Harry had been relegated to the Hospital Wing until further notice. He woke around midday with the intention of locating Ron and Hermione to tell them the news of Fudge's agreement to help in the fight against Voldemort.

His plea had been forbidden.

“If I see you further than three feet from that bed, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey had scolded, a stern finger poking him firmly in the chest with every word, “I will box your ears and be sure to arrange a detention for you ...” and as Harry began to protest, added, “with Professor Snape.”

That kept Harry quiet. He had no desire to be anywhere near the insufferable Potions Master if he could avoid it. He was, instead, left to his own thoughts.

He spent the afternoon thinking of yesterday's events. He and Cedric seizing the Triwzard Cup, together. A Hogwarts victory ... Harry gave a bitter smirk at the cruel irony. Of Cedric's body lying, wide-eyed, upon the cold graves. Of his mother, his father. Their voices. Voldemort, re-emerging from the steaming cauldron. Wormtail clutching the bloody stump that had once served as his hand. Mad-Eye Moody reverting to Barty Crouch. Dumbledore's fury. Fudge's denial. Cedric's innocence.

It all swirled around in his mind, each thought being instantly replaced by another, then another, then another. It was all too much. He wanted to run. To escape. Perhaps Madam Pomfrey could provide him with more Dreamless Sleep potion?

“Harry?”

He couldn't stay here. He needed to leave. Needed to save Cedric. A Time Turner. Why not? They used one last year. Saved Buckbeak. Surely Cedric is of more import than a Hippogriff?

“Harry?” He was brought out of his internal rambling. Mrs Weasley was standing by his bedside, a small bunch of grapes in her hands. She looked dreadfully concerned, as though she were worried about Ron or one of her other children. There were plenty of them to worry about, after all.

He turned to his bedside table where the sack of gold had been left, untouched.

“I don't want that gold,” he said, in an expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn't have won it. It should've been Cedric's.”

The thing with which he had been fighting against on and off ever since he had come out of the maze was threatening to overpower him. He could feel a burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling.

“It wasn't your fault, Harry,” Mrs Weasley whispered.

“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry. Now the burning feeling was in his throat, too. He couldn't be more thankful that neither Ron nor Hermione were there.

Mrs Weasley set the grapes down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as though by a mother. The full weight of everything he had seen the previous night seemed to fall in upon him as Mrs Weasley held him to her. All the memory's, the thoughts, started spinning in his head until he could hardly bear it, until he was screwing up his face against the howl of misery fighting to get out of him.

It wriggled its way from his burning, congested throat and escaped choked, strangled and short. Mrs Weasley held him tighter, her arms bringing him closer. The dam broke.

He sobbed for what seemed an eternity. He desperately grasped Mrs Weasley's shoulder in a vice-like grip as though clutching a lifeline. He wept for Cedric, for his family, for his friends. He wept for himself, for the entire wizarding world. But, most of all, he wept for those who had yet to suffer ...

Mrs Weasley began rocking him, a gesture he found entirely new yet wholly comforting. She soothingly rubbed a patented circle on his back, muttering comforting nonsense. Finally, his throat raw and his eyes stinging, he pulled away. He began wiping at the tears on his burning cheeks, the occasional hitch of his breath interrupting the quiet.

It was not an uncomfortable silence. It felt ... right. His heart was slightly lighter than it had been since before entering the maze. The wringing knot in the pit of his stomach had loosened. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and, ashamed, sheepishly glanced at Mrs Weasley.

She was wiping her own tears, a watery half-smile on her face. She placed a hand on his cheek, and with a soft thumb, caressed the remaining tears that were idly slipping from his eyes. She then clutched his head to her shoulder for a moment, and said, “Don't worry, dear. We'll fix things. Albus, Arthur, Remus, Ron, Hermione. We all love you, Harry. We won't let anything happen to you. You'd sooner see Professor Snape wearing Ron's dress robes.”

She chuckled at the thought. Harry couldn't help but grin - the horrendous image of Snape wearing Ron's moth-eaten, two-hundred year-old dress robes was possibly traumatising. She released him and took a step back, sniffling here and there, and handing him the grapes she'd brought.

“I thought you might want something to pick at while you're here,” she said thoughtfully, “Arthur told me it's a Muggle custom to give grapes to hospital patients.”

Harry smiled at that. Another one of Mr Wealsey's Muggle tid-bits.

He reached for the grapes Mrs Weasley held out to him, said, “thank you,” and popped one into his mouth. It was more something to do then any actual hunger. He suspected that had been Mrs Weasley's plan.

“And, Ron and Hermione wanted me to tell you that they'll visit you as soon as Madam Pomfrey will allow it,” said Mrs Weasley, “I expect you'll be allowed to leave soon, dear.”

Harry nodded his head. He was not looking forward to facing the rest of the school. No doubt it would be a simulation of the events during the basilisk attacks in his second year. The thought made him feel sick.

He distracted himself by munching on more of the grapes Mrs Wealsey had brought him.

Crack!

“Harry Potter, sir!”

Harry jumped a foot in the air. Mrs Weasley gave a loud squeal of surprise.

Standing on his bed, near his feet, was Dobby. He was grinning widely, his large tennis ball eyes shinning with adoration. He was wearing a different coloured tea-cosy, this one a bright orange with large green baubles covering it. It resembled a rather flattened goldfish sporting a bad case of leprosy.

He was also adorning a woolly jumper that passed his knees in a horrendous magenta colour, and many flashing buttons in a variety of colours and styles pinned to it. The sleeves were so long they had been rolled up into thick bunches at his wrists.

On his feet, he wore one green and purple sock with miniature dragons. On the other he was wearing a red sock with small Christmas trees decorating it and the lyrics to some random Christmas carols.

He was his own travelling circus.

“Hello, Dobby,” said Harry wearily. Dobby usually meant trouble in his opinion, however unintentional.

“Dobby is coming to visit Harry Potter! Dobby is worried to hear that you's in the Hospital Wing again, sir. He is coming to see if Harry Potter is needing anything, sir,” said Dobby in a rush. He was smiling widely now, as though his Christmas had come early (maybe he thought it had, if that sock was any indication).

“No, thank you, Dobby. I'm fine,” said Harry.

Dobby looked crestfallen. His large bat-like ears drooped and he began wringing one sleeve of his jumper. Harry sighed.

“On second thought, could you bring us some tea, please Dobby?” asked Harry. The instantaneous reaction was startling. His blindingly toothy grin was back in place and his ears perked up higher then they had been.

“Yes, sir, Harry Potter, sir,” he squeaked ecstatically, and clicked his fingers. A tray appeared, floating magically a few inches above the bed. It was overladen with everything imaginable. A large, heavy-set tea pot, complete with yellow and red striped tea-cosy. Dobby's next hat, Harry thought. There was milk, sugar, cream, honey and several herbs, as well as a large plate of biscuits. It had everything Harry could possibly want.

“Is Harry Potter wanting something else, sir?” asked Dobby hopefully.

“No thanks, Dobby,” Harry said, inwardly cringing. Dobby nodded his head resignedly before disappearing with a crack!

Harry took the tray from its hazardous floating position and placed it on the hospital table to his right.

“I'll do that, Harry dear,” said Mrs Weasley, standing up and walking to Harry's other side. She began tinkering with the teapot just as Professor Dumbledore swept into the ward.

“I have excellent timing, if I do say so myself,” said Dumbledore, although the smile did not quite reach his usually jovial eyes.

“Cup of tea, Albus?” Mrs Weasley asked, already conjuring a third cup.

“Please, Molly. And some honey, if you will,” replied Dumbledore, before turning to Harry warmly, “how are you feeling, Harry?”

“Fine, thank you, sir,” answered Harry politely. He was uncomfortably aware of his reddened eyes, and hoped the Headmaster didn't notice, despite its futility. Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement as Mrs Weasley handed both he and Harry their tea. They both settled down in the chairs at Harry's bedside.

“Harry, I'm afraid I have some rather unpleasant news for you,” Professor Dumbledore began gently, “I did not wish to concern you with such matters so soon. However, the Ministry is demanding evidence that only you can provide.”

Harry was aghast. How could they ask more of him? He had done what had been needed of him last night. He was trying to forget.

“B-but I've already -” blustered Harry.

“In the unfortunate presence of your godfather, Harry. I, as I'm sure you'll agree, would prefer to keep Sirius out of Azkaban. Such knowledge of his whereabouts would undoubtedly cause some unneeded complications at the present time,” explained Dumbledore patiently. He continued kindly, a small smile on his lips, “It is not an exam, Harry. You may decline. The information you can give me will only help to topple the Ministry's resolve but, rest assured, they are already wavering.”

Harry, despite the tightening knot in his stomach, nodded his consent. The Headmaster placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Harry. Your bravery knows no bounds.” The twinkle had returned.

--------

“She's gone bonkers,” declared Ron adamantly. “Completely 'round the twist!”

“Ron! I am not ill,” Hermione huffed in indignation. “It's a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

They were bickering again, something Harry was profoundly grateful for. He hadn't realised exactly how much he'd missed his friends and their arguments, or how terrible it would be if something were to happen to them. He cast that thought away. No point getting himself into a state about something that wouldn't happen.

Madam Pomfrey had yielded at last. It took an hour and a half of pouting, huffing and the general harassment of the school nurse who, after much toil, admitted defeat. Said Medi-Witch was in her office while Ron and Hermione visited. He wasn't to be let out of the ward until the following evening therefore, for the time being, they were to make the most of being alone.

“Fine Hermione, I admit it. You're right,” said Ron, sarcastic hand gestures and all. “That's exactly where he is. Right at You-Know-Who's side, licking his boots.”

“How can he be at his side and lick his boot?” Harry interjected, hoping to distract the two from their debate. Ron sent a mock glare his way.

“He's double-jointed,” he answered shortly.

“Honestly, Ronald,” said Hermione sceptically, rolling her eyes at the redhead. “He is not a Death Eater. No matter how much you'd like him to be.”

“That's what you just said!” Ron exclaimed, “you just said that Snape was probably with You-Know-Who!”

The aloof Potions Master had been missing from their Potions class that day. It wasn't like him to miss a chance to play his favourite game, 'Neville Baiting', despite recent developments. He hadn't been present at any of the meals either, nor been able to hand out detentions and deduct points from the other Houses. Snape's disappearance had attracted attention to say the least. The rumours flying around the school were numerous.

“Yes, but not as a follower! Keep up, Ron. I meant as some sort of spy. He must be giving Professor Dumbledore information,” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“And how would you know?” asked Ron accusingly.

“I heard him speaking with your mother last night. Some of us actually pay attention,” the young witch threw back at him. Ron grumbled slightly but didn't say anything more. “He said something about an errand he had to do. Some of it wasn't clear, but I'm sure it has something to do with the Death Eaters.“

“Most likely,” Harry agreed, “he showed Fudge his Dark Mark last night.”

Ron went slightly pale at that. His mouth hung open. The look of horror slowly turned to disgust as the realisation finally sunk in.

“The greasy scum,” he spat, “I've been in the same room with that.” The thought apparently sickened him.

“That's not very fair, Ron. If he's spying for Dumbledore you can't really hold it against him,” Hermione scolded. She crossed her arms and sat straight in her chair.

“Maybe. If he is spying. Still doesn't make him any less foul does it?” said Ron.

“Perhaps,” said Hermione curtly. It was apparently the end of their conversation. She stood and strode to the window at the end of the ward, her back to the two wizards. Ron sent Harry a pointed look and shook his head.

“When are they letting you out of this place, Harry?” asked Ron, slouching slightly.

“In a day or two,” Harry answered miserably. He didn't know which was worse, staying in the Hospital Wing or having to face his peers. He wanted the torture to end in the most expeditious way possible.

“Maybe you can convince Pomfrey to let you out for breakfast tomorrow,” said Ron with a shrug.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry sighed.

There was a tap at the window where Hermione was standing. Harry snapped his head up to see one of the schools barn owls hovering outside, pecking impatiently at the glass. Hermione hastily opened the window as the owl glided in and landed softly on one of the vacant bedside tables.

Tied to it's leg was a heavy, printed newspaper. Hermione's subscription of The Evening Prophet. She relieved the bird of it's burden and fished around in the pockets of her robes before revealing a small, dead mouse. She presented it to the owl, who took it gratefully before sweeping out of the still open window. She snapped it shut behind the bird and turned to see the disgusted faces of the two youths.

“I was going to give it to Crookshanks,” she explained sheepishly. She unfurled the bundled newspaper and quickly scanned the cover. She was tense as she read.

“There's nothing about the tournament,” said Hermione, clearly relieved. “The Ministry must be keeping it quiet.”

“Course there isn't,” said Harry bitterly, “Fudge wouldn't want his perfect little bubble to pop so soon.”

Ron nodded in agreement while Hermione continued to study the Prophet. She turned several pages before becoming immersed in an article of, apparently, some importance.

“Oh no,” she muttered. Harry glanced at Ron quizzically before turning to her.

“What is it, Hermione?” he asked. She didn't say anything, but handed the paper to him. Ron read over his shoulder. It was a short article topped with a picture of the Slytherin emblem. The headline read:

SLYTHERING SCOOP

There was much deliberation in the Ministry today after reports of an accident during the famous Triwizard Tournament, which was held at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year, writes Lysander Cursor, special correspondent. The reason of the calamity is still unclear but Ministry officials have claimed that due to the events there will now be special regulations placed upon the members of Slytherin House at the school.

“Current student members and faculty of the House will now be placed under Educational Decree Number Ten, effective immediately,” says Special Assistant to the Minister, Dolores Umbridge, “which clearly states that no Slytherin is to be outside of their common room after eight in the evening. No Slytherin will be allowed into the village of Hogsmeade without the supervision of staff members. There will be no use of magic outside of the school by any member of Slytherin, of age or otherwise.”

Upon further inquiry Ms. Umbridge was unable to provide substantial information. It has, however, been assured that these measures are, “To ensure the correct behaviour of the students, and their own safety”. No news yet as to the details of the events.

Harry couldn't believe it. Fudge had indeed taken measures - but this? It wasn't exactly what he'd hoped for.

“Oh no...”