It was a slow form of torture, to sit still for the two hours Tuesday morning’s DADA class lasted and keep his head down and his eyes on his book when he could feel that hated gaze trained on him so intently.  He could feel it burning into the back of his neck as she circled and stared.  Harry could feel his back prickling with not-so-phantom pain and he fought not to show any signs of tension even as he felt certain he would be struck the second he stopped expecting it.  Umbridge’s weren’t the only eyes on him but they were the only ones he felt as she circled.  And again.  And again.  It was a very long two hours.  And at the end of it he still wasn’t free.

“Mr Potter, a word?” 

Having just stood up with his friends to leave, his head dropped in defeat at the simpering voice.  What more could she possibly want?  Hadn’t she made him suffer enough for one lifetime?

He noticed the way Ron and Hermione wouldn’t leave but he paid it no mind, too distracted by the incoming horror in pink.  As he tried to negotiate his bag and his back he found he was actually glad of the pain which rocketed through his body at the contact as it didn’t allow him to feel the apprehension he knew he should have.  It took the woman a long time to reach the three of them as her girth worked against her and she got stuck on a few desks but eventually she stood before them, looking not at Harry but at Ron and Hermione with flashing eyes and a predatory smile posing perversely as a motherly one.

“I do believe I asked for Mr Potter to remain,” she began and Harry recognised from his hearing in the holidays and countless times since that she was gearing up for a long, pointless spiel to try and prove herself intellectually better than all others.  He wondered if she would fail as miserably as she usually managed to.  He sighed quietly as Hermione opened her mouth, quite likely to argue.  He blocked them out as he thought about how he knew things like that about Umbridge; idiosyncrasies that he really shouldn’t know at all and he felt an overwhelming wave of disgust at himself for it.  He couldn’t have explained why, but something in his gut twisted at the thought that this woman he hated so much took up so much space in his head, even if it was because he hated her so much.  He barely heard the diatribe going on over his head. 

“As I can see you are clearly not a boy Miss Granger, I am afraid I do not understand your presence.  As for you, I could have been sure your name was Weasley.  Has it changed since the beginning of class when I took role?”

Ron and Hermione were glaring daggers at their teacher by the time Umbridge stopped talking and Ron muttered under his breath “Old hag,” apparently unable to stop himself.  Indeed, he didn’t seem to realise he’d given voice to his thoughts until Umbridge’s eyes flashed, clearly having heard him.  But then her eyes swept over Harry’s bowed head, saw the look on his face, and she shook herself from her ire.  Both teens that were paying attention were disconcerted by how suddenly her anger became something completely different and the woman continued as if nothing was wrong, and it didn’t escape Hermione why.  Her chocolate-brown eyes darkened significantly but she stayed silent.

“As I was saying, I need only Mr Potter.  You two can run along, he will be with you shortly.”  Harry distantly heard Hermione’s reply and found himself in awe of her tenacity; he doubted he could have argued with Umbridge at that moment.

“It’s just that we were going to walk to our next class together and we’ll all be late if we don’t leave now.”

“Have you forgotten Miss Granger that I am a professor here?” she ignored Ron’s mutter of “not bloody likely,” and continued in a louder, somewhat more determined voice.  Though her words came out shrill, forced from behind clenched teeth, she didn’t seem to notice she’d lost her air of indifference.  “I have excused the two of you and there is no reason why you should be late for your next class.  If you are, you will no doubt earn a detention from Professor...” she looked pointedly at Hermione until she caught on.

“We have Herbology next.”  Umbridge sniffed disdainfully.

“Well no doubt there will be some kind of repercussions awaiting you if you are late for Professor Sprout,” she sniffed again as though she highly doubted it.  “As for Mr Potter, I will be done with him shortly.  Until I am, perhaps you should keep in mind that I am your professor and you are students and the enforcement of rules falls to me, not you.”

Hermione was red in the face she was so utterly livid, but upon seeing this Ron dragged her from the room before she could get herself into any serious trouble.  Harry lifted his head and came back to reality in time to hear Hermione’s voice float in from beyond the door.  “Why did you do that?  I wasn’t finished with that insufferable, unbelievable...”

Her voice was lost as she was no doubt dragged further out of earshot before she could finish her list of epithets.  In a slight haze Harry saw Umbridge swoop down on him like some great pink bird of prey.  Personally he didn’t think they existed.  Surely they’d be far too noticeable. 

“Mr Potter,” she said his name as though she was cooing to a box of chocolates finally in her grasp.  He shuddered.  “Your friends are quite... spirited.  I wonder if they get that from you.  I wonder, if I were to adjust your views of authority, you might adjust theirs by way of influence?  Perhaps something we should discuss further tonight.  You have reason to be quite irritated with your friends actually, if they hadn’t interfered we would have been done by now and you wouldn’t be fifteen minutes late for your next class.  Pity.  It was the subject of punctuality I wanted to discuss with you too.  You see I’ve had a talk with Professor Snape,”  Harry’s eyes widened fractionally as he wondered what trouble he was in for later that night when he would no doubt find out what Umbridge had seen fit to discuss with Snape about him. 

“And he has refused to change the time of your detentions with him to allow for mine,” Harry closed his eyes tightly and barely held in a groan.  “So, I am willing to overlook your lateness to our meetings for the rest of the week.”  His eyes flew open again and he regarded her with disbelief.  She was making allowances for him?  What the hell?  “We have much to get through and I believe in future you will maintain your own punctuality where possible,” she paused to stretch her jewel encrusted talon to his shoulder, brushing the welt through the fabric of his shirt and he winced.  “It was a hard-won lesson was it not?”

Harry was numb.  He didn’t react to her baiting and on some level he was sure this would anger her as she usually only did things to provoke a reaction from someone, yet his lack of response seemed to be exactly what she was after as she smiled, looking quite satisfied.  Pulling back her hand she turned and made her way back to her desk, continuing as if nothing had happened.

“You will come here as soon as your detention with Professor Snape is finished, understood?”

Harry could only muster a nod and she seemed to expect this as well as she looked over her shoulder in time to catch it.  “Good, now run along, mustn’t keep your friends waiting.”

Without a word Harry spun on his heel and left.  

Professor Sprout had luckily opted to take points rather than give a detention and no one was overly fussed about the five Gryffindor lost as they were in the lead for the house cup by so many more.  Harry wondered if he could suggest the alternate form of punishment to Umbridge. 

By the time lunch arrived and Harry, Ron and Hermione were sat in the Great Hall; Harry’s head was pounding with a pulse of its own making him feel quite sick.  Hermione hadn’t helped his headache in the least as her tirade had only stopped for brief periods in classes, and even then it had only reduced to a frenzied, hissing whisper.  Hermione had noticed Harry’s state but it only fuelled her to new levels of aggravated indignation.

“And then she has the gall to –”

“Hermione!  You can stop now.”

Though Ron had tried multiple times to calm her down, Hermione had resisted each time and she looked like she would this time as well until Ron nodded his head in Harry’s direction where he sat rubbing his temples and ignoring his sandwiches.  It got the desired response.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft and slightly unsure, so unlike it had been for the last two classes that it successfully caught Harry’s attention.  “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You should eat something.  Lunch’ll be over in ten minutes.”

Harry sighed and continued to rub his head.  It really wasn’t helping but it gave the illusion that he was doing something to stop the pain and for some reason that helped his state of mind a little.  He looked at Ron with tired eyes.

“What do we have next?”

“Divination.”  Harry groaned and his head thudded as he let it drop defeatedly to the table.  Ron nodded pityingly, misunderstanding Harry’s reaction.  “I know mate, I didn’t do my homework either.”

The afternoon just got better and better from there as far as Harry was concerned.  The incense wafting around the Divination classroom in clouds of heady perfume was stifling enough to make Harry’s eyes water and his head felt full of cotton wool by the time the class was over.  It was only made that much worse when he walked into Potions.  Even though it was their last class of the day, the seventh year class before theirs had brewed something that, despite being bottled and cleaned thoroughly from cauldrons and other equipment, had left behind a noxious, cloying smell of its own that seemed to prickle at everyone’s noses. 

After an hour in Divination, with a terrible headache and an ever-worsening sense of nausea – not to mention the pain in his back which seemed to culminate in his temples – Harry felt and looked far worse than anyone else in the room and Snape noticed immediately, though of course he made no sign.

The three friends had settled in seats at the back of the room in an attempt to go unnoticed and amazingly enough it actually seemed to work.  For the entire lesson Snape stayed away from them, only coming near them once to sneer into Ron’s cauldron, ignoring both Hermione’s and Harry’s as he disappeared to the other side of the room in a swish of heavy, black fabric.  Harry kept his head down and worked on his potion, giving it all of his attention, though he couldn’t have said afterwards what he had brewed.  He didn’t notice the looks Ron and Hermione exchanged throughout the lesson – one of which caused an extra malicious sneer from Snape when it resulted in the utter ruin of Ron’s attempted potion – or the way they both seemed to become more anxious as the lesson progressed. 

By the end of it they were whispering covertly together as they cleaned their cauldrons together at the sink in the corner.  By then Harry had noticed the strange behaviour but really couldn’t have cared less, he felt too sick and it was affecting his train of thought disastrously.  When Snape dismissed the class and called over the sudden din for him to remain behind, Harry saw the mingled look of concern and relief in both of their faces – though he forgot the former in the face of the latter – and the only thought that flitted absently through his mind like a dejected murmur was: who could really blame them?

Harry walked disinterestedly to the front of the classroom, going against the current of rushing bodies as the rest of the students hurried in the opposite direction.  It was as though he was hearing through a badly tuned radio when he heard Snape tersely dismiss Malfoy who was clearly lingering before he eventually came to stand a few feet before Harry.  All Harry could really make out was the general form of him, so distracted was he by the various aches and pains his body saw fit to remind him of constantly.  He was desperately trying to calm his stomach, his throat occasionally having to work to keep what he’d eaten down with dry gulping movements even though he hadn’t had anything since breakfast. 

Snape was silent for a long time but Harry didn’t notice until the awful smell that had lingered in the room seemed to suddenly disappear, though it took a little longer to stop clinging to the inside of his nose.  In the clearer air Harry’s eyes lost some of their glaze and he looked up tiredly to see Snape watching him intently.  His face was inscrutable and his eyes revealed only his interest in Harry’s face which they roamed over again and again.  Harry was the first to break the silence, ruminating over why it usually had to be him that did so when in the presence of Snape.  Especially when it was usually the professor who wanted to talk to him in the first place.  It seemed like such a lot of hassle to Harry who wanted, more than anything, for life to be simple.  

“You wanted to speak to me sir?”  Even his voice sounded tired.  Had he not felt so awful he would have cursed himself for showing any kind of weakness in front of this man.  As it was, he was tired.  He couldn’t ignore it anymore.  Snape continued watching him, showing no indication that he’d heard him at all until, after nearly a minute of nothing, Snape spoke softly, dangerously.  It was almost enough to distract Harry from the words he said.

“The next time you come to this classroom when you should be in the infirmary, the next time you endanger the lives of every other person in here by using volatile substances without focus or concentration; I will see to it personally that you become one as painfully as possible.  Do I make myself clear?”  Snape had stepped forward as he spoke and now stood in Harry’s personal space, towering over him and looking quite threatening indeed.  Harry wondered if he should tell him that, he was sure it would make the man happy.  If he ever was.

“Yes sir,” he said instead.  A shame really. 

 “In that case I suggest you go there now.  Don’t think it will get you out of detention tonight unless you are dying.  Imminently.”

“Yes sir,” he repeated, feeling a little useless in the conversation.  Waiting until Snape made a shooing motion with his hands to be sure he was dismissed, Harry turned and left, dragging his bag and wondering how he would possibly make it up that many stairs. 

As he passed through halls and under arches, windows with and without glass, he noticed for the first time the storm clouds building.  He’d been so distracted he felt as though he hadn’t noticed much outside of his head for days, as though he was living in a different space to the one the rest of the world occupied.  Now he remembered the sound of rain through the night, the scent of it in the air, and he watched now as the clouds roiled and tossed like waves on the shore, large plumes of bruised sky colliding only to separate as he stood before it all and stared.  He looked out from a large arched window, nothing separating him from the smell of the oncoming storm and wondered why it felt so calming to watch such turmoil on such a scale.  The air had an errant crackle of electricity to it that he hadn’t felt since winter the year before, the kind that comes from approaching thunder and lightning and the probability of torrents of rain in the near future.  It made him feel like he was home.  He had only ever experienced these kinds of ferocious, deadly storms since coming to Hogwarts and every year it came at a time of year he usually managed to forget that he had another ‘home’ completely; long enough after leaving his relatives that his body had recovered with a long stretch ahead before he would have to see them again.  He was home. 

But home was also his friends.

He hadn’t see Hermione or Ron when he’d left the classroom and it hurt a little to think they hadn’t waited for him.  They always waited.  He internally cursed himself again.  He was being ridiculous; of course they didn’t have to wait for him.  He was heading for the infirmary anyway.  As if they didn’t have better things to do than hold his hand.  It struck him that he was obeying Snape of all people, but he really couldn’t have cared less.  He truly felt terrible and Madame Pomfrey may be able to help.  The thought only really made him feel bad for wasting her time though since he knew she couldn’t.  Not really. 

He gave a last long look to the clouds coming ever closer and couldn’t help the nostalgia for younger years that the smell of rain induced, years of childhood he should have had and hadn’t.  Years he mourned when he had never truly had them to begin with.  The first year he had spent here had been his childhood, his second entry into the world he had been born to, the year he learned what he needed to know.  What he was.  What he would be.  It didn’t feel like enough but as far as a childhood went he supposed it would have to do.