me, too,” Ron said with a loud sigh, “I doubt Parvati will forgive me for that stinging hex very soon. I just didn’t want her to touch any of the letters.” “Well, it was worth it. We didn’t know about the safeties on Harry’s mail,” Hermione said in a matter-of-fact voice, “and a Portkey doesn’t have to be keyed to one person. It can take anyone who touches it.” Harry’s mouth opened in an “O.” Portkeys. The whole lot of them had been worried about a Portkey-letter, and he’d been oblivious. It burned a little bit that they felt he needed to be protected, but then—well, that was a fruitless train of thought to follow. When was someone not trying to kill him? Odds were that someone had already tried at least once this morning. Harry said a sincere thanks to each of them in turn. Hermione beamed at him; Ron flushed and Ginny flushed and beamed. Then Professor McGonagall approached with a small smile on her lips. “Well, Mr. Potter. You’ve already earned Gryffindor fifty points from the Headmaster before the term even officially starts. Here is your schedule,” she handed him a parchment, “which is the exact same as Mr. Weasley. Your eight O.W.L.S. were very, very impressive due to the circumstances in which you were functioning. Even an ‘O’ in Potions, Mr. Potter—splendid! I’d just like to say, ‘Congratulations!’ and say further that the day you become an Auror, I fully intend to find Dolores Umbridge’s grave and dance a jig right there on top!” With a last smile, she turned to Ron, where her face immediately went back to its rather natural, grim expression. “Now, Mr. Weasley, you have been allowed in Potions expressly to keep an eye on Mr. Potter, but I expect you to work hard and do the homework like the Gryffindor that you are. I don’t need to tell you how uncomfortable it was for me to be forced to ask Professor Snape to make an exception in your case. It was not pleasant and I do not want you to make either Professor Snape or myself live to regret it. Is that clear?” Rom nodded with wide eyes. “Good. Miss Granger, I expect nothing less than your best this year, as always. With your twelve O.W.L.S., you have already been a credit to you house.” Finally she turned to Ginny. “This will be quite a year for you, Miss Weasley. Get plenty of rest, eat well and study hard. Don’t let this bunch pull you into any of their shenanigans. I highly desire you to remember that you are, all four of you, schoolchildren, and that, by God, is all we expect you be!” Her voice shaking with sudden emotion, Professor McGonagall made fierce eye contact with them all. As she reached Harry, her face seemed to pinch inwards and she took a shuddering breath before nodding to him. She turned and exited, limping, her silver-topped cane flashing as she hobbled on. Not one of them would have dared to correct Professor McGonagall, but as they stood looking at each other, Harry saw the same sort of thoughts running through all of their minds. His friends had stopped being just schoolchildren after last year at the Ministry, when they faced torture and death for the sake of their friend. Actually, Harry reminded himself, Ginny had stopped long before that, when she was a first year and encountered Tom’s diary. Harry, as well, had stopped being a child in his first year, when he made the decision to stop Tom before he could get to the Philosopher’s Stone because he no one else was there to do it. Harry shook off Professor McGonagall’s words. If the One that fulfilled the Prophecy was just another schoolchild, then the whole world was doomed. ****** Author’s note: The title of this chapter comes from the fact that Harry was correct and someone has tried to kill him at least once this morning that I know of. The spectre of Death was standing over his shoulder and cackling for almost a full minute before he was thwarted. Whew!
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