Arms around his legs, head on his knees, Harry stared, unseeingly, at the heavy, scarlet velvet hangings which surrounded his bed.

The teenager knew that anyone, even someone as logical as Hermione, would have been upset the discovery that a person they trusted had been a Deatheater and, indirectly, caused the death of their parents. However, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if anyone he respected would have reacted as badly as he had: accusing Snape of murdering his mum and dad had been extreme, even without the benefit of hindsight; it wasn’t as if there’d been a clear, causal link between the contents of the Prophecy and Voldemort killing his family.

Besides, thought Harry wretchedly, Snape had just been a kid and most people, even experienced aurors, would have expected Voldemort to either dismiss the Prophecy entirely or keep a weather eye on the alleged ‘vanquisher’. 

He had given Sirius a chance to explain, he’d even spared Pettigrew and, in the circumstances, Harry couldn’t help but feel that he had been majorly unfair to his Potions Professor. After all, the guy had been looking out for him throughout his school career and, when push came to shove, Snape had chosen the welfare of one irritating, impertinent brat over the wishes of his employer and protector.

And now he was gone, lost within the very heart of Hogwarts, because Harry'd kicked Snape right in his 'achilles heel'. The guilt did not end there, however; according to Dumbledore, the Potions Master had been attempting to prevent a plot which, if successful, would ressurect Voldemort. Snape had discovered, through skilled legilimency, that Professor Moody was an imposter, in the pay of Voldemort. According to the Headmaster, even he, Dumbledore, dared not venture into the false Moody’s mind, lest his presence be felt. So, Harry thought, if Voldemort returned, every injury rape or murder he commited was, indirectly, Harry's fault.

Harry pressed his face into his pillow as he recalled how Dumbledore’s wrinkled hands had trembled as he attempted to pour them a cup of tea, the waver in his voice when he told Harry that Snape had uncovered a plan to kidnap someone from the castle. “Take especial care, my boy” the elderly mage had whispered, his blue eyes dull, “Never venture anywhere alone.”

The cold, grey light which precedes the dawn was creeping through the mullioned windows before Harry’s buzzing brain finally wound down and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

oOoOo

Hermione lay dead in a weeping Ron’s arms, her glossy brown hair burning auburn in the dying rays of the sun. “Your fault! Your fault” Harry heard his voice scream and the tears on his best friend’s face ran scarlet.

Cringing, the teenager battled against his slumber, trying to awake from the nightmare which shattered his rest. As Harry drifted up, through the layers of consciousness, the dream changed.

“Severus, it seems, has met with an accident, my Lord” a whey faced young man muttered from beneath a fringe of thick, straw coloured hair. “The official story is that he has to visit his cousin, who is ill.”

“And the real reason, Crouch?”

“A potions accident, my Lord, apparently an experiment exploded in his private lab. He is convalescing at home, according to Dumbledore.”

Voldemort snorted derisively “The cover story is more believable; I have never known a Snape to make an inaccurate hypothesis.”

“My Lord has long believed Snape a traitor.”

“Potentially a traitor, Crouch.” Voldemort replied, his thoughtful tone sharpening “Do not presume your feeble brain equal to understanding my thoughts.”    

“Forgive me, my Lord.”

“If Dumbledore is suspicious, if he has sequestered Snape… yes. Our plans must be brought to immediate effect.”

With a groan, Harry pressed his aching forehead into the pillow and slipped again into the arms of sleep.

oOoOo

As had become his habit, Ron awoke at six; the other Gryffs, while initially understanding his sense of betrayal, had dropped him like a red hot cauldron when Harry had pulled out of the tournament. “Mate, I know you think he put his name in but, now he’s pulled out, surely you can see it’s more likely he’s telling the truth, yeah?” Dean had said one evening and, although Ron had the horrible suspicion he was right… well, Harry hadn’t exactly fought for their friendship, had he? And, really, in Ron’s opinion, if Harry had been a real mate, he’d have stood up for Ron when Fred and George had a go; instead, he’d just walked past the arguing trio with his nose in the air, like a right tosser. Besides, shouldn’t Harry have talked to Ron’s Mum and Dad before deciding to be adopted by Hagrid? Everyone knew that his parents had been on at Dumbledore, wanting to adopt Harry for yonks. It was probably because Hagrid was richer, what with all the rare, expensive stuff lying around in the Forbidden Forest, like unicorn hair and such.

Anyhow, now that he was in everyone’s bad books, thanks to his excuse for a best friend, Ron always made sure he woke before his dorm-mates and was breakfasted and out and about by the time the other Gryffindors entered the Great Hall.

As Ron sulky munched through his breakfast of fried egg and sausage muffins a small, pink envelope fluttered across the nearly empty hall and landed in his pumpkin juice. Cursing, Ron fished the envelope out with his tomato sauce besmeared fork and laid the note on a napkin, staining the white linen orange.

oOoOo

From the acidic quill of Rita Skeeter: the news of tomorrow, today.

To: Ronald Weasley.

Dear Master Weasley,

I am currently compiling an article on the Triwizard Tournament and, like you, I have reason to believe that Harry Potter’s involvement is not as innocent as it seems.

As a highly intelligent young man, your insight would be greatly appreciated by our readers who, like me, wish to know the truth about the so called ‘boy-who-lived’.

Naturally, as a professional I fiercely guard the privacy of my sources; if you do not wish to be named in my article, I will, of course, keep your involvement confidential.

If you wish to speak to me, meet me in the third floor Trophy Room at Seven-thirty. 

Sincerely yours,

Rita Skeeter.  

oOoOo

Screwing up the sodden note, Ron grinned; if Skeeter’s last article, a soppy account of Hagrid’s adoption of Harry, had ruffled his feathers, he’d be hopping mad when he discovered that someone had given a truthful account of what happened with the Tournament.

It was only right, after all, that the public knew the truth. If they went around thinking Harry was some butter-would-not-melt, goody-two-shoes… well, they were being deceived, right? 

And, besides, he didn’t have to tell Rita everything, did he? He could just give Skeeter the facts, as he saw them, and she’d string them together.

After all, he was being no more disloyal than Harry’s been to him.

Stuffing the rest of his now soggy muffin into his mouth, Ron causally stood up and wandered upstairs.

Harry Potter was going to get the surprise of his life.

oOoOo

“Do yeh wanna stay over, tonigh, Harry?” Hagrid asked solicitously, ladling a generous yet sensible helping of spiced cider into a goblet and handing it to the sad and unusually silent boy. Although Hagrid’s heart ached for Harry, there was precious little he could do; Dumbledore had forbidden them from speaking about Severus’ breakdown outside the warded walls of the Headmaster’s Office. It was too dangerous. 

However, even if Hagrid couldn’t comfort Harry with words, he could still be there for his son. “This is yeh home, after all and I could make up a right comfortable bed fer yeh, near the fire so as yeh wouldn’t get cold.”

“It’s okay.” Harry sighed, petting Fang’s downy ears, “I was meaning to talk to Ron, tonight…”

“It can wait, lad.” Hagrid said kindly, patting Harry’s hand. “I’ll make yeh my special pumpkin and venison casserole.”

The teenager smiled ruefully “Yeah, okay.”   

“And I’ll ask the elves to bring us a treacle tart teh share. With clotted cream.” Hagrid beamed.

“Sounds great.”

“Come on, then, lad, let’s go choose ourselves a nice pumpkin”

As Harry stood beside the pumpkin patch, listening to Hagrid describe the attributes of a perfect ‘eating’ pumpkin, whilst a gentle breeze tore the clouds into pastel ribbons, he felt his heart lift. Yes, Harry had made a mistake and, as a result, someone who he’d come to consider a friend had been hurt.

However, standing here, in the warm, bright rays of the dying day, Harry knew that was better by far to save his energy for making amends rather than waste it on guilt and grief. As sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, what Harry had lost in a few, hasty, unkind words could be found again, if sought. And, Harry though with a grin, they didn’t call him a ‘Seeker’ for nothing.

The ghost of unease, engendered by Harry’s all-but-forgotten nightmare of Voldemort, twisted away in the winter wind.

oOoOo

A hand shook Harry’s shoulder, seeking to rouse him from the rose-tinted peace of his comfortable hammock. Grumbling, Harry batted the hand away and, curling up, dragged the thick, sinfully soft, Shetland-wool blanket over his head.

“Harry!” a voice insisted, as the hand shook him harder, “Wake up.”

Rising like a wrathful leviathan from the deep, Harry poked his tousled head of raven hair out of his comfortable nest and glared at Dumbledore through sleep-slitted eyes.

“Waddayawan?”

A warm, soft flannel embraced Harry’s face, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

“There now, lad,” said Hagrid in a kindly voice “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Groaning, Harry pulled himself into a sitting position and gazed foggily at his Headmaster. Two things occurred to the teenager in quick succession; firstly, the window behind Dumbledore revealed that dawn had not yet broken, and, secondly, Dumbledore’s pale face was as set as that of a statue’s.

“Sir? What’s wrong?” Harry gasped.

“This morning, I received an owl” the elderly man replied, his fingers trembling as he unfolded a rumpled note “it appears… Well, it appears that Professor Snape was correct in his conclusion that Voldemort was planning to kidnap a student.” Dumbledore licked his lips, an uncharacteristically nervous gesture for the usually phlegmatic man. “However, you were not the target, it seems.”

“Who” Harry’s voice was more of a hiss than a whisper.

“Young Master Weasley.”

Harry’s green eyes widened as his jaw dropped “But… what does he want with him?”

“Harry… I require a promise, on your honour, that you will remain in the school grounds.” The Headmaster said firmly.

“I…”

“Promise him, Harry.” Although hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard concealed much of Hagrid’s face, the area still visible had drained of colour, making his dark eyes appear large and strangely vulnerable, like those of a deer when faced by a lion.

“I promise.” Harry heard himself saying.

“Voldemort is holding Mr Weasley as a ransom” Dumbledore said quietly. “If we do not surrender you, his life is forfeit.”

Numb with horror, Harry nodded absently: it had been the obvious conclusion. 

“Bu… but we can’t jus’ leave him teh die, Headmaster” Hagrid replied, tears shining in his eyes.

“No, we cannot.” Professor Dumbledore replied, twisting his white beard between his elegant, yet gnarled fingers. His blue eyes rose to meet Harry’s “We must hope that Professor Snape’s convalescence is speedy, my boy. Yule is our deadline for deciding Mr Weasley’s fate.”