A Plague of Legends

Chapter 1: The Bones Have Spoken!

Or, The Tower

Whenever Harry thought about Crookshanks, he remembered the rare times when the cat deigned to sit on his lap. As much as Crookshanks was Hermione's cat, and Harry was Hermione's chum, he had never treated Harry more or less affectionately than anyone else in Gryffindor Tower. Of course, Hermione was always treated differently. Truthfully, Harry did suspect that the mangy cat was more than fond of both him and Ron- it was simply not in Crookshanks's nature to act like some Siamese and wail out his love for the whole dormitory to hear. And as he was definitely a one-person cat, he very rarely expressed his affection in physical ways. This was probably why Harry was so delighted whenever the cat took possession of his lap. Not that he was very expressive about his pleasure- he would just sit and lightly run his fingers over matted fur, nodding along as he listened to Hermione's latest academic discovery or one of Ron's rambling rants. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them, Crookshanks would uncurl from Harry's lap, place his head upon Harry's collarbone, and gravely lick the hollow of Harry's neck. Scrape, and then faint red welts would mark mottling skin like love-marks, blushing in and out of existence. This gesture seemed very tender and personal to Harry, so he always held out as long as possible before pushing the cat's sandpaper tongue away from him. After all, not many other people, animal or otherwise, had ever treated Harry with tenderness.

There was another reason for his restraint. In such moments Harry became thoughtful, quiet. He wondered if it was the nature of all love to be so harsh and wonderful. And then, despite the fact that he already knew the answer, he wondered if love was worth it.

***

In some ways, the worst school days were those immediately before a Hogsmeade weekend. The only thing any of the older students could think of was that tomorrow, tomorrow they would be free of Hogwarts (as beloved as it is) for a time, while today they must carry on as normal and somehow make it through all of their classes. This feeling could only be made worse by having to those certain classes that made the time roll by even more slowly than usual.

Friday, October __.

Dear Boredom Journal-

Hello again. A week's already passed since my last entry, no big surprise there considering whose class I'm in now. Well, I've made it through twenty five minutes of Boring Binns before beginning this entry, and I'm quite proud of myself. Usually it takes only about ten minutes before I crack and begin one of these things. Earlier Ron was making drawings of Binns in pantaloons on a bicycle -awful image, that- but he dozed off about ten minutes ago and looks to be in danger of impaling his nose on his wand. Wait- isn't that part of the process the ancient Egyptian wizards used to create mummies? Well, nothing unusual there then, that's for certain. Hermione is wide awake and seems to be enthralled with whatever Binns is going on about. Since it's Hermione, I suppose it's normal, but still. After a point one has to wonder whether she slips anything into her tea in the mornings. Aside from her, though, everyone else in the room is just as bad as me. There's even one Hufflepuff in the corner who's fallen out of her chair and is sleeping on the floor! Is that really Susan Bones? Excellent.

Anyway... anyway what? I'm only writing this because I'm completely bored. No point in staying on topic or even being logical- I just need to stay awake. So. Tomorrow is Hogsmeade, and all I have to do is make it until then. Hogsmeade Hogsmeade Hogsmeade Hogsmeade. I need to stock up on candy again, so that's one stop. And it's been months since I've had butterbeer. And I have to remember my list; half of the words on there I can't even say, let alone remember. And... and I just hope that I can make it through the rest of this class. Oh, Merlin. And Trelawny's as well. I wonder how I'll be dying this week? As long as it happens after Hogsmeade I couldn't be bothered. Only thirty five more minutes to go...

***

Professor Trelawny wafted through the door, her presence heralded by the beads jangling on her ears and wrists. After a not-so-misty look about the room to make sure that no stragglers would appear and ruin her entrance, she let inhaled moistly and addressed the class. "I have Seen, class, that today we will begin our lessons concerning bone-reading." Lavender and Parvati gasped and clutched each other's hands, Neville looked a bit ill at the thought of having to handle bones for any reason, and Ron rolled his eyes at Harry. "She'd bloody well better have seen us using bones today, otherwise last week's reading would've been a waste!"

Harry grinned at this, then turned his attention back to the professor who had once again begun to speak. "You will be working in pairs today, and will attempt to peer through Time's Mists to decipher your partner's future. I expect for you to record your observations carefully, as interpreting them will be your homework for next week. You will find a basic guide to the bones on page two-hundred-thirty of Unfogging the Future. If you have a pattern in your bones for which there is no corresponding key in the text -and this would not surprise me considering the complexity of this art- you may partake of my expert advice." Ron snorted. Reaching into her desk, Trelawney pulled out several worn velvet bags. As she passed them out to the class, she continued, "Please remember to handle these bones with respect: they are powerful objects that will become angered if not treated properly." She theatrically widened her eyes until her glasses showed nothing but giant pupils pulsing out at the class. "You might even call them living remains. Living human remains."

Harry and Ron's bag was a faded puce velvet, and faint ivory outlines were visible through some of the more worn spots. When compared to the other bags, Harry's was obviously the most lacking in structural integrity or taste; Harry wondered if Trelawney was trying to imply something by her selection, but decided that it didn't matter even if she was. After poking at the bag a couple of times with unenthusiastic fingers, Harry shrugged at Ron. Nostrils flaring slightly, Ron picked the bag up and shifted it about in his hands, then upended the bones on the table. The bones were yellow and flaked a bit, much like aging chicken bones. For a moment, Harry wondered if they actually were chicken bones and that Trelawney was just having them on. Of course, that was assuming that the old bat even possessed the remains of a sense of humor. Actually, a better question would probably be whether she'd been born with one.

"Right, you first, Harry."

Harry looked up from the bones and grimaced. "Why me first?"

"Because it's better to get whatever doom you have coming to you out of the way," grinned Ron. "Now pick up those bones and toss them on the table. And don't forget to shake them a bit first." Harry sighed and took the bones. Shake. Shake. The bones felt exactly how they looked, which made touching them much easier as they clattered together and scraped against Harry's skin. They were not human bones. They were the bones of some animal, some stupid, most likely avian, animal. Er, bird. With that last thought firmly in mind, Harry sent the bones flying, then rubbed his hands on his robes. After giving his hands a good thorough wipe, he glanced over at Ron, who was looking very confused and staring blankly at their text. "Harry, this just proves how completely stupid these bones are. See that formation there: the only one that could potentially mean something?" Ron pointed at a particularly graceless clump of bones, and then continued, "That bunch is the only bit that could possibly have any meaning, but there's nothing even resembling it is in the book. Bunch of bull is what this is." Ron closed the book with a snap.

"Having trouble, boys?" trilled Trelawney as she pulled herself off of her chair and jingled towards them. "Not very surprising, much of what the bones say can only be read by those with exceptionally clear and potent Inner Eyes." Trelawney cast an approving look at Lavender and Parvati, who were giggling over their bones. "Let me see what you have here..." Fingers twitching, she bent over and examined the bones. "Now, I see that there has been much tragedy in this person's past... this would be your spread, I assume, Mr. Potter? No, no need to be surprised; the veils of time and space are as nothing for one such as me. Yes, it seems as though you have a dreadful allergy to butterbeer..." Ron and Harry exchanged amused looks. "and is that some very strange karma involving what appear to be togas?" Trelawney paused and cast an approbating look at Harry before continuing. "I would suggest, Mr. Potter, that you avoid all wine tastings for the foreseeable future. Ah, walruses seem to play a particularly important role in your future, and... yes, yes, that formation over there loo- Aaaaaaah!" At which point Trelawney collapsed to the ground and began mumbling fitfully, "Quidditch! His downfall will come on the Quidditch field!" After that, only fragments of Trelawney's dramatic whispers could be caught, smothered as they were by an anxious Lavender Brown who kept waving a handkerchief in the teacher's face. "The keeper... beware... pale centurion... Quidditch..." After a few calculated moments of languishing on the floor, Trelawney pushed herself up off the floor and did a remarkable imitation of a cobra as she surveyed the class. "I think that we shall end early today. All of this has been very tiring- but one cannot control when one's Inner Eye takes one over, no certainly not." Eyes hooded, she turned towards Harry and extravagantly gestured at him with one hand. "As for you, Mr. Potter, I would suggest that you avoid anything to do with Quidditch for the rest of your stay here at Hogwarts. Good Day." Exit Trelawney, stage left.

***

The rest of the day passed uneventfully for Harry- not that he could honestly call what had happened in Divination eventful per se; while Trelawney's performance had been her most dramatic since the Toad Incident during fifth year (an event which succeeded in scarring Neville, not to mention Trevor, permanently), it was not exactly unexpected. Trelawney's colorful predictions of death landed on squarely on Harry's head every Friday, and it had become something of a challenge between Ron and Harry to see if they could forecast what the weekly death by insert-catastrophe-here was. The tally currently showed Ron winning with a marginal lead. And while Harry had been wondering when Trelawney would get around to the Death-by-Quidditch scenario, neither he nor Ron could ever have predicted the bit about wine tastings. It just went to show that too much patchouli could cause brain rot.

Supper was typical for a Friday: Lavender and Parvati were conferencing in the corner, with only occasional murmured comments about Quidditch and bones reaching the rest of the table. The one time they surfaced from their discussion was to pin Harry with a particularly pitying stare before whispering something about a walrus curse. It was obvious that Trelawney had given them further details during their weekly extra-curricular inner-cleansing session. Hermione had been acting completely snotty after hearing about this week's death, and pronounced it, "Highly unoriginal, even for Trelawney. I cannot even imagine," Hermione came close to sneering "how walruses could play any role in your future. Unless, of course, one were to presume that she meant your cousin." And that was that. Conversation shifted to Hogsmeade, and the bones were immediately forgotten. Food inhaled, the sixth years retired to Gryffindor tower and, after an extremely violent game of wizard's chess and a couple of rounds of Exploding Snap, went to bed.

The next day dawned bright and sunny- the perfect day for Hogsmeade. Harry, Hermione, and Ron set out early for Hogsmeade, eager to get there before the crowds invaded. They visited Zonko's and stuffed their pockets full of candy, and then headed over to Madam Rosmerta's for a pint of butterbeer. However, they weren't but halfway through their first mugs when Harry jumped out of his seat, shouted "I forgot it!" and bolted out the door. Hermione turned to Ron, her right eyebrow half-raised. "What did he forget?" Ron chuckled, "He had actual errands that he had to do here, the silly git. Forgot his list, I dare say. He had some things on there that I doubt even you could remember off the top of your head. We'll just wait for him to get back, no sense in rushing after him now." Ron went back to his butterbeer. Hermione stared at the pub door, shrugged, and then did the same.

***

Harry was on his way out of Gryffindor Tower with list in hand when he noticed the Slytherins through a nearby window. It was a group of fourth years, and they were sneaking (as well as one can sneak over open fields in completely clear weather) hurriedly to the Quidditch pitch, their capes billowing behind them. Now, if this had just been an isolated group of Slytherins, Harry would have walked off and thought nothing of it. However, halfway across the field the fourth years were met by a group of students who were obviously seventh-year Slytherins. Even then Harry might have shaken the entire thing off as Slytherin strangeness (even though everyone knew that the Slytherins didn't allow fraternizing between years). But as fate would have it, at that very moment a chill wind grabbed a hold of one of the Slytherin's cloaks and sent it flying, revealing a very attractive seventh year who was wearing a very attractive green and silver bed sheet. And nothing else. Harry stared. After a bit of inventive swearing, the Slytherin Accio-ed his cloak and threw it on; the posse continued on their way and Harry continued to stare at the now-empty plot of grass where the sheet-sporting Slytherin had been standing. Now this had to be investigated. As much as Harry loved Hogsmeade, someone had to make sure that the Slytherins were not planning something awful. As for what that 'something' might have been- well, Harry did not give the question much thought. For all he knew they might have been planning to torch the school or simply hand it over to Voldemort himself. And that thought was enough to propel Harry back to his dorm room where he snatched his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauders Map from his trunk, then rocket out of the portrait hole past a very startled Fat-Lady.

Pausing a bit in his cloak fastening to worry the nail off of his right thumb, he opened up the Marauders Map, and panted out, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good- oh Merlin!" The section of the map showing the Quidditch field was covered in dark green spots, each one accompanied by what Harry assumed was the spot's name. However, the green dots were so thickly packed that Harry couldn't make out who was there. Squinting, Harry tried to read the names of the dots that were hopping all over like caffeinated flies. One in particular seemed to be bouncier than normal- Malfoy. That decided it. With a final tug at the cloak's clasp and a pull at the hood, Harry ran towards the Quidditch field, ready to do battle with whatever trouble the Slytherins were concocting.

***

The sight was enough to make even the most well-grounded person doubt their sanity. For someone like Harry, who had lived the past four years of his life with certain views on the world (and more specifically, on Slytherin behavior), the activities taking place on the Quidditch pitch were enough to make him think that he might still be asleep in Binns's class. But even after he pinched himself the vision remained. Malfoy, Draco "You think my name's funny, do you?" snobbish self-centered never-known-to-crack-a-smile-that's-not-a-smirk Malfoy was playing Quidditch. And not just any Quidditch. No, he was playing Quidditch in his bed sheets, the tasseled ends riding up his bare knees and slipping off of pale shoulders. And even stranger, he was laughing. Not his usual I'm-so-much-better-than-you-peons-and-that-means-you-Potter laugh, but a genuine sort of laughter that Harry had not thought to hear again until Voldemort was dead. And he was flying. Really flying. Harry hadn't known that Malfoy could fly like that, but he could. Usually his rival was so caught up in the forms of flying that his very perfection was his undoing. And yet here Malfoy was, flying with little more finesse than a first-year, but flying better than Harry had ever seen him fly. Harry was so preoccupied with this strange specter of his rival (who was so obviously not Malfoy, however much it looked like him) that he completely missed seeing the Golden Snitch hovering a yard in front of him. It wasn't until a shout went up from the crowd of watching Slytherins that Harry saw the Snitch, floating just out of reach. It was all Harry could do not to stretch out his hand and take it, claim it- the little thing seemed frozen there, golden wings humming an invitation to capture. Then it was gone, no- in Malfoy's hand, and the other boy was crowing, laughing, clutching at the sheets which had completely come undone and were barely covering his waist, shivering, laughing. And for a moment Malfoy glanced in Harry's direction, his gaze sightlessly brushing against Harry's pupils as he shouted out his win to a petulant Millicent Bulstrode. And then he was gone again, enveloped in a crowd of green and silver boys, their sheets rising and falling with the breeze.