Harry sat staring over at the Slytherin table.

Be more specific.

Harry sat in his usual spot at the Gryffindor table examining Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy got something on his face, mate?" Ron murmured around a mouthful of food. Harry knew Mrs. Weasley tried, but he couldn't help to hold it against her for never teaching Ron proper table manners. His Aunt had taught him despite her distaste, and even if it had been with fake food, a switch, and threats of a hot stove top, he had learned.

"No, nothing on his face. Ron. I can't even see the ugly ferret’s snout from here anyways." The insults slid easily from Harry tongue; too easily, he felt. It didn't take long to take the same road as Dudley. "He just looks...different."

"Different how, Harry?" Hermione asked from beside him, after swallowing. At least some of the brat-- stop-- at least some of his House mates had proper table manners.

"Just... off. He looks like he got taller." Harry whispered before swallowing a bite of steak, barely aware of the little voice in the back of his head that reminded him that nothing was to be wasted, for food was much too precious.

"Harry, are you trying to say Draco looks... fit!?" Ginny squeaked indignantly from beside him.

"What!? No- I... UGH! Ginny, no!" Ginny recoiled as if stung, and Harry sighed a little on the inside. "Well, I don't know, if it was implied, sure." Harry muttered, trying to comfort the smitten red-head.

"Harry! Did you just-!?" Ron looked at him with wide unbelieving eyes. What had he said? "Did you just call Malfoy... fit?" Ron lowered his voice, yet it still pierced Harry's ears.

Oh, learn to whisper quietly you gi- Ron.

"No, Ronald, Harry didn't, did you Harry?" Hermione, smart and just, Hermione.

"But he implied it!" Ron hissed, drawling out the word he probably didn't understand.

"Well...I might have implied it." Harry murmured, thinking sharply. How could Ginny say that; did she want him skinned alive!? Didn't she know the worst possible Gryffindor rule to break was to compliment a Slytherin!

"Harry, we need to talk!" Ron dragged him from the Great hall, to just outside the entrance doors so no one could hear him hollering.

Boy, did Ron have a bark!

Harry looked Ron up and down. The red head was flushed with anger, glaring at him, his stance unsteady and his nostril flaring.

"Ron, I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me, Harry! Of course you're queer! You’re as gay as Lockhart! You... you.. sneaking queer SNAKE!"

Ron charged back into the Great Hall.

What the hell is wrong with the people in my House!?

Harry winced as he woke from the memory/dream, he had them often, about things that stressed him out. And apparently this was the latest instigator...oh, joy. The last thing he needed was to have to dream it over and over again.

Right now Harry would enjoy nothing more than to go and strangle the idiotic git of a Weasley for what he was saying. After all they'd been through together over the past year and a half… from crashing Mr. Weasley’s car, to Ron living with him being a Parselmouth, drinking Polyjuice potion and becoming the oddly Dudders-like Slytherins, sneaking into Slytherin common room, and hiding Hermione.

As far as Harry knew he was not gay, and he didn't care, even if he was. As far as he knew, only the old Pureblood families still stuck to the same belief as Muggles—that being gay was wrong. Harry was sure that most people wouldn’t care... even in his own house. He’d be able to go back if it was only the matter of his sexuality.

Stupid friggin' Slytherin ferret! Stupid friggin' close-minded Weasel. Harry went on to curse anyone who was even remotely involved with the situation, including himself, multiple times.

Harry finally found it appropriate to roll from bed, and cast a quick tempus.

6:00 a.m. Of course, if he were back with the Dursleys he be up by now slicing the fat off Aunt Petunia's bacon, and sizzling it up, just so Uncle Vernon could gorge himself before going to work.

Harry kicked the side table and cursed sharply, the bed may have a cushioning charm, but the damn bedside table didn't. He sat back down and examined the aching digit; it looked like it was nothing serious, maybe some bruising. He'd live.

He tuned out the dull ache and walked across the room to his new wardrobe. Opening the sliding doors, he pulled out his uniform and winced at the echoing emptiness of the spacious cupboard. It was practically a second room.

He'd fill it up, he promised himself, by the end of the year.

Something occurred to him then... Would his new, hidden keep still be there when he arrived from the Dursleys after the summer hols?