Author's Note: Slash, violence, some swearing, but not much.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Stop rubbing it in.

Ahh, the beginning of a new chapter! Hope you like it! There's not much of Sev in this chapter, but we get to see some of the others now!

Ch 3) Classmates

The first couple of days were absolute hell.

It was very nervewracking just to go down the halls. Since I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, I'm always having people calling greetings to me in the halls, whether they're friends, aquaintances, or complete strangers. Everytime I went into the hallway it seemed like the charmed bracelet was practically burning into my wrist. I quickly learned to stay extremely wary of my surroundings, and try to greet aquaintances as soon as I saw them. Otherwise, I had to wait until someone called me, and then have to look around and make a guess at who had spoken. It was enough to drive a person mad.

The first class after I returned to classes turned out alright, I guess. Transfigurations. We were supposed to be turning a section of the wall into a window. McGonagall treated me pretty much like normal, which I greatly appreciated. Then again, I had always held a lot of respect for Professor McGonagall. She may be strict, but that was part of the appeal; she didn't take any crap and had low tolerance for stupidity. She wasn't going to let up just because I couldn't hear anymore. If anything, she came down harder than usual on us.

Charms was pretty much normal too. Flitwick did cast a few more concerned glances my way than usual, but he was better than some of my other teachers.

Like Professor Sprout, in Herbology. It started out alright, though my mood quickly deteriorated when I noticed that Sprout was making some not-so-subtle attempts to be "helpful."

She had finished giving the instructions, and given us the okay to start. I was just about to begin pruning the Devil's Snare Hermione and I had been given when the bracelet heated up. I looked up. Professor Sprout was smiling sadly and kindly at me. "Are you sure you got all that Potter? Need me to repeat anything?"

I noticed some of our Ravenclaw classmates smirking at me and flushed slightly. Great job, Professor Sprout. Now everyone thinks I'm an idiot.

"No, thanks, Professor," I said, feeling a flash of irritation, "I know what to do."

Despite all my assurances, she continued in this fashion throughout the rest of the lesson.

As if Herbology hadn't been bad enough, I also kept getting stopped in the halls by various faculty members, offering their condolences and their aid, if I should need it. It was truly infuriating; I was deaf, not incapable! After the sixth teacher stopped me, I was this close to punching the next teacher to approach me in the face. I ended up in detention with Filch that Saturday after nearly hexing Professor Trelawney in the presense of Professor Merryl, the DADA instructor. I decided I hated all three of them with the white hot intensity of a thousand super novas after spending five hours cleaning the carriages that the thestrals pulled to and from the school, with Filch breathing down my neck muttering to himself the whole time.

I guess I sound pretty ungrateful; I mean, I know the staff means well and everything when they offer their sympathies. It's just…I don't want to be singled out anymore. I don't need yet another difference thrown in my face because of people's "best intentions". I suppose I just wish they'd all leave me alone, and mind their own business. I can take care of myself; I always have. And if I need help, I'll ask for it.

Wednesday, I had lunch with Hagrid. We had started doing this every week at the beginning of my sixth year. After I lost Sirius in June, I had made an effort to stay closer with my friends, especially those in the Order. We were all at risk, and I didn't want to waste a minute of our time together.

Since Hagrid was one of my teachers, he had been informed of my…condition. Thankfully, he made nothing of it. I felt almost normal again during our time together, because he acted as though nothing had happened. I didn't mention it, and neither did he. We just talked, as we always did during our luncheons together. It was nice, and a great comfort to me, despite the fact that Hagrid's beard and accent sometimes made it difficult to read what he was saying.

We talked about the memorial service Dumbledore had held Monday afternoon for all the students that had been killed during the attack. Twenty-three students had been lost, five of which had been my yearmates; Ernie McMillan, the Patil twins, Parvati and Padma, and two of the Slytherins, Theodore Nott and Morag MacDougal. Colin Creevey, of Gryffindor had also fallen. Hagid was pretty upset about that; Colin had been one of his favourite students, always very eager to see what exciting new creature Hagrid brought to class.

A lot of the students were taking the losses hard. Lavender hadn't come out of the sixth year girls' dorm since her best friends death on Saturday. Hermione said she never said anything, just stared out the window in a stupor. Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey had removed her to the hospital wing just that morning, worried that she wasn't eating or sleeping. Hannah Abbot, who had been dating Ernie since the Yule Ball nearly two years ago, was constantly bursting into tears, often falling into hysterics before one of her friends had mercy on the poor girl and charmed her asleep. The Slytherins, normally standoff-ish and prone to fits of rivalry with the Gryffindors, were now nearly always silent and cold, a group of expressionless, nearly catatonic teens who seemed like they were barely alive. More than half of the students killed had come from their house.

Dumbledore had a momument placed by the lake, a statue of a child holding a wand in the air. Small carved stone feathers magically flew from the end of said wand, floating peacefully to the ground, where they stayed for a moment before disappearing. I took one of the feathers and cast a quick charm so it wouldn't disappear. I kept the stone feather on a leather cord about my neck, as a reminder of what I was fighting to protect.

At the base of the statue was a smooth expanse reserved for plaques bearing the names of every Hogwarts student killed during the war. The first name on the list was Cedric Diggory.

Two weeks after the Hogsmeade incident, Gryffindor was scheduled for a Quidditch match versus Hufflepuff. I was glad for the distraction – after everything from the past few weeks I was going half crazy. It would be good for my classmates as well; they needed a sense of normalcy after the horrors of the Death Eater's raid on Hogsmeade.

I'm not sure what exactly it was that got me so mad in the first place. I think it was a comment Ron had made in passing during breakfast that morning. We had been talking over breakfast about the upcoming match, when Luna came in with her lion hat. Apparently it had let out a roar as soon as she sat down, because nearly everyone around me had jumped halfway out of their seats.

"You know, you'd think we'd be used to that roaring by now," Ginny had said, an amused grin on her face.

"Yeah, well," Ron answered, "Doesn't mean it's not going to bloody well deafen us everytime we hear it. And she did sit down right behind me."

My own smile had frozen on my face, and I looked down at my plate, my mind suddenly numb. Vaguely, I noted that the bracelet was heating, and I slowly looked up to see Hermione watching me, concerned. "You alright, Harry?" she had asked, "You look a bit pale. Are you sure you're alright for the match?"

I had given her a strained smile. "Yeah," I managed to say, "I'm fine. Listen, I'm…I'm going to head down to the locker rooms a bit early. I'll see you all later." I had quickly stood and collected my stuff, not looking at either of my two best friends. They knew very well that the match didn't start until eleven, and here it was only nine. They would figure out something was up.

I didn't care. I just needed to be alone for a while. So I headed to the locker rooms near the Quidditch Pitch. The whole time it took to make the short walk, I just kept imagining hearing Rons' comment over and over, echoing through my head.

I went into the locker room and dropped my stuff on the floor, sitting on the bench and just clutching my head, breathing hard. Everything from the past week was crashing around in my head, seeming louder than any sound I had ever heard before…

And the next thing I knew there was a huge dent in the locker in front of me and a sharp pain flaring through my knuckles. For a moment I just stared at my bloodied fist.

It felt so good.

With an unheard cry of rage I set upon the lockers, kicking and punching until my feet were sore, my hands ripped and bloody, and the salty taste of both sweat and tears was on my toungue. I picked up my bag and threw it as hard as I could against the wall, feeling great satisfaction in watching my schoolbooks scatter all over the ground. I kicked the spilt contents across the floor, cursing in fury.

I was beginning to run out of steam, but my rage at the world was not spent yet.

Why me? Why always me for everything? I just didn't understand why these things always happened to me.

I don't know how long Ron had watched me beat the shite out of the lockers before approaching me. Maybe he was waiting for me to stop being violent, so as to avoid being hurt. Maybe he had only just arrived when I finally collapsed. Or maybe he had tried to call to me before, only to receive no answer. I don't remember feeling the bracelet heat, but then, I was in such a fury, I doubt I would have noticed if it had.

All I know is that when my strength finally gave out and the adrenaline wore off, when I collapsed sobbing onto my knees, suddenly Ron was there, holding me.

Normally Ron tries to be all tough and manly, and avoids all of that 'touchy feely crap', as he calls it. Comforting people is more Hermione's forté, or Neville's. Ron is just not one of those people…or so he likes to claim.

He did a pretty damn good job of it that day though.

I completely lost it, and after seeing me demolish the locker room with my bare hands, he had just sat down on the floor next to me, put his arms around my shoulders, and let me cry my eyes out all over his robes.

After the tears finally stopped coming, he pushed me back so I could see his face, steadying me with his hands on my shoulders. "What's happened, Harry? What's wrong?" he asked, but I just shook my head, unable to answer.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head again.

Ron stood then, and offered me a hand, which I accepted. He must have noticed me wince as he helped me to my feet, because he didn't let go, instead carefully examining my bruised and bloody hands. "You really did a number on yourself, mate," he glanced around the room, "Not to mention the lockers. Merlin, you kicked one of them so hard the door is inside out, now."

I shrugged, still not wanting to speak just yet.

Ron gently tugged me over to the bench and made me sit down. He left for a moment and came back with a first aid kit, sitting down on the bench next to me. "Hold still while I clean up these cuts," he said, pulling my hand into his lap. "You can't play Quidditch with your hands all messed up, can you?"

He smiled at me as his poured some potion onto a clothe, then gently massaged it into the cuts. We watched as they sealed up and disappeared, leaving only some pink scars to mark where they had been. Unlike some of the other scars I had, these would fade in time.

Wordlessly, Ron slid off the bench and started to unlace my shoe. I let him, still feeling too worn out from my…eruption…to protest. He pulled of my sock and shook his head over my reddened, rapidly swelling foot.

Pulling some bruise balm out of the kit, he smeared it onto my foot and rubbed it gently in. The viscous potion first felt cold, then warmed, soothing the pain in my abused extremity. I gave a sigh of relief, and Ron glanced up at me before repeating the process on my other foot.

After he was finished, he put away the potions and stowed the kit away in the office, then came back with a wet washcloth and carefully washed my face clean of tears.

He put the washcloth in the laundry, then returned to sit shoulder to shoulder next to me. We sat without speaking for a moment, then I just barely managed to whisper, "Thanks."

"No problem," he replied.

I watched his face carefully, so when he spoke next I was able to catch what he said without having to ask him to repeat it.

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Yeah," I said, "I'm sure."

"You going to be alright now?"

I hesitated, then nodded. And I did feel better. I suppose I just needed to vent. The past week had been so insane…I had felt like my head was going to explode. But now I felt relieved, and strangely at ease, despite the dull ache remaining in my hands and feet.

"Yeah, Ron," I replied, looking at him and giving him a small smile.

He grinned. "Good. Now, let's get ready to play some Quidditch."

End Chapter 3

Yeah, I know, tis a short chapter. But hey, it came out sooner than the last one did! And look! Harry-Ron bonding stuffs! Awwww! (bashes head against wall)

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