Contradictus Totalus

Contradictus Totalus - Chapter Ten

A pair of eyes tracked Ronald Weasley with an animalistic fervour. They scrutinized the wide, bitten nails on the boy's fingers. They swept over his long, bony fingers and calloused palms. They followed the boy's fingers up their trail as he scratched his neck. They lingered on the pale white juxtaposed against the darkness. They climbed up the pink ridges of the boy's ears. They sailed over to the orange waves of his messy hair. They -

'Merlin's hairy balls! Pansy! Would you stop! Bloody staring at me!'

Pansy laughed lightly. The giggle pierced the silence of the forest. It was the most vile and tarty laugh Ron had ever heard, sounding worse than the one he once heard gurgling out of a hag slumped drunkenly outside the Leaky Cauldron when he was ten. 'Scaring you, am I, Weasley?'

'No!' Yes. 'Course not!' Yes, she was, as a matter of fact. Ron didn't like how she was staring at him as if she could read his mind. 'It's just bloody annoying having your great big ugly eyes on me all the time.'

'Well, Weasley, I do have to keep occupied. And since there's nothing outside but darkness and mud puddles, you win as being my main source of entertainment.' Pansy fluttered her eyes coquettishly, and added, 'Besides, you should feel flattered. That's more attention I've paid you all night than you've ever received your whole life.'

The bloody sow! Big, ugly, Slytherin lying bint. He had helped the Gryffindors win the cup last year, hadn't he? He had great friends in Harry and Hermione, didn't he? He ... he refused to admit to himself that there was a certain grain of truth to her jibe. Though it was dark, Ron could see Pansy's teeth when she smiled maliciously. Had someone ever told Pansy that she had the face not of a pug, but of an ugly, cold, and very hungry cat? Ron deliberately looked away from her, choosing to stare at the darkness and mud puddles instead of Pansy Parkinson.

He couldn't believe what a mess they were in. They'd been eating their very late and very unsatisfying dinner (in Ron's opinion, fungus did not satisfy any of his daily nutritional requirements) when it had started to rain. Away from anything resembling a decent shelter, Pansy voiced the idea of blowing a hole inside a tree, and hollowing it out into some sort of cave.

In theory, he had to admit grudgingly, the idea was good. The tree they had chosen seemed big enough on the outside. And neither of them expected any problems - they both were quite adept with the Exploserio spell. In practice, however, it was the most gruelling, tiring activity that Ron had to do in a long while. First off, the spell was piss-poor in the rain. In the end, they were reduced to using the spell to get rid of a few chunks, and then using rocks to get rid of the rest of the trunk. (Correction: not they, but he. It was in Ron Weasley's humble opinion that Pansy did nothing but aim her wand at random places, point, criticize, complain, and screech.) And whenever the spell did succeed, it was towards his eyes that the little pieces of tree trunk were shot out at. Finally, when they (he, of course) had chiselled out a little nook that seemed large enough for the both of them, they jumped inside, only to uncover a few unfortunate pieces of information not privy to them beforehand.

Fact Number One: the hole in the tree trunk seemed to be deliberately deceiving - probably revenge on the wizards who chopped them down for wands, Ron thought sourly - because although on the outside, it looked big enough to comfortably seat Hagrid and half of Madame Maxime, in reality, Ron and Pansy barely succeeded in wedging themselves in. (In fact, Ron didn't believe the word 'succeeded' applied here, because any situation in which Pansy had her left knee conveniently positioned just a few inches away from his groin just wasn't a good and successful situation.)

Fact Number Two: there seemed to be an infestation of some species of insects inside their (his!) tree trunk. Ron suffered several bites before he realized this and cast an Insect-Repelling Charm (with much difficulty - he accidentally poked his wand in his eye on the first attempt) on himself. He fervently hoped that the insects were not poisonous, and fleetingly wondered if Pansy might happen to have the cure for death by bug bite on hand. Pansy, to Ron's annoyance, had somehow managed to avoid being bitten.

Fact Number Three: by the time the heavy rain had stopped, it was much too late to keep walking, so both of them were resigned to their fate. They would have to spend the night inside a bloody tree trunk. Though Pansy complained loudly ('But Weasley, your feet smell horrible!'), Ron felt he was getting the raw end of the deal. After all, at least Pansy didn't have to worry about him going potty and suddenly attacking her by way of jamming his knee into her groin.

In conclusion, Ron pronounced that this evening spent with Pansy Parkinson in the tree trunk should be deemed nothing less than Cruel and Unusual Punishment by the Wizengamot.

Pansy Parkinson didn't feel much sympathy for her companion, although he did amuse her quite a bit, which was much better than some of the other Slytherins in her house. She watched as Weasley stared steadily out of the tree trunk, his anger made clear by the lovely shade of pink of his ears.

It was strange, she mused. So many people underestimated her. Even now, when she was hitting Weasley in all the right spots (figuratively - she was saving the use of her left knee for when she was really bored), he still probably thought of her as some mindless bint. Which, she had to admit, wasn't as bad as some people might think.

The best attack was one that was not expected. She had the fortune of learning this particular motto early in life, and had the intelligence to see its merits. People like Hermione Granger thought she was just some mindless, gossipy cow. Sheer arrogance on Granger's behalf - if Granger wanted to think that all Pansy knew were Cosmetic Charms, then she'd be all the more surprised when Pansy showed off her specialties: She fancied herself as being particularly talented in the casting of the Riddikulus Spell, the Tickling Jinx, and, oh yes, Memory-modifying Charms and Scalping Curses. Even Draco Malfoy, her own dear housemate, was properly deluded. The wizard was just as arrogant as the Gryffindor witch. He might have thought that she was a liability to Slytherin house, but that just showed his overestimation of himself, didn't it. Perhaps he thought dimly of her, but it would be she who would ultimately succeed, not him, because it was she who knew what she wanted to do, and it was she who had her action plan.

Pansy took a moment here to think pityingly of her poor Draco. He tried so hard, he did, but in the end, he was still muddling through everything, as out of place as a Slytherin in a Gryffindor Common Room. He didn't know what he wanted at all, so he was off trying to satisfy everyone, all the while deluding himself properly by thinking it was all for himself. What was it? Trying to cozy up with Harry Potter and Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort all at the same time, while being positively frightened of all of them?

He amused her, in his own sad little way, her poor little Draco. Pansy let him keep his delusions of grandeur. It didn't matter in the end, and was good for a laugh. The poor boy fancied himself to be so cool, so reserved, so perceptive, so smart - really, in this aspect, he was as bad as Granger.

So Pansy returned to congratulate herself smugly on her current state. Academically, she was well off - perhaps not in league with a few swotty Ravenclaws and the even swottier Granger, but definitely in a range that would guarantee her a bright future. Physically, she was, in her own opinion, absolutely stunning (and no, she did not believe that she was being too generous). And as for her social life ... Damn it, but was she well off! Pansy had scores of meticulously built-up contacts. Witches she knew who were much dumber than herself (more so when they believed the opposite), yet who were part of influential families. Wizards who came fully furnished with Gringott's vaults bursting with Galleons and egos (among other things) that were dying to be stroked. Even when relationships ended, or the passion of a tryst (most cunningly and carefully orchestrated by Pansy, of course) dissipated for the wizard, there was never a sour taste left in either of their mouths. Pansy knew that she could count on every single one of her contacts for future favours.

Pansy Parkinson knew that it was she who exemplified the characteristics of Slytherin house; so cunning, so wily, so shrewd that she tricked all the other self-centered, over-ambitious, properly deluded bastards. The Slytherins at Hogwarts were a motley crew of students, however, they all shared something in common, a secret that the Sorting Hat never mentioned, one that Pansy reckoned she was the only one to be privy to: the Slytherins' supposed strategic skills paradoxically left them all open as victims of manipulation.

It was hard work, on occasion, Pansy admitted, but she allowed herself pleasure. Moments of amusement. She was already amused by the ease of which a person could be tied up with marionette strings, but Weasley really took the cake.

She watched as Weasley twisted a ring around his fourth finger absently as he blew a lock of hair away from his face dispiritedly. The ring looked like it was made out of gold, Pansy noted with interest. How was it that such a worthless Weasley could have something like that on hand? Did he have a rich and unknown uncle who'd just died?

'Fidgeting, Weasley, is the first sign of someone who is anal-retentive. Fidgeting with a ring that looks like it's made out of gold, on the other hand, is the first sign of someone who's just come into a fortune. But a Weasley of all people fidgeting with a ring that looks like it's made out of gold, why, that's a sign that Hell's just frozen over!'

Ron looked up in surprise, and his face darkened. But before he could respond, the Slytherin Summoned the ring right off his finger. He tried to lunge at her in the closed space.

'Pansy, leave that alone, you b- Ouch!' Ron felt a pressure placed on his groin. He shuffled backwards on his arse a bit, to try to relieve the growing pressure of Pansy's knee on his crotch, but found that there was nowhere to move.

He clenched his teeth, as he stared at Pansy, who was slipping the ring on each of her fingers slowly and deliberately. 'Pansy, leave that alone. Give it back. It's not yours.' Ron slowly raised his arm a bit, trying to reach his wand that was tucked in the folds of his robes.

Pansy clucked her teeth. 'Ah, but Weasley, I have reason to believe that it's not yours either.'

'It's personalized to me, isn't it? Says right there, "To Ron, thank you for your inspiring idea". Now give it back, Parkinson!'

Pansy waved a hand at him dismissively. 'Does it now, Weasley. Either way, it's shocking that you could have afforded something that's so obviously out of your - oh, I see now ...'

Pansy had the ring between two fingers, and was watching with malicious glee as she twisted and pulled the ring out of its original shape. After letting go, it bounced back into its previous form.

'A gold-coloured elastic band, Weasley? That's how low you've sunk? What's next, hmmm? Wiping pig grease on your face to show you're eating well? Paying shopkeepers with leprechaun gold and telling them to keep the change? Shining your shoes -'

'Shut up, Parkinson! It's not like that at all!'

'It's alright, Weasley. We all have our needs, right? Some of us need recognition. Some of us need independence. Some of us need a little bit of faith placed in us. You, well, you'd give everything to be a somebody, since you don't have anything to be an anybody. You just need to feel like you're a rich old -'

'I said, Pansy, shut -' A simple shuffling of Pansy's leg, and Ron stopped in midsentence, wincing. He managed to suppress his groan, but couldn't help wondering if the Weasley tradition of having lots of children would end with him.

'Hush now, Weasley. I'm examining this fine piece of workmanship. See the way this exquisitely coloured elastic band stretches. The way the moonlight shines off the gold. The way - Weasley, why does this also say 'spew' on it?'

Ron, who was busy trying to reach into the robe pocket near his chest, looked up abruptly.

'Oh wait, no, look, there are some of these little dots here. It's 'S.P.E.W.'. Why, that's Granger's little pet project! Don't tell me, Weasley, I can guess. Let's see, she was distributing these as an incentive for her pathetic campaign to free the house elves, gave one to you - ah, wait, personalized it herself! - and you're now wearing the precious thing - personalized of course, can't forget that detail - as a sign of your undying love. Or because you just want to shag her really, really badly.'

Whether or not Pansy spoke the truth, Ron's ears pinked up anyway, and he hated himself for it. 'Parkinson, you - I ...'

... had picked up the ring only last night, but Ron already felt extremely attached to it. He and Hermione had been lying across from each other, separated by a mere 64 painted squares on a chessboard. Harry was in Dumbledore's office at another Occlumency session. Although Hermione and Ron had started a chess game, Hermione was obviously not in the mood to play - she had lost a knight and hadn't even noticed or complained.

Instead, she had been complaining about S.P.E.W. And though Ron found it supremely trying to listen to her plans to foist freedom on the innocent little house elves with nary a sarcastic comment, he somehow managed to accomplish the Herculean feat anyway. He didn't want to spoil the moment of being alone with her by a fire. Besides, if he and Hermione were to bicker, Ron would have preferred to have Harry around to fall back on.

'... has been running on a deficit for the two years that it's been established! I couldn't buy the new quill I needed, because I had spent it all on wool for the hats! I don't understand! Ron, you're the treasurer! How can we be ...'

Ron looked up from the chessboard. He had switched his white queen for a white pawn instead, and still had spotted two different ways of putting Hermione into checkmate. He wondered if Hermione would notice if he turned all of his pieces into pawns.

'Look, Hermione ...' he began wearily.

'No, Ron, don't you dare say what you were about to say! I'm not in the mood to hear it. Not when S.P.E.W. is in such dire straits as these! And why's that pawn there? I thought it was a queen ...'

Ron rolled his eyes. 'No, Hermione, if you'd stop being so thick and just listen for a moment,' he said, ignoring her tsk-tsking, 'I was about to say that you need some sort of incentive. That's the only way you'll get people to join this thing.'

'Is that what are you saying?' she responded indignantly. 'People don't do anything good unless they see something in it for them? That's so cynical!'

'Well, rattling that damn collecting tin under everyone's noses every evening hasn't exactly been that effective, has it? And cynical?' Ron paused, looking down, and said ashamedly, 'Well, that's the truth.' Ron couldn't help thinking of Malfoy darkly, Malfoy who would be spending a whole night with Hermione in the forest the very next day, and added, 'There aren't too many people who you can put your faith in nowadays. The world is becoming Malfoy-fied. You change to adapt to slimy gits like them.'

'But still ...' Hermione's voice trailed off. She fidgeted with a chess piece, her fallen knight. 'Fine ...' she finally conceded, albeit reluctantly.

Ron smiled, feeling quite satisfied that he had at least gotten Hermione to change her insidious method of campaigning. Feeling like he was on a roll, he reached across the chessboard and took the black knight out of her hand, setting in on the ground. He couldn't help hesitating when his hand brushed against hers.

'Er, Hermione, come here - I mean, come on, it's your move.'

'No,' Hermione said absently, 'I've just thought of something. I'll be right back.' And with that, she jumped up, upsetting the chess pieces on the board (who all squawked indignantly at the ignominy of tipping over on their sides), and ran up to the girls' dormitories.

'No, Hermione, wait!' Ron protested faintly to her back. He rolled his eyes at Neville, who was sitting on a sofa nearby with a few other Gryffindors. 'Girls! Hermione! Spew! How she can be so ...' His voice trailed off as Harry walked through the portrait hole, looking extremely tired.

'Hey Harry, how was it this time?'

'Oh, getting better, I reckon. I think I'm withstanding Dumbledore longer and longer now. It's not fair though - he's never given me a Pensieve to store all my memories in like he uses for himself,' Harry muttered bitterly. 'Says something about how it's not fit for me to see his memories just yet. Dunno what he knows about what's useful and what's not after what happened last ...'

He looked up when Hermione returned, her face glowing. She held up her hands and waved her fingers, and the boys could see what looked like dozens of rings around her fingers.

'Look! I've thought of it: rings! S.P.E.W. rings! I'll hand them out to anyone who buys a badge. Harry, Ron, would you like to be my first customers?'

'Hermione, we've already got our badges,' Ron pointed out, neglecting to mention that he had given his to Dobby in exchange for some extra strawberry shortcake about a year ago.

Harry squinted, his ire set aside for the moment by the profoundly peculiar picture presented to him. 'Er, Hermione, aren't those just elastic bands?'

Ron couldn't help but snigger. The image of Hermione waving her fingers loaded with elastic bands at innocent passersby was simply too tempting. She'd run all the way upstairs, leaving their chess game, and for what?

'What are you going to do, shoot them at students who say no to spew?'

'No, Ronald, I will not be flicking them at students who can't be bothered to help us campaign for house elf rights and support S.P.E.W.,' Hermione responded tetchily. (Us?! Ron stared bleakly at Harry, who rolled his eyes back just as despondently.) 'Simply, at the moment, our organization does not have enough liquid assets to spend on real gold rings.' She brightened up. 'But I can transfigure them to look like they're made of gold! It's almost the same. Look, Harry, I'll make you a -'

'Actually, Hermione, you better make it for Ron instead. Er, Dumbledore mentioned that I shouldn't be wearing anything "extra", because it'll make it easier Voldemort to pinpoint, his, er, psychic powers on me.'

Hermione stared at Harry sceptically. 'Dumbledore said that?'

Harry nodded vigorously, just noticing that he had his wristwatch on. He quickly stuck it behind his back.

Hermione turned to Ron reluctantly. 'Alright then, I suppose I'll just make it for you, Ron.'

Ron shrugged noncommittally, but on the inside, he felt a strange glow that he couldn't quite identify. This glow persisted as Hermione tapped her wand on the elastic band, as she muttered an incantation that Ron had never heard of, and as he watched the minute words 'To Ron, thank you for your inspiring idea' get etched into the surface, across from the 'S.P.E.W.'. He wondered if he could hex off the 'spew' part and just keep the rest.

Hermione handed the ring to Ron, looking rather proud, despite her exasperation with him. And he'd wear it to bed, despite his exasperation with her.

'Weasley ... Weasley, you know, wet dreams are usually saved for when you're sleeping. And seeing as how I can see the whites of your eyes -'

Ron was torn from his memories, and looked up not to see the orange embers of the Gryffindor fireplace reflected in Hermione's eyes, but the blond hair of Pansy Parkinson. The comfortable feeling of the shag rug bunching underneath him morphed into the irritating jagged edges of the tree trunk scraping against his shoulder blades. The low, comfortable murmurs and giggles of Gryffindor Tower increased in volume and pitch to become the cold, contemptuous, and vomit-inducing drawl of Pansy Parkinson.

'Pansy, give the ring back to me, and bugger off!'

'Send me out into the rain, will you? Figures that a Weasley wouldn't have manners, living in a -'

'Parkinson, I don't know how anyone can stand you,' Ron began in a low voice, as he watched his ring being rolled around in Pansy's uncalloused palm. 'You're a disgusting, ugly, slimy -'

'That's quite a list you're starting, Weasley. Can I add 'clumsy' to it? You see - Oh my!'

And Ron watched as Hermione's ring - no, his ring - somehow ended up being dangled between two long, perfectly-manicured fingers. The light of the moon illuminated it for one second, and Ron swore that he could read the 'To Ron' bit engraved in the surface. Then, Pansy gave a casual flick, and the ring seemed to disappear from her grasp, as if it was as insubstantial as cigar ashes being brushed off her Leoncavallo designer robes.

'Oops.'

Before Ron knew what was happening, he was shoving Pansy's legs out of the way, lunging towards the entrance of the little nook, jumping out of the tree, his feet landing in a mud puddle. His shoes and trousers became soaked, but he ignored the discomfort as he held his wand up, muttered 'Lumos,' and peered through the darkness, looking for the little golden ring.

'Where is it ...' he muttered quietly. He no longer cared about what Pansy would say or think. In fact, Ministry of Improper Use of Magic be damned, he would have turned her into the dog she was if she wasn't crouched inside the tree!

'Right here in my hand,' Pansy said mockingly, 'but you're just too thick to see it.'

Ron's eyes widened as he saw the stream next to the tree. The moon could be seen reflected in the fast-moving water, but he ignored the beauty of the picture. No. It couldn't have. It was in the stream. It was ... gone.

'Pansy, get up. We're leaving.'

'No, we're not. It's bloody stupid to go lumbering around with those gorilla feet of yours at night in the Forest.'

'Pansy, we are leaving right now.'

'Weasley, we'll probably be mauled by that Apparating manticore that's on the loose, and -'

'Parkinson, I don't care! Get out of the bloody tree!'

'Weasley, you stupid berk, if we separate -'

'Get out! We're leaving! Parkinson!'

'I'm fucking staying! You'll have to set this on fire to make me move!'

Ron paused. His feet felt like blocks of ice as he stood in the stream, but fiery red rage was written all over his face, and his clenched fists and clenched teeth did nothing to hide it. He stepped out of the water and deliberately crouched down next to the tree.

'Incendio,' he whispered. The tip of his wand glowed a hot red, like a smelting iron, and then the damp leaves at the base of the tree exploded into flames. They immediately began climbing up the tree, fuelled on by nothing except hot anger and cold resolve. Then, he spun around. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he began to walk briskly.

Pansy's eyes became dinner plates. 'Merlin's beard! Are you fucking crazy? Do you know what creatures might see this fire and -'

Without turning around or slowing down, Ron called, 'Are you coming?'

Pansy was in no position to argue. She was certain Weasley had never been so intelligent by doing such a bloody idiotic thing. She would have to cave in: separating posed a threat not only to their DADA mark, but to their lives. She muttered a curse as she hopped out of the hole, as she watched the flames actually spread to her outer robes. They were now ruined because of Weasley's stupidity and stubbornness! But despite her worry about her clothes, she still barely spared a moment to pat out the flames on them.

She gave a nervous glance, trying to sift through the thick darkness. The glow of the fire barely illuminated Weasley's retreating back, and the glowing light on the tip of her wand did nothing to help. She felt cold, naked, and very, very unprotected.

Eyes glowing in the darkness stalked her with an animalistic fervour. They roved up and down her quivering body appraisingly. They followed her shaking manicured fingers as they tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. They lingered on the pale white of her neck, shining in the darkness. They stared hungrily at her.

Pansy Parkinson was the self-proclaimed top Slytherin among Slytherins, the craftiest, the most cunning, the one who'd win in the end. Pansy Parkinson was also afraid of the dark. Her dorm mates were used to the candles she lit at night next to her bed. (For therapeutic reasons, of course.) The wizards she teased and tested knew not to jump out at her from dark alcoves after hours while she was on Prefect duty. (It was tacky, of course.) Draco'd been miffed at her for a week when she declined to go on some late night escapade to frame Potter in their first year. (The plan was destined to fail, of course.) During the day, the world was in the palm of her hand. But at night, she opted for a torch instead.

Pansy gave another look around. Shit! Weasley was so far ahead she couldn't see the brilliant red of his hair. She held her wand up. It only illustrated more the point that she was very much alone. She gave a look back at the fire burning at the base of the tree, the flames hungrily eating away at the bark. The tree now looked impossibly far away, as far away as Weasley was, presumably still walking alone. She couldn't go back and put out the fire, spend another thirty seconds alone with her back unprotected and the hungry, animal eyes surrounding her. The fire would put itself out. But the creatures in the darkness would always be here.

So she ran.

When she finally caught up with Weasley, she wondered if she should make amends at all. Take a little, give a little. 'Weasley, about that spew ring ...'

'Parkinson, just shut up and walk.'

Behind them, the fire burned.

* * * * *

Harry Potter is walking in his own private Eden.

His feet sink into the spongy earth. He runs his fingers along the smooth bark of trees, the slippery moss on rocks. Above him, birds chirp, and the leaves rustle soothingly. The sound to him can be described as 'fragile'. They have the same delicate, pleasant tinkling of the bone wind chimes Hagrid always hangs on his cabin porch. Shafts of sunlight pierce through the emerald-green canopy, creating golden pools on the forest floor. He feels the warmth of the sun on his face, a gentle caress that's smooth and strong and constant. A few droplets of water dangling off the tips of the leaves drip down, and Harry automatically opens his mouth to taste the sweetness. The water slides down the back of his throat easily, feeling cool and fresh. A few drops fall onto his bare chest, and he shivers. He looks up, sees nothing.

Harry slows down, and stops swinging his arms. He looks left, right, then keeps walking, trying not to walk on any sticks. And gradually, he becomes aware of a darker sound, crescendoing under the high chirps and squeaks. An owl. The low hoots become louder and louder. Soon, that's all he can hear. He begins to run, pumping his arms and covering his ears alternately.

'Hoo ... hoo ... HOO ... Ha! Ha ha ha ha ...'

Harry turns his head to look back, but he can't see anything. He knows he's being pursued though. By the evil, cold being that's laughing at him wildly and cruelly. He looks ahead, and now, he's in a long, never-ending corridor, surrounded by doors. He can still hear the birds. The owls. Raucous laughter ...

'Second door on the left,' he mutters. Wait! No! That was where ...

'Little Harry Potter escaped from my grasp again ...' A low, cruel voice. Harry thinks he can hear soft sniggers behind the rumble.

Harry opens the door, peeking behind him as he exits the corridor. He sees a long, thin shadow moving towards him. How can there be a shadow in a place without light?

The shadow comes closer, passing through the door. Now, to add to the cacophony of sounds, there is the high-pitched buzzing of wasps. 'I was inside of him ... I entered him and controlled him ... was inside of him. Inside you, Harry. You! Well, my dear little Harry, this time, there's no Dumbledore anymore to help you here ...'

Dumbledore! Harry remembers Dumbledore's voice, old and thin. It barely pierces through the blanket of noise. 'A tree. Before falling asleep, think of a tree. When you dream, think of a tree. Just clear your mind. You are a tree. Strong, solid, calm. Breathe slowly, and picture yourself high above life's troubles. A blue sky, perhaps. A good day for Quidditch. Don't worry, Harry, it's not cannibalistic to enjoy flying. Anyway, a tree. So many choices. An oak, one to withstand all the storms that will be thrown at him. Or, perhaps, a swishy willow? A deceptive front, choosing the willow, Harry. It is a most resilient tree. Or ...'

A high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Harry takes a deep breath. He tries to think of a tree. Beech, oak, fir ...

A gong.

'Has little Harry Potter forgotten about the yew tree? A tree of death ... maker of such delightful objects ... coffins and caskets and ...'

No, a death knell.

Holly, mahogany, willow ...

'There are no trees where we are, Harry. Trees don't belong here, Harry. There's only death, and you ... and me ...'

... we commend to our Lord our brother Sirius Black ... our Lord, to our Lord, to our Lord Voldemort ... we commend to our Lord Voldemort our brother Harry Potter ...

Ravens cawing. Wild, cruel laughter. Appreciative chuckles. A snake hisses. A high-pitched whistle. Bells. And we commit his body to the ground ...

Harry is a tree.

'Come on, you can do better than that!' the snake-like voice mocks. 'Come on, you can do better than that! Come on, you can ...'

... earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust ...

Harry is a tree. A fragile little willow tree bending under the dark clouds and wind with his leaves torn away and whipped out of sight ... 'but the willow tree is most resilient, Harry' ... and then he's shaking, shaking and his arms - no, branches - are waving wildly, and even though he is a tree, he somehow knocks his glasses off and they're flying away into oblivion and now the shadow that's a shadow without light looks like one huge, gaping pit and all the noise is reaching a deafening crescendo, and even though Harry is a tree, he's somehow yelling, and then he's shaking too - sorry, he can't cut it as a tree, looks like remedial Occlumency with Dumbledore are in order but Harry's ripped out of the ground, uprooted and he's flying away, flying into oblivion, a dark shadowy haze ... ashes to ashes ...

* * * * *

'Wake up! Harry, wake up, mate!'

Harry opened his eyes, to see Seamus staring at him, holding him by the shoulders and pausing in mid-shake. He sat up, bolt upright. The last high-pitched cackle of laughter died away. 'Seamus? What ...'

'Harry, you were dreaming.'

Harry paused. 'What was I ...' He and Seamus might have been friends again for awhile, but he was still sure Seamus would have thought him mad again if he'd been screaming Voldemort's name out loud.

'You were yelling out the names of trees.' Seamus had pulled Harry off of himself, and was leaning far back on his heels. He looked at Harry warily, as if he was worried Harry was about to explode, or else vomit spectacularly.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. 'Oh. I was dreaming that I was, er, locked in Ollivander's.' He smiled weakly. 'Heh ...'

A similar look of relief came into Seamus's eyes, and he leaned forwards a bit. 'He scared me too,' Seamus said conspiratorially, trying to preserve Harry's honour. He awkwardly gave Harry's shoulder a punch, adding, 'And I heard me mam telling Dad that my brother had nightmares for three weeks after he met Ollivander. Everyone knows what Liam's boggart's going to be when he starts!'

Harry paused in mid-laugh. Boggarts only made him think back to his dream, to the bleakness of it all, to ... Voldemort.

'Where're my glasses?' Harry said abruptly. He threw his arms out, patting on the leaf-strewn ground.

Seamus stood up, and all Harry could see of him was a vague blur. Harry turned around, and could barely see the glow of their fire a few feet away.

'Harry, I can't see them anywhere ...'

'Oh shit! I must've knocked them -'

'Bloody hell! Into the stream!'

Harry heard the crunch of leaves as Seamus stood up abruptly, and then a faint splash.

'I'm standing in the stream, Harry. I still can't see them. Probably washed down somewhere and ...'

'Oh ...' Harry groaned loudly. 'Then, I'm completely -'

'- fucked, yeah. S'alright, Harry. C'mon. We better leave now, and get a head start. You just grab onto my wrist here ...'

'No, look, take off your tie, tie it around our wrists.' Harry, acting before he could remember that he wasn't wearing glasses, reached out for Seamus, hand groping. He poked something soft instead.

'Ah! That was me eye!'

'Sorry,' Harry said contritely. 'Er, you better do it.'

'Damn straight I will,' Seamus muttered good-humouredly as he unknotted his tie and wrapped it around Harry's wrist. 'Imagine if I got an eye poked out and you lost your glasses. We'd be forced to put up house in the Forest for good.'

Harry suppressed a shudder. The Forbidden Forest was never more menacing than it was a few minutes ago.

'Okay, done. C'mon now. I can't smell rain, so if we walk quickly, I'm sure we'll get to our Portkey fast enough.'

Seamus took an experimental step. Harry, completely unprepared and staring in the opposite direction, immediately slipped and collided into Seamus.

'Oh, come on, you can do better than that,' Seamus said, teasingly.

'What did you say?' Harry spat out furiously, whipping his head around.

'What?' Seamus said, taken aback. 'I ...'

'Sorry. I ... it was nothing. Nothing.'

Seamus sighed. 'S'okay. But, er, Harry, you sure you're alright there? You're shaking like a tree in a storm.'

Harry stiffened again, then shook his head. 'Let's just get started. Looks like it's going to be a long way to the Portkey now, because of me.'

Seamus, always honest and upfront, didn't contradict him, which made Harry feel doubly worse. He found no contentment shuffling along behind Seamus, trying not to slip on wet patches of ground. He looked up, and wished that he could at least see the stars. Anything more than just the cold, bleak, darkness of the forest and the sky.