Harry continued along the secret passage that would let him out into the dungeon hallway right across from the door to his keep, amused at the fact that even though the passage didn’t slope at all he’d be two levels lower than the castle’s main entrance when he left it. He was about to open the camouflaged door when he heard voices in the main corridor. He didn’t recognise them but their topic of conversation came through loud and clear. They were discussing him—again.

Apparently, his “error”—blown completely out of proportion—was now common knowledge in the entire school.

All the pleasure and peace he’d felt over the past hour and a half drained away and he suddenly felt short of breath and sick. He only waited long enough for the last of the voices to fade away before leaving the secret passage and escaping into his keep, slamming the door behind him.

His gut twisted and Harry leant against his closed door, shivering. Couldn’t he have at least one day where everything went right?

His upset stomach was joined by a headache and chills as his book bag fell unheeded from his shoulder to the floor. He rubbed at his forehead, surprised to find beads of sweat under his fingers. Was he getting sick? Sighing, he slid to the floor and closed his eyes, hearing the snide remarks all over again.

He couldn’t even be certain if the feverish feelings racking him were from an actual illness or just stress, and right now, he didn’t really care which it was.

Things were getting to be too much for him to handle. Last year’s events—forgotten by the rest of the students except for his winning Gryffindor the House Cup—still haunted him; especially Quirrell, who had quite literally died at his hands. Then there was summer with the Dursleys, who were the authors of most of the stress in his life since he could remember, which was aggravated by the visit from Dobby the House Elf.

No, the DADA teacher certainly wasn’t helping matters with his insistence on Harry “helping” him in class and his dotingly obnoxious advice on how to handle fame.

Miserable, Harry let the other events of the term wash over his mind.

The attack on Mrs. Norris, for which he received the blame, just because he, Ron and Hermione had been the first people to find her…

Lockheart’s pathetic excuse for a Dueling Club that out-ed him as a Parseltongue.

That poor magic-ed snake…

It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and decided “I’m going to speak Parseltongue.” He hadn’t even known he wasn’t speaking English, but everyone thought the whole incident was his fault.

He dropped his hand and opened his eyes to stare wearily at his bed with its invitingly comfortable pillows and blankets. He was so tired of all of this. When he’d come here, he’d thought he’d found a new home. But lately, even though he still loved Hogwarts and magic, it was as bad as at the Dursleys’.

Ignoring the fallen book bag, he lurched to his feet and staggered to the bed. He fell onto it, not bothering to take off his school robes, and closed his eyes against the sickness or stress or whatever it was as well as the nagging thought that he would never have a place that was his real home. Ever.

Harry woke up to his clock announcing “It’s quarter to seven, go to detention!” and groaned. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

He sat up and grimaced as a twinge behind his left eye reminded him of the headache and fever and the wretched thoughts that had accompanied them. He touched his forehead and was cautiously pleased to find it cool and dry.

A second grimace graced his face at the thought of the detention he had in—ten minutes. At least it was only a two minute walk to the Potions classroom which meant he wouldn’t be late and hack off Snape even more than he already was.

Hastily changing from his rumpled uniform to a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt, he snorted in disgust at his trepidation. No one liked Snape’s detentions, and since the Bloody Bat hated Harry a thousand times more than he hated anyone else it guaranteed that Harry’s detentions were always a thousand times worse than an ordinary detention, but he knew that the man would never, ever raise a hand to him.

The clock chimed again. “Six fifty-eight, you’ll be late!”

Sighing, Harry left his keep, automatically tugging his fringe over his scar as he ran towards the Potions classroom, wondering where the confidence he’d felt this morning had gone.