NOTES: Okay, so, like...getting a sprained wrist picking a client up off the floor doesn't do much for writing/updating fanfiction. And crossing a street on foot and then getting run over by a very large pick-up truck is also not, in any way, conducive to writing/updating fanfiction. Not to mention anything else, like work, or vacation, or sleep, or breathing in general.

On the bright side, I think I have fulfilled my disaster quota for the year. :D

The teachers were silent and morose as they gathered together in the staff room for the “emergency staff meeting”, as Umbridge had so declared after they managed to separate a number of animals from each other and sent them soundly off to their own Common Rooms – except for the few who had to be carried off to the Hospital wing. Albus Dumbledore took a moment to give Severus-the-unpleasant-unicorn some hot water and a change of clothes so he could quickly change back to Severus-the-unpleasant-human in the privacy of the staff bathroom before the meeting began. Severus briskly seated himself beside the window and Minerva before Umbridge flounced to the front of the room and loudly cleared her throat.

“Hem hem. The events of today’s Quidditch match has long confirmed a fear that has been on my mind.”

Beside Minerva and Severus, Rolanda Hooch muttered something unflattering about the lack of the Umbridge’s mind beneath her breath. Severus raised a single eyebrow at that, but Minerva nodded her head in agreement.

“I can only conclude as I have long suspected from the horrendous behaviors and actions that took place today on the Quidditch field that the staff and student body are far too high-strung, and that simply shouldn’t do in this environment when we’re all struggling to overcome our current limitations and disabilities.” Umbridge paused in speaking for a moment long enough to make a big show of removing an ostentatious piece of parchment from her robes pocket. “Minister Fudge agrees with me that it is important to lessen everyone’s exposure to harmful drugs.”

The staff stared in stunned silence. Albus silently wondered who had tattled to Umbridge about his Firewhiskey-laced lemon drops. And then he wondered just how Umbridge managed to communicate so quickly with Fudge when Harry had won the match a little more than an hour ago.

“Therefore, under Educational Decree number twenty-eight, it has been decided that henceforth all teas shall be decaffeinated, coffee is now considered a contraband that will be confiscated immediately and the perpetrator reprimanded most harshly, and chocolate is a controlled substance. By removing the stimulant, caffeine, from our diets, we will be able to decrease incidents such as those on the Quidditch pitch.” Looking smug with herself, Umbridge folded the paper and tucked it back into her pocket.

Minerva cleared her throat. “You’re taking away our coffee?” The window she and Severus were seated beside suddenly exploded into shards. “AND OUR CHOCOLATE?!”

Before Umbridge could reprimand anyone for letting their magic get away with them, Sybil let out a shrill wail loud enough to awaken the dead.

“Hzzuh? What?” Binns asked from where he had been sleepily floating beside the fireplace.

“But decaffeinated tea fogs the Inner Eye!” Sybil cried.

“For once, I agree with her,” Minerva declared. “You simply cannot decide the dietary choices of everyone in Hogwarts.”

Umbridge lifted her nose into the air. “I can and I did.”

Minerva twitched and Filius began to swell in indignant rage. “Dolores,” Filius said sternly, “the fact that you’re blaming a mishap in Quidditch – a sport, Madam, well-known to induce adrenaline without the aid of stimulants – on our choice of beverage is not done intelligently.”

Umbridge’s face flushed red. “Caffeine is a well-known stimulant, and the lack of such a drug might just do you wonders! Although it might be too late to do you any wonders – you do know that it stunts growth, don’t you?” Umbridge added snidely.

Filius squeaked. “That was underhanded and uncalled for!”

“Not only that,” Umbridge’s voice rose to drown out the rising complaints and threats and wordless snarls from Rolanda, “but there is still the matter of those students responsible for causing such an uprising!” She waited until the rest of the staff fell (mostly) quiet and regarded her in sinister contemplation. “Thus, we come to Educational Decree number twenty-nine, which is a Ministry-sanctioned, life-time Quidditch ban for the students responsible-”

“What?” Minerva’s voice wasn’t loud, but it made the hairs on Albus’s chin stand on end. He began to pet his beard back into place.

Umbridge sniffed. “These students cited others into a reckless fight, and we cannot condone or allow such behavior to continue! In order to subdue and properly chastise those responsible, the punishment must be swift and harsh.” Then she rattled off the names of those who were hereby banned. The list was met with an icy silence.

“Those,” said Minerva in a deadly-soft voice, “are all and only Gryffindor students. And yet it was the Slytherin students-”

Severus smoothly interrupted her. “I will not allow this discussion to deteriorate into Slytherin-bashing. Those students who incited your hot-tempered lions into a riot will be reprimanded and punished as I see fitting. But I must remind everyone that the Slytherins did not, in any way, start, but rather were defending themselves from unprovoked rage.”

“I would hardly call it unprovoked, Severus,” Minerva replied as her hands tightened on the wooden armrests of her chair. “Potter is currently under Poppy’s critical watch due to a severe concussion and possible spinal injury.”

“Which is why,” Umbridge cut in, “Mister Potter is also being banned for life from Quidditch. I dare say that last daredevil stunt of his was deliberately performed for maximum damage, if you know what I mean.”

The armrests beneath Minerva’s hands suddenly splintered. Albus cleared his throat and quickly directed attention back to himself.

“Dolores,” he said, “Harry Potter and I discussed the risks inherent to Quidditch earlier this year, and he was well-aware of the possibility of severe injury. It is not the first time he’s been hurt – there really is no need to make such a drastic decisions regarding Harry, much less the other Gryffindor students.”

“Yes,” Umbridge said demurely, “but was Harry Potter suicidal at the time?” She smiled at the palpable silence. “You must understand, in Mister Potter’s case, I am merely thinking of his own safety and well-being. Such reckless stunts as we saw today – dive-bombing the stands, deliberately wrestling in mid-air with Mister Malfoy, ignoring the Bludger that smashed into him – these are all behaviors of someone who has no regard for his own life.”

“He never has,” Severus muttered, too low for Umbridge to hear.

“What next, then?” Pomona Sprout asked snidely. “Shall I lock up my trowels, rakes, and garden shears whenever Potter attends class lest he acts upon some uncharacteristic urge to deliberately harm himself?”

“You know, that’s not such a terrible idea,” Umbridge said with a wide smile. “And I do believe that Mister Potter should be banned from using knives or forks or other sharp and pointy utensils at the Great Hall during meals, nor should he be allowed to chop up his potions ingredients. The poor dear might stash his knife away, or even let it… slip… when Professor Snape’s back is turned.”

Albus tried to imagine Harry doing something as momentously stupid as sabotaging his potion with blood while Severus was in the same room. He admitted that the dear boy sometimes acted before he actually thought, but he was positive that Harry wasn’t suicidal enough to want to be killed by Severus. Not, he amended quickly, that Severus actually would kill Harry. Or even seriously maim the boy. Physically, at least.

“Oh, Merlin!” Rolanda kicked at the floor and slumped in her chair. “Next thing you know, Harry Potter will be facing off You-Know-Who wrapped from head to toe in bubble wrap, lest he accidentally-deliberately trip and skewer himself on his own wand!”

Umbridge’s eyes narrowed. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is not back,” she informed them bluntly, “and you are to cease in this terrible habit of spreading such malicious lies and unfounded rumors. But you are otherwise correct. Potter’s wand is particularly pointy, and so we should confiscate that between necessary classes, like Charms. He certainly wouldn’t need it in Defense Against Dark Arts, or for Potions.”

“Now you go too far, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore declared. “This meeting has all too quickly delved into very unprofessional speculation. The dear boy was merely involved in a Quidditch accident – a severe one, but an accident nonetheless – and has not shown any behavior that could be construed as self-harming. Furthermore, if the boy truly is in any danger of suicide, then removing him from something that brings him much joy and activity in his life will only prove to be more damaging to his health in the long run.”

“And that, I’m afraid, is where your bias is harmful,” Umbridge replied with a smile that might have been patiently indulgent, or perhaps even mildly constipated. “I understand that you are quite fond for the boy, Headmaster, and I certainly cannot blame you. Potter is a good lad-” she paused, frowning as Severus made a loud harrumph, “-but your fondness is only proving to be blind to his needs. You see only his wants. Which, of course, is one of the reasons why the Ministry felt it important that they place me, the High Inquisitor, at Hogwarts. As an unbiased adult, I have the right, the knowledge and fortitude, and insight to make necessary judgment calls.”

Minerva coughed into her hand; it sounded suspiciously like, “Blood Quill! Blood Quill!”

Umbridge’s face flooded red with embarrassment. “Of course, I’m only human and therefore are prone to making mistakes-”

Rolanda coughed this time, with “Jusenkyo!” clearly heard in between the coughs.

“-which is why,” Umbridge’s voice rose to a near-shout, “I’ve consulted the Minister before making my announcements, and so he has thus agreed with me. Between the two of us, our judgment is sound.”

Albus thought briefly of coughing out the word, Dementor, but didn’t want to his trusted staff to lose sight of the dangerous power play and struggle taking place. Not to mention he was really old enough to know better not to behave so childishly. “Was this decision made before or after you consulted a special mind-medic at St. Mungo’s?”

Umbridge blinked. “Why would we-”

“Because if you’re making a decision based on medical necessity, I would hope that you actually consulted knowledgeable experts on the subject, because otherwise Madame Pomfrey may have to file a complaint on medical malpractice and decision-making without a license.”

Umbridge looked flustered and she fidgeted with the parchment that contained the information on the Quidditch lifetime ban. “But it is our legal duty as professors at Hogwarts to ensure the safety of the students, from themselves or others.”

“Of course, Dolores, of course, and I commend you for your steadfast insistence. But this decision must ultimately be known and made by the parents or legal guardians of the involved students. Harry Potter’s legal guardians are, of course, Muggle, and they granted me permission and right to speak on their behalf in regards to the health and safety of Harry Potter.”

Rather than backing down as Albus had hoped, Umbridge’s eyes narrowed speculatively at him. “Oh really? How very interesting.”

“And in regards also the lifetime ban, I do not feel that such a drastic move is in the students’ bests interests. Yes, I am aware that the fight is very serious, that there were people hurt from it, and that it should not have happened. However, given the circumstances of their lives, I do believe that such a decision will merely further incite resentment and anger, rather than imposing introspection and regret for their actions.”

Umbridge sniffed disdainfully. “You certainly aren’t helping, when every time something occurs that a student ought to be disciplined, you should bring up their curses, as if that completely justifies misbehavior. How ever are they going to heal when you insist on treating them like victims? Is that not the difference between a victim and a survivor? When will they begin taking responsibility for themselves?”

Albus clasped his hands, frustrated. He had long ago made it a policy never to dress down his employees in public (even if the public was a staff meeting, and the term “employee” could only be loosely applied to Umbridge, since, technically, she was employed by the Ministry). “I see that this should be best discussed with the Minister present, as I do not believe that he fully realizes the long-term implications this will have.”

“Of course, you are most certainly welcome to do such a thing, so I shall graciously hold off on making an official announcement regarding the Quidditch ban. However, Minister Fudge left on some important business and you will not be able to contact him until Wednesday.”

Albus regarded Umbridge with a slow-burning anger in the pit of his stomach – or maybe it was heartburn. “And when did he leave on business?” he asked.

Umbridge checked her pocket watch. “Half an hour ago. It was last-minute, you see.”

“I understand. I do thank you for your cooperation in this. Perhaps we can discover a more suitable and appropriate punishment for those who are guilty. After all, Hermione Granger neither plays Quidditch, nor was she fighting.”

“I saw her attack that poor Nott boy. If I had my way, she would be banned from Hogwarts because her curse form is simply too dangerous and scantily-clad to be permitted in public. It is too obscene for this school of children.”

“Theodore Nott,” Dumbledore said patiently, “had also pounced on Dennis Creevy and was ripping off the dear boy’s clothes.”

“Speaking,” Filius interrupted with an unholy gleam in his eye, “of obscene, I have a question that I feel must be brought to the staff’s attention.” He paused dramatically for a moment. “Could someone please explain to me why the armor suits have all had their cod pieces removed and chastity belts installed?”

oOoOoOo

Draco moped around in the Slytherin Common room, hanging out with Blaise Zabini because the other boy was the only Slytherin male in their Year who was still willing to talk to him ever since Snape put the entire House from third year and up on a suspended probation for what happened on the Quidditch field. Draco wasn’t even too sure why Blaise bothered – he strongly suspected Blaise of having ulterior motives and was really just biding his time before springing whatever trap he was trying to set up.

And, sadly, Draco didn’t care, because he knew that whatever trap Blaise sprung was bound to have been influenced by Madam Zabini, and Draco had a large enough crush on the dominatrix by trade that he was willing to get suckered into any trap.

They were technically supposed to be working on the Transfiguration homework that Draco had been neglecting for Quidditch practice, but Blaise was about as helpful as a dead house elf.

“Ook,” Blaise said succulently with a very pointed jab at the open Transfiguration text.

“I don’t speak ape,” Draco snapped, and then ducked the ink blotter that Blaise threw at him. And it was a good thing too – ducking allowed Draco to avoid the attention of one Daphne Greengrass, who was armed with a ridiculously large wrench in her small hands while all aglow with a mission of a remarkably dubious nature.

“Just the creature I was looking for!” Daphne declared with a flourish of her wrench. Draco studied her from where he was safely hidden on the other side of the chair. “I’m getting sick and tired of our hot water constantly going out, so you and I are going to see what we can do about it, Muggle-style!”

Draco didn’t have to see Blaise’s face to know that the other guy was looking at Daphne with the same level of bemused astonishment that Draco currently suffered.

“After all,” Daphne continued blithely, no doubt believing that she sounded very reasonable and reassuring, “the Muggles have had running hot water for hundreds of years without the benefit of magic, so anything they can do, we can do better.”

“Eeek!” declared Blaise, and Draco agreed with him on that sentiment alone. Draco breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Daphne grab Blaise and threaten to bean him over the head and right hard too with her thingamabob if he didn’t come along. At least those two never dragged him into any messes.

Well, except for that bizarre butterscotch incident back in Second year, when Daphne and Blaise speculated that maybe the world’s largest batch of butterscotch might protect the Slytherins from whatever was roaming around and petrifying the students (and that was when Draco first began to wonder if the Sorting Hat was really infallible, because how could two such nitwits possibly be in the same House as him?). Hmmm… And it was probably best to forget that embarrassing debacle their Third year when Daphne postulated that Draco had developed a phobia for hippogriffs after what happened in that Gigantic Oaf’s class and so she and Blaise staged what they thought was supposed to be an intervention that involved one Astoria Greengrass jumping out of a gigantic cake while wearing only a bikini of hippogriff feathers…. Not to mention that unfortunate fiasco in their Fourth year during the First Trial with a bucket of honey that would have become an international scandal and a possible sentence to Azkaban for assault and battery if that bloody Potter brat hadn’t decided that he really needed to be chased by a dragon for posterity…

Now that Draco was thinking about it… for being so terribly unSlytherin-like, Daphne and Blaise were quite skilled at dragging him into at least one diabolically horrendous scheme each year. How did they manage to do that? Furthermore, it was getting to be that time of year in which they—

“Ah hah!” Draco jumped as Daphne loomed above him. “Are you tired of taking cold showers, too?” she asked him with a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

Draco hurriedly shook his head, although not too much that his carefully-tended coif would fall out of place. “No, no, I’m fine. Cold showers do nothing for me.”

A droll look crossed her face. “Oh. Oh dear. You know, my family has remedies for that kind of thing.”

“What are you-” Draco quickly thought over his words, wondering how Daphne made such an astounding leap of twisted logic to arrive at whatever bizarre notion she entertained.

“Nonetheless,” Daphne cut in, “I’m going to need a strong, buff body to help.” Ah, she must have noticed how his biceps had bulged all masculine-like when he helped her and Pansy rearrange Professor Snape’s cauldrons in the spare equipment room this morning. “And since I can’t find Theo-” What? “-or Suzette-” Oh come on! “-or even Millicent-” Okay, so Millie is kinda built like a brick… “-I guess you’ll just have to do.”

And that was how Draco managed to find himself in the very bowels of the Hogwarts dungeons, sandwiched between a slightly damp Blaise and forlorn-looking Ernie MacMillon. Strange-looking pipes ran all around them in the crimson shadows, twisting and knotting themselves into brain-breaking geometrical shapes that Draco had previously thought could only exist in his Ancient Runes text. Several floating strobes of red light that Daphne had conjured earlier, claiming such magic to be a bedroom device (Draco didn’t ask), allowed them to see their surroundings.

“So,” Daphne began, shoving her wrench into Draco’s arms as she looked at Ernie, “how does your father fix pipes?”

Ernie glanced around with some uncertainty. “Well, he’d check for leaks with the fittings, but I don’t even see any elbows.”

“Well,” said Blaise brightly, “I am all elbows, so I’ll just be going, and-” Daphne grabbed his robes before he could get away. So he switched to a new tactic: diversional whining. “I don’t wanna do this, Daph. I really think it’s a bad idea.”

Draco eyed Blaise in trepidation. “And when it comes from him, you know it’s not going to be good,” he whispered to Ernie, since he figured it was safer to have a Muffleborn Hufflepuff on your side than to stand alone against Daphne. If nothing else, he could throw Ernie in Daphne’s path to provide enough distraction for an escape. After all, isn’t that why Hufflepuffs were invented - to act as Slytherin cannon fodder?

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Daphne demanded. She turned back to Ernie. “You said something last week about all your father had to do was bang the pipes around.”

Ernie shrugged. “Yeah, I’d see him give them a few whacks, but I think it’s because of the placement of the different fittings. I think he said something about how pipes most often leak out of the connecting elbows that attach male ends to female ends.”

“Wow,” said Daphne after a moment of thought. “Plumping is even kinkier than I thought.”

Even Blaise looked fascinating at the idea. And considering how those two had been absolutely giddy over using brooms and mops during their detention with the Gryffindors with that sparkle debacle, Draco decided he ought to distract them.

“Like this?” Draco asked, thumping one of the pipes with the wrench. There was an odd booming clang, and the entire pipe quivered. So did the floor beneath them. “Is that supposed to happen?” Draco whimpered.

Daphne cheered as the quivering died down. “Do that again! I think you might be loosening whatever is blocking the hot water.”

Ernie inched away from her, and so did Blaise. Draco considered how far and how fast he could throw the wrench at them should they attempt to abandon him to the questionable wiles of their female comrade. (Now, were it Astoria Greengrass to whose wiles Draco was being abandoned….) Draco thumped the pipe again. The quivering increased. They heard a distant thumping boom, and then the sound of dripping.

“Well,” said Daphne, looking far too pleased with herself. She dusted off her hands, as if she were the one who had been wielding the ungainly contraption instead of Draco. “That should do it.”

“Erm…” said Ernie, looking very unsure. But his unease was dismissed as nothing in the face of Daphne’s confidence.

“Now, come on, you two. It’s almost suppertime. We can check to see if Harry’s awake yet. I heard that his little friend, Hagrid, was back.”

“I’m sure that Granger and Weasley want to be the ones to tell Harry about it,” said Ernie kindly, while Blaise looked sideways at Daphne and mouthed, Little? Daphne looped her arms through Ernie’s and Blaise and dragged them along, three strobes of red light dancing along in her wake.

Draco was left behind with the wrench and one little buzzing strobe of red light. It seemed to whimper and ducked to hide beneath his hair. “Great,” he muttered. He flourished his wand. “Lumos.” The strobe of red light zipped out and hovered near his glowing wand tip. He studied the strobe for a moment, doing his best to ignore the distant echo of dripping water. “You’re scared of the dark, aren’t you?” he asked the strobe suspiciously. It merely bobbed near his wand in response and tried to huddle closer to the Lumos. Draco decided he wasn’t going to dwell on the matter, and that he had best hurry if he wanted to keep his Housemates in sight and thus make his way back to familiar areas within the Hogwarts dungeons.

oOoOoOo

Harry drifted in a world of white, different flashes of color breaking the monotony, but the steady pulse of pain made it difficult for him to concentrate on any one thing. In the horizon he could see a black mist boiling wickedly, like a tempest caught in a teapot, and it was fast encroaching on him. He would have gotten up to run, but he couldn’t feel his legs, couldn’t find his arms, couldn’t see straight.

And voices hammered at him amidst all the colors and pain. Screams of his dying mother, Aunt Petunia’s snide remarks, Dudley yelling that he sent the Dementors, commands to kill the spare, girlish laughter and Slytherin snarls. Harry tumbled end over end in the clamor, clawing his way through a forest of mirrors reflecting different scenes.

There was Dobby throwing a Bludger at a Basilisk rearing to strike. Fawkes was showing a pair of blue-footed boobies how to fly. A ferret with a very human Draco’s face riffled through Umbridge’s flashy fake jewelry, a look of concentrated greed on his face. McGonagall broom-surfed past Sirius, who beat off a pair of flying curtains and screamed, “You can’t have me! I won’t let you – you can’t have me!”

Then Kreacher was there, his crusted arms filled with seven glowing balls of radishes. “Which one, master?” Kreacher muttered. “Which one is the soul?” And then Kreacher was bleeding from deep gashes in his face and screeching that he wouldn’t go back to the water.

And in the distance loomed the swiftly-approaching tempest in a teapot, fast and deadly, tendrils reaching out and shattering the mirrors. Harry crawled and scraped but could no more evade the tempest than a single raindrop escape a monsoon. It swept up, over, and away, and Harry was flung every which way like a feather in a first-year’s Charms class.

He finally settled when the eye of the storm swept over him, bringing a whole new level of terror with it that Harry had never before realized could have existed. In the middle of the storm was an emo emu with a scar on its forehead, bright green eyes lined with heavy dark eyeliner, and beak pierced multiple times. A black cloud, independent of the boiling storm around them, hovered over the emo emu and stubbornly released a steady torrent of bloody rain on the emu’s head.

When Harry’s gaze met the emo emu’s, a voice reverberated through his aching skull, threatening to split it open and spill delicate brain tissue all over the ground.

WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND

“Gah!” Harry clapped his hands over his ears, but the voice was projected, not spoken, and it would not be blocked.

I AM SO LONELY THERE IS NO POINT OR PURPOSE I HATE MY LIFE I CANNOT GO ON

Tragic, absolute despair filled Harry along with the words, but it was only just one wrenching emotion amongst many. A profound loneliness, a sense of abandonment so absolute and so sharp that it drove Harry to tears, and the heaviest of all: hopelessness. It was never going to get better. There would never be happiness in his life again. Harry was destined to hold his loved ones and watch them die because he made the mistake of letting them into his life. Voldemort would tear the world apart in his quest for power and vengeance, and Harry – once a hero – was the reason. Upon his blood and upon his life, Harry was the catalyst that would destroy everything he could have known or loved.

“That’s a lie!” he screamed at the emo emu. “My friends care!”

But they weren’t really his friends. After all, they never told him anything at all over the summer – they left him because he got Cedric killed. Handsome Cedric. Cedric who looked out for those lesser than him, because he was a good man through and through. And look at what the Wizarding World was stuck with.

Just a foolish little boy who couldn’t even fend off a silly quill.

No wonder Fudge and the Ministry was in denial. How could you blame them, when the person who ought to rescue them had instead planted the seeds for their own destruction? How can you trust the word of such a person?

“That’s not true!” Harry struggled rising to his knees, the heavy doom and gloom a pressing weight that threatened to crush him. But within the inside, doubt was being sown. All of his fears, hidden and unacknowledged or reluctantly admitted, were being forcibly drawn forward and shoved into his face. He felt so small, vulnerable, and defenseless. He choked back a sob as he lowered his head and pressed it against the ground. He felt his hands tighten into impotent fists.

From out of the darkness came the condemnations of others. “You disgust me.” Snape was the loudest – he was always the loudest. The doubts and worries of his best friends, the aching hurt that Dumbledore had, for seemingly so long, refused to look Harry in the eye. Percy’s letter and the articles published by the Daily Prophet haunted him. The painful things Seamus had said their first night at Hogwarts.

And then a single voice wriggled through all the others, fluttering and unbound and completely unabashed, as expected of any Slytherin: You keep with your friends and your group therapy, and never give in! It’s just not right to leave your loved ones behind like that. Agonizing bewilderment, heart-wrenching betrayal carefully shrouded in the eyes and voice of the one who uttered such words – what could a little boy have said or done to keep his mother from hanging herself? Believing still, irrationally, to this very day, the part played and the personal responsibility that might have driven a desperate woman to make a very final choice, and leave behind nothing but unanswered questions and the agony of what-if.

And then another voice: And I want you to live and enjoy many fruitful years. I want to point you out in a crowd to my grandkids and say, See that? That there is Harry Potter and I went to school with him.

Finally, a voice that Harry had always relied upon, ever since that fated meeting on the train station five years ago, with words spoken just after being rescued from a gaggle of well-meaning Ravenclaw fashionista-wannabes armed to the teeth with padded bras and pantyhose, “Thanks, mate. I don’t know what I’d ever do without you – well, I’d probably die.”

It really wasn’t much compared to everything else that castigated Harry, but it was enough to lend him the support he needed to push himself to his feet-

WAIT NOT DONE WITH YOU

-and dive headlong back into the tempest, to be buffeted away from the heart and sum of all his fears and doubts that were possessed by a curse of a dementedly depressed victim of suicide.

oOoOoOo

Harry awoke with a snap, voices suddenly penetrating his world. He floundered helplessly in his bed before realizing he was no longer dreaming, that he could feel his arms tangled in the sheets and his feet weighed down by a blanket.

“Hah!” said a voice on his left. “I knew that would wake him up! Pay up, Blaise.”

A sigh, and Harry saw, in his vision filled with the Hogwarts hospital ceiling, a hand pass over his bed and drop some coins into a waiting palm. “Who’d’ve thunk you could have bored someone right out of a coma with History of Magic?” Blaise wondered from Harry’s right. “I would’ve suspected only the opposite held true.”

“Hey, hey!” Daphne’s face loomed in Harry’s vision. “Are you okay, Harry? Blaise, run tell Madame Pomfrey that he finally woke up. Whew, you had everyone worried there – well, okay, everyone who wasn’t some kind of bloodthirsty Slytherin or Ravenclaw who bet against you surviving Quidditch in this year’s betting pool – but you are awake, now, right? No blurry vision or headaches or anything?”

“Bwhuamuhgher.”

“I thought so, too! Hey, Harry, did you also know that you’ve got your very own plaque right above your head, reserving this bed for you and you alone? I think that’s some kind of brand new record!”

Harry tried to interrupt, but Daphne kept blabbering.

“And that was a mighty stupid stunt you pulled – you shouldn’t worry people like that, Harry! I mean it! There was blood gushing from your ear and mouth when that Bludger hit you, and Blaise totally blames you for giving him premature gray hairs, although I’ve told him it’s really just the sun bleaching his hair, and Michael Corner wound up passing out – did you know that he faints at the sight of blood? His stag-moose flattened Padma Patil and she’s in the bed on the other side because one of his horns punctured her, so she bled all over the place.”

“Daphne,” said Ernie from a close distance, “you’re babbling.”

Harry had the pleasure of seeing Daphne then blush a bright cherry-red, which surprised him – he never would have suspected someone as brash and as shameless as Daphne to be capable of blushing. Especially considering what her family did for a living.

“I am babbling, aren’t I?” she asked in a tiny voice, looking in the direction of Ernie’s voice.

“Give Harry his glasses, won’t you? They should be there in the side drawer.”

Daphne thumped and bumped as she shuffled potions and tubes aside. “Here you go!” She shoved them crookedly onto Harry’s nose, and he reached up to correct them. A twinge of pain shot from his neck through his arms, and he glanced over to see Ernie seated cross-legged on the hospital bed next to Harry’s.

Any questions Harry might have asked were interrupted with the entrance of both Madame Pomfrey and Snape. She looked worried, and Snape looked… well, the man had a dark, pinched look on his face that could mean any number of things, all of them bad for Harry. Blaise trailed behind, an unsure look on his face.

“All right, you three,” said Madame Pomfrey as she made shooing motions with her hands. “Mister Potter has awoken, so you can end your bedside vigilance now. Go on – I need to see to him in private.” The look Snape gave his House sent them (and Ernie, by default) scampering across the room, undoubtedly because being with Padma gave them an excuse to stay in the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey pulled the privacy curtains around Harry’s bed while Snape took the seat that Daphne had been using.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Madame Pomfrey asked.

“Two,” Harry replied. His jaw popped painfully and he winced.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked, before adding, “Follow my finger with your gaze.” She brought her index finger close and then drew it back. Harry’s eyes crossed and uncrossed.

“Head. Jaw. Arms.” It seemed safest to speak in monosyllables, especially since his jaw painfully popped every time he opened it.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Bludger.”

“What am I touching?”

“Toes.”

“Good, good. What about now?”

“My hands.”

“Close your eyes now, Mister Potter.” Harry did so. “What am I doing now?”

“Pinching my elbow.”

“Do you feel any numbness, tingling, or sharp pain anywhere that is not your head?”

Harry concentrated on his body for a moment, and even wriggled his fingers and toes. “No.”

“Excellent. Can you tell me the date currently is?”

Harry opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Past November 5th, 1995?”

“You are correct. Today is actually the Monday the sixth.” Madame Pomfrey covered Harry’s hand with her own. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Harry eyed Snape. “Good.”

“Very well. The good news is, there doesn’t seem to be any current long-term effects from your injuries. You came away from that game with a very serious concussion, a broken jaw, a ruptured eardrum, and two cracked neck vertebrae. You may experience some dizziness, pain in your jaw joint, and general aches and pains for the next few days as your body finish healing. You are to remain on bed rest until tomorrow at the very least, by which time I expect your concussion to be fully healed. You haven’t lost any mobility or sensations from the injury to your spine, although the concussion is certainly severe enough that it may affect your mood and your memory for the few weeks or so. Normally, you would receive a potion to alleviate that, but it has dangerous interactions with your antidepressant, and so-”

Harry squawked a very painful protest. “What?”

“And so that brings us to the bad news, Mister Potter. Due to your curse and its suspected effect upon your psyche, due to how all the curses are leaking into the students’ non-cursed forms, it as been decided for your benefit that you are to begin taking this antidepressant every morning with food.” Harry’s mind reeled in shock, but Madame Pomfrey wasn’t finished in pulling that proverbial the rug from out beneath his feet.

“But I was taking it,” Harry said.

“This,” said Snape, “will be a much stronger dose.”

“Furthermore,” Madame Pomfrey’s words were coming in a rush, almost as if she couldn’t stand the taste of them, “also due to the concern of your safety, you will not be allowed any sharp implements, either with your meals or in Potions, until it is felt that such precautions are no longer necessary.” She nibbled her lip in a very uncharacteristic show of worry.

Snape sneered. “Had you gotten blood in your potions, harming yourself would have been the least of your worries.”

“And although a final decision has yet to be reached, you are, as of now, not permitted to fly your broom, either in leisure or in Quidditch.”

Harry began to hyperventilate. “What are you people doing?” A looming blackness, all too familiar and far too frightening, was beginning to gather at the edges of his mind. He tried to push it back, but it stubbornly persisted in lurking.

Madame Pomfrey actually seemed to fidget, her fingers worrying the frayed edge of her apron. “We’re merely trying to keep you safe.” Harry studied her, if only to keep his attention off of the looming blackness. It wasn’t fear that made her fidget – it was anger. That was enough to tell Harry that, whatever was happening, the toad was responsible.

The realization made Harry feel only slightly better. His professors and Dumbledore weren’t conspiring “for his own safety” – it was merely Umbridge. Whom Dumbledore had hired, anyway. (Harry’s hands tightened their grips on the bedsheets, and he fought down the urge to rend them in half.) He wanted to yell, to rage, to kick at the furniture and throw things, but he had a feeling that Snape was just waiting for that kind of behavior. So Harry took several deep breaths, struggling not to give in to the boiling rage or the sinking blackness. Whatever would happen – he would overcome. He was not an emo emu, and he was going to prove it.

And then Umbridge could take all of her meddling and her stupid decisions and shove them hard and fast right in her—

“I do believe my presence is no longer warranted,” Snape cut in smoothly as he rose to his feet.

“Yes, thank you for your help,” Madame Pomfrey replied. She eyed Harry, and he wondered if Snape’s presence was to make sure that Harry kept his temper in check. That only added another point to his mental boiling level. Harry had a brief vision of literally exploding from the pent-up darkness and rage, little smoking bits of Harry raining down on everyone.

“Do try to avoid doing anything foolish, Mister Potter,” Snape said dismissively as he stood to depart.

“Foolish is still living,” Harry muttered resentfully under his breath. Madame Pomfrey froze, and Snape’s lip drew back in an ugly sneer. Oops – it must not have been as under his breath as he wanted. Harry beat back the rising tide of panic as Snape drew close and hovered over his bed, a creeping spectrum of Death.

Harry could remember seeing a picture of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse one time in Muggle primary school when he was hiding out in the library from Dudley, and it was only then that Harry realized that Snape looked like a stunningly accurate combination of Death and Pestilence. The flash of amused irony made his face stretch in a grin.

“I see that once again you hold your life in little regard,” Snape said coldly, dismissively. “The very life that so many have wasted such good coin on.” That wiped the smile from Harry’s face – and the emo emu from his dream, with that dreadful cloud of incredibly cold gloom, of a mind-numbing depression that made everything in life worth absolutely nothing at all, slammed into his mind. “Perhaps,” Snape’s voice dropped into a deadly whisper, “it is a very good thing indeed that your mother isn’t alive to see you like this.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists as Madame Pomfrey gasped in shock. “Severus Snape!”

Harry wanted nothing more than to crawl into a deep hole somewhere and pull the dirt over his head. “Shut up,” he whispered, his gaze boring a hole through the sheets that covered his legs.

“The faults of James Potter are too numerous to describe or count, and while he certainly did have reckless disregard for his own life and those of others–”

Harry lunged. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP-” His flailing fists knocked glass bottles from his bedside as he threw himself at Snape. Snape smoothly sidestepped him and Harry went tumbled out of bed onto the floor, all askew and tangled in his bed sheets. Dizziness kept him unbalanced – the floor felt sideways like the walls and simply wouldn’t stop moving, the world whipping in circles all around his head. Harry didn’t notice the glass shards digging bloodily in his hands as he clumsily clambered upright. Blood rushed from his head when he managed to stand, and everything washed white.

That was how Harry found himself on his back on the floor, the glass no doubt cleared away with some handy-dandy spells. Madame Pomfrey was poking and prodding him, asking if he could feel this or that.

“Make a note, Poppy,” Snape said derisively from where Harry couldn’t see him, “Mister Potter is to receive his antidepressant in a plastic bottle, lest he decide that shards from a broken glass would be suitable for a suicidal attempt.”

Oh yeah, that’s what happened. Anger burned through Harry at the injustice, the mockery of concern. Jump off of Astronomy first, he thought, too sore and a little too dazed to use complete sentences.

“Mister Potter,” Snape continued, his footsteps circling around Harry’s supine body, “will also no longer be permitted to attend his Astronomy classes.”

Did I speak out loud?

“But what about his OWLs?” Madame Pomfrey demanded.

“Unlike Miss Granger, I’m sure that Mister Potter’s OWLs are hardly a matter of life and death. He’s far more likely to survive the mishap of failing than she would.”

Harry gave Snape a gargled snarl in response that, had it been in words, probably would have sent Gryffindor House points into negative digits.

oOoOoOo

By the time Madame Pomfrey had helped Harry off the floor and firmly tucked back into bed, Harry had a headache that throbbed a staccato rhythm. His group therapy members had been shooed off for dinner, but when Padma wondered if she could eat sitting upright in a chair (her first meal since the Quidditch game), Madame Pomfrey thought that it would be wonderful if Padma did so at Harry’s bedside.

“For company,” Madame Pomfrey said with a smile that did not at all reach her eyes.

And that was how Harry had to suffer the embarrassment of Padma witnessing him trying to eat with a plastic spork.

“What is that?” Padma asked with wide-eyed curiosity, the prongs of her metal fork pointed at his meal platter. They were both served mashed potatoes and steak strips smothered in a rich brown gravy, but Harry’s food was on a paper plate. How the Hogwarts elves managed to find a paper plate, much less a plastic spork, anywhere in the vicinity of the Hogwarts castle was not something he wanted to think about.

Harry, knowing he would say something extremely regrettable to Padma if he answered, buttered his roll with far more force than the poor bread warranted (using a blunt wooden spatula – who butters their bread with a spatula? Harry wondered resentfully). It crumbled between his fingers, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a good metaphor for his life in general.

Madame Pomfrey’s intentions might have been good, but Padma, intimidated by Harry’s foul mood, played more with her food than eating, and Harry tried to spend all his fury on his plate. His mashed potatoes, streak strips, carrot slices, and roll became an unappetizing mooshed mess that Harry eventually pushed away.

Padma didn’t seem any happier than Harry (although he certainly assumed that she couldn’t be nearly as unhappy or as miserable or as unlucky or as…), and so she went back to her bed with far too much relief for Harry’s sake. Madame Pomfrey glared at the sopping mess on Harry’s plate as she moved to clear away unnecessary clutter from his bedside.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Harry said, feeling slightly embarrassed. He knew he was sulking and taking his bad mood out on everyone around him, but damn it all! A lot of teenagers could say that the adults were ruining their lives, but it was absolutely the truth in Harry’s case!

Madame Pomfrey bustled around for a moment, and then reached out to take his hand and give it a friendly squeeze. “It’s not my place to speak ill of another professor behind their backs,” she said softly, “but I want you to know that Processor Snape was absolutely wrong about your parents – the simple fact of the matter is, Mister Potter, that if You-Know-Who had never killed your parents, then I’m absolutely certain none of you would have ever gone to Jusenkyo with that woman, and you would never have been cursed, and therefore you would not be in the position you are in now.”

Harry blinked rapidly a few times, forcing himself not to give in to the temptation to cry. “So it’s all really just a moot point,” he said finally. “Because I am here, and they’re not. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.”

“And that is where you are wrong, Mister Potter.” Madame Pomfrey enveloped Harry in her arms. “You do matter.”

NOTES: As a bonus, I've decided these next few chapters are going to contain those mysterious "deleted" scenes in which I tried to put them in the story, but they couldn't fit, for some reason, in the flow of changing scenes. The following scene actually takes place after chapter eighteen, when Harry left the Gryffindor Tower to go looking for Hermione and Ron. He had been told by Madame Pomfrey to stop by at the Potions office where Snape should be finishing up a fresh batch of antidepressant potions that Harry had to take with food (his next meal).

(And see, people, I totally can do an in-character pom-pom waving Snape! And here my roommate said it couldn't be done!)

(That, and this last chapter was just a little too... emo for my tastes. Bad, Harry, bad! Let's get back to the crack now, okay?)

oOoOoOo

Harry found Pookie hiding in a small wall niche. Actually, Harry had been walking along on his way to the Potions office to retrieve instructions and dosages of this antidepressant potion that Madame Pomfrey had told him he was now required to take when she released him that morning, when a splotchy shadow of white and black dashed out of a wall niche and into Harry’s ankles. Harry looked down and a pair of red eyes glared up at him from inky blackness.

“Hey, Pookie, are you all right?” Harry wondered why he even bothered asking such a dumb question as he stooped to grab Luna’s rabbit. It wasn’t like Pookie was going to up and say if he was all right. As usual, Harry’s scar and arms began to itch as soon as he made physical contact. Harry wondered if it were possible to be allergic to rabbits. He knew a person who was allergic to cats. Harry tried to run his fingers through Pookie’s normally soft, silky fur, and they became entangled with blotches of sticky ink.

“Who did this?” Harry demanded, outraged that anyone could be so cruel to a poor, harmless little bunny that couldn’t even hurt a flea! “This is horrible! Whoever did this ought to be stung up by their toes and beaten!” He shifted Pookie around in his arms for easier carriage. “Not even a hot bath would get this out.” Harry also knew that you couldn’t use certain shampoos when giving a dog a bath because it would make the dog’s fur fall out, and he thought it was probably the same for rabbits. He nibbled his bottom lip and thought. “Maybe Snape has something. I bet Hagrid would know if he were back. Well, since I’m already heading down to the Potions office, let’s try Snape first.”

oOoOoOo

Stringing a person up by their toes isn’t too bad, Voldemort considered, although the beating was definitely necessary. Hmmm. This idea had merit. Preferably with a baseball bat lined with nails that would be effectual towards a certain poltergeist. Maybe there’s some hope for the Brat after all.

oOoOoOo

After poking and prodding the package that had been owl-delivered during breakfast, Snape concluded that Lucius Malfoy didn’t booby-trap or curse it as far as he could tell, and that it was safe to open. Snape carefully set his wand to the side and used the small razor to cut the Spello-tape, and then waved an irritable hand at the fly that buzzed around his head. He had been dealing with a new batch of Lacewing Flies for his Third years’ next Potions class, and some apparently had gotten out. Well, he’d see to them after he had taken care of the latest completely unhelpful nonsense that had attracted Lucius Malfoy’s empty-headed flighty. And then he could get on with more important things, like teaching Harry Potter how not to properly administer the antidepressant Potions without turning his tongue blue-green and sprouting feathers out of his ears. (On the other hand, those side effects were just temporary and non-fatal…)

One was horrendously neon green, and the other an eye-watering bright pink. Severus poked at them. They rustled. He gingerly lifted one out of the box, eyed it suspiciously and then read the note that Lucius had tucked in the rustling strands.

“He’s kidding,” Snape said drolly. He grasped the bright pink “pom-pom” more firmly and lifted it up to the light. The fly buzzed by his head and he swung the pom-pom at it out of reflex. “Go Slytherin,” Snape added as an afterthought. And then he waved it some more. Hmmm. Apparently, the pom-pom was quite efficient in chasing off flies.

How completely ridiculous.

Now, where did he put that book on long-distance curses?

oOoOoOo

Harry and Pookie peeked around the corner into the open Potions office in time to see the back of Snape waving a cheerful-looking pom-pom and say, “Go Slytherin.”

Harry and Pookie exchanged startled looks, and then Harry very quickly and very quietly backpedaled and retreated.

“I think maybe we can come back later,” Harry told Pookie. “I’m not that suicidal.”

oOoOoOo

And that was when Voldemort realized what his evil mastermind career had been missing this entire time: sexy cheerleaders.

Upcoming chapter preview:

“Why don’t you go swimming off for help?” Dean asked Theodore as the table he and Pansy shared floated past them. “You’re an aquatic creature. You could get through.”

Theodore eyed Dean. “Because if I get wet, I guarantee you I wouldn’t be alone, and I certainly wouldn’t be fetching any adults.”

Vincent frowned in concentration. “I could do it,” he muttered. “Ducks are aquatic.”

Ron snorted. “Good luck getting past that, mate,” he said, pointing towards the doors. Everyone looked towards the doors. The Giant Squid looked back at them through the invisible wall that held back any further flooding. After a moment, it waved a tentacle in greeting and Daphne cheerfully waved back.

“On the other hand,” Vincent said, burying his nose in his Potions book, “I can stay here and paint my toenails.”

Lavender brightened. “Really? ‘Cause that would be an awesome way of passing the time.”