Ron and Harry were both utterly exhausted on Monday morning and Hermione wasn’t the only one to notice the dark shadows beneath her friends’ eyes.  Harry’s nightmares woke him several times through the night and though Dean, Seamus and Neville had silencing charms on their curtains – all of which had cocooned their beds in blessed silence all night long – Ron didn’t like to pull his curtains closed and leave his best friend to the terrors his mind never failed to provide. 

Harry had to wonder if it was worth having such a good friend through the night when it made said friend so grumpy through the day; but then he would remember when he had writhed, sweat-soaked and screaming, twisting in his sheets until they had trapped him in his bed and further in the depths of his mind and he knew he was more grateful than he could ever express for the rough shaking, slicing through his nightmares and waking him up before he could hurt himself or make himself sick.

Ron caught the grateful looks sent his way every time Harry noticed his friend’s yawns or the half-hearted scrubbing of his tired eyes and Ron always smiled back reassuringly.  They both knew that Ron would help no matter what Harry said and that Harry would do the same if the positions were reversed.  Nevertheless, Ron found himself having to convince Harry to accept his help with his nightmares and other worries, usually because Harry would say he didn’t need it, that he could cope on his own.  Ron knew he’d done just that too many times to count and wouldn’t allow his friend to do that again.

As he tried to stop his face from its inevitable plunge into his porridge, Ron’s eyes flicked up and met Hermione’s and from the worried little crease between her brows he knew she’d noticed the way Harry’s eyelids drooped a little more than his own; not from exhaustion but depression.  The night before was still playing on their friend’s mind and they both knew it. 

Ron could see the indignation aimed at Sirius flicker in Hermione’s expression but a second later with a little breath she released it, recognizing that it would do no good now.  Ron’s lips quirked in a tiny, sympathising, not-quite kind of smile and Hermione’s face softened further in response.   All they could do was be there for Harry.  It irked them, especially knowing it would take a lot for Harry to finally open up to them and ask for help or reassurance in his own way and that, until then, he would keep it bottled inside himself; letting it fester like an open wound.  Until Harry realised that he could trust them to be there for him, anything they did would hurt more than help.  They just had to listen when it was time and both of them were infuriated by their own uselessness.

Harry, completely missing the silent exchange occurring over his head, felt eyes boring into him, not from beside him but from the staff table.  Hardly caring about anything much as Sirius’s words from the day before circled his head – my own personal vulture waiting for me to croak he thought miserably – his eyes lifted slowly; too lazy to flick up as usual to meet those still on him.  He caught the barest flash of black eyes connecting with his before his teacher turned away and Harry watched Snape a moment longer.  He wondered idly what made him suddenly so interesting to his least favourite professor and if some of the rumours were true about the man after all.  Maybe he could sense misery.  It was a wry thought and offered no humour whatsoever, but it somehow managed to drag him from his pit of melancholy to the safety of neutrality.  Familiarity was good, familiarity allowed him to function, even if it wasn’t particularly positive.

What followed was the height of tedium and Harry couldn’t have been more disappointed by the lack of distraction if he’d been locked in a padded room in a straight-jacket for the day... which, he reasoned, wasn’t too far off of reality.  DADA had somehow managed to become even more boring for the lack of any significant development in the coursework beyond the increase in page number.  Transfiguration was as irritating as ever; the class leaving the room two hours after entering it with nothing to show for their efforts other than tension headaches and various inanimate objects sporting various, decidedly animate appendages... except Hermione’s.  Not to mention the palpable disapproval in their lack of progress from their head of house in ‘an OWL year no less!’

The worst part of the day had to have been when Harry realised as the bell rang signalling DADA to be blessedly over for another day, that the hell was only beginning for him.  He’d procrastinated in rescheduling with Umbridge for as long as he could and he knew he’d pay for that – after all he’d known about Snape’s detentions since Friday. 

Still, when Harry took longer than necessary to pack his books back into his bag, angling quite conspicuously for a chat with the giant toad, the predatory grin that awaited him when he lifted his head almost convinced him to run and never look back.

Reluctantly squashing those survival instincts Harry stood and waited for the last of the other students to leave.  Hermione and Ron had already left with half a glance at Harry.  Ron was starving for lunch already by that point and Harry knew that Hermione was ‘desperate’ for a visit to the library despite her own personal stash that by now must have rivalled the one upstairs.  Even when they were alone in the room Harry didn’t move, noting with no small amount of trepidation that Umbridge hadn’t moved either and simply stood staring at him.  There was a perverse hunger in her eyes that had him redoubling his effort to stay where he was and not tear down the hall after his friends.  Hell, he’d have followed Malfoy to escape this.

“Professor Umbridge, I needed to talk to you about our...” detention? Meeting? Rehab session? “Meeting tonight.”

“What about it?”  The look she was giving him, she was daring him to ask.  Like she knew.  Harry wasn’t stupid, he knew teachers talked to each other about their students – who was causing trouble, who needed help, who needed to change the times of their multiple detentions... that bastard – Harry had been sure that the other professors all hated Umbridge.  Evidently that wasn’t enough to discourage Snape from making Harry’s life worse.  Fantastic.  Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived solving work place disputes.  Bet Dumbledore was thrilled.  That brought a lump to his throat and he pushed it all down, felt it solidifying in his chest, an immovable weight that made his voice wobble.

“I need-” Her eyes flashed and he backpedalled quickly, “I have a detention tonight, uh, every night this week.  I was wondering if we could push the time of our... meeting... back.  A bit.”  He added, suddenly very unsure.  It was only the knowledge that she would have strung him up by his thumbs whether she had Dumbledore’s backing or not had he decided to simply show up late that convinced him that he was doing the right thing.  The only thing.  Crap.

 “Really?” She asked rhetorically in her sickly sweet voice with a faraway look, adopted and perfected by those in the soap operas Aunt Petunia loved.  She’d crossed her arms over her ample bosom and was now tapping a glittering, overly bejewelled hand on the crook of the opposite elbow as she pretended to consider his request.  She’d known.  She’d been waiting for him to go to her.  She had an answer prepared and was doing a terrible job of looking shocked at his appeal as she revised the wording in her head.  He waited impatiently for her to tear him apart.  “And why, pray tell, would I agree to that?”

What, had Snape given the bitch tips?  How To Irritate and Eviscerate The-Boy-Who-Lived 101.

“Um...”  How was he supposed to answer that?  Too many times had he tried with his uncle and been backhanded for his trouble.  She watched him flounder for a long moment, enjoying it immensely, before smiling.  Oh, damn.

“Mr Potter, I fear these sessions of ours are entirely non-negotiable.  They are just too important.” She walked towards him with the slow, steady steps of a predator with cornered prey – playing with her food – and her smile became indulgent.  It was just too disgusting.  “Now, I understand that you have been misbehaving in other classes to have earned a week of detentions with another professor-” so hers are going to be detentions after all? “-surely emphasizing the need for our sessions even more, yes?”

She was waiting for agreement.  All he could stomach was a tight nod.  She beamed.

“Yes, so I am afraid our appointment time stands.  I suggest you speak to this other professor, though you can hardly expect him to change his plans to meet yours,” ‘His’!  Bloody Snape, he did tell her; those were practically his words!  “Keep in mind Mr Potter, that there will be punishment for any lacking in your punctuality.”

“Run along Mr Potter, don’t want to miss lunch, you’re skin and bones.” 

He spun on his heel and ignored the girly little laugh behind him and the way her last words had sounded far too appreciative of the mental image they must have evoked.  He was so sick of this.  His own cold fingers skittered absently over the back of his hand and he refused to admit that his irritation was being battled by anxiety.  What was she planning?

He sat at dinner that night and his silence was more than enough of a reminder to Ron and Hermione of what awaited him at the end of the meal.  Snape then Umbridge.  Well, they only knew about Snape but that was enough to earn their dismay on his behalf.  A quick glance at the staff table and he was reminded of just how little his day had improved. 

McGonagall had requested he stay behind at the end of Transfiguration and had taken the time to explain just how unhappy she was to have one of her Gryffindors displaying such disappointing behaviour to have earned himself two weeks of simultaneous detentions.  Truth be told, Harry knew she was more disgusted that he kept getting into trouble with the man who would rub it in her face the most.  Sure enough Snape appeared to be doing just that over his evening meal.  And over Dumbledore’s where it sat between them.  Not in any long diatribe like the ones he often treated his students to but in little veiled quips and smirks that were quickly getting on both McGonagall and Dumbledore’s nerves.

Further down the table sat the fat toad herself who was trying to make ‘polite’ conversation with Professor Flitwick about how half-breeds shouldn’t be allowed around children, obviously oblivious to the fact that Flitwick was sitting on several cushions to barely reach her chin and that an equally disgusted Hagrid was sitting on her other side growing steadily redder in his outrage.  Umbridge was usually fairly careless in most situations, a trait that didn’t escape any of the students and confused everyone who didn’t understand the politics of the situation as they wondered how in earth she got a job in defence.  Many doubted she’d be able to defend herself against a bucket of flobberworms. 

Of course, it stood to reason given Harry’s luck of late that Umbridge would choose that single moment in time to be perceptive enough to feel eyes on her and look directly at Harry as though expecting it to be him.  As always, Harry was thoroughly disarmed by the sadistic gleam he could make out even from where he was two tables away.  Dropping his gaze and swallowing the small mouthful he’d had he looked at the rest of the thoroughly unappetising food surrounding him and decided the following few hours might be easier with an empty stomach.

Hermione – as always – noticed when he paled and pushed his plate away.  Leaning over the table she touched his wrist and quietly asked that question he hated, though he was too used to it to really care anymore.

“Are you okay Harry?”

Ron must have eaten enough to not be as ravenously hungry as usual because he noticed the question and Harry’s pallor.  Feeling the weight of the two pairs of concerned eyes on him, Harry decided he was more than ready to get tonight over with.  He was ready for this week to be over and the only way, most unfortunately, was through.  Sliding his legs over the bench he leant backwards and muttered, “I think I’m just gonna get tonight over with.  See you later?” 

“I’ll still be up doing homework so I’ll be in the common room when you come in.”

“And I’ll be there too.”  Harry smiled knowing that Ron was trying to promise his presence and get out of homework at the same time.  A glance at Hermione showed it hadn’t gone unnoticed and Harry was almost thankful for the detentions; he had the beginnings of a headache and it was obvious that, had he stayed, he would have been treated to another of Hermione’s lectures about responsibility and OWLS. 

“Ronald...” was all Harry heard of Hermione’s reproof as he made his escape while they were distracted. 

Once in the Entrance Hall he took a fortifying breath before beginning the descent into the dungeons.  There was a great deal of hesitation in his knock on the hard wooden door to Snape’s office and a long moment of silence followed the echoing thuds.  Harry hadn’t checked the staff table again before he’d left dinner and wondered if he’d have to kill some time and come back later.  He’d been hoping he could begin his detention with Snape a little early to allow for an earlier departure, refusing to accept how foolishly optimistic the concept was. 

He knew he’d still be late to Umbridge’s detention – or whatever it was – either way, but perhaps not by quite so long... perhaps lessening his ‘punishment’.  He knew it wasn’t the best plan and that he’d still be punished but he had to hold out hope wherever he could... who would have thought a life haunted by Voldemort would have taught him anything?

His thoughts were still bitter when the voice of the potions master finally filtered through the heavy door with his customary “Enter.”  Harry winced before putting his palms against the door to push it open and fighting the urge to lay his head against it and refuse to move ever again; Snape sounded on the verge of a screaming fit already and detention hadn’t started yet. 

Harry was in for one hell of a night.