Jupiter

Jupiter

'...the life I've left behind me

is a cold room...'

Sarah McLachlan, Sweet Surrender

It was one of those incredibly clear days in October. The kind where, if you look hard enough, it is sometimes possible to see forever. The weak sun hung low in the perfect icy blue expanse that was the sky. A slight breeze, deceptive in its chill, caused the trees to sway, almost imperceptibly, as if they were being caressed by vicious, invisible hands that existed solely to squeeze the life out of everything.

The cold silence was momentarily shattered by the hacking caw of an ambiguous bird. Harry looked out of the window and saw an inky raven swooping effortlessly over the Hogwarts grounds, and a feeling of intense envy washed over him. He wanted to be out there in the open, cutting through the sky, where he could breathe. He did not want to be cooped up in a stuffy classroom on a Friday morning with Hermione furiously scribbling notes down in front of him and Ron scrawling lazily across his crumpled parchment to his right.

Harry looked down at his own pristine parchment and sighed. His head was throbbing again. Absentmindedly, he rubbed at his scar, although he doubted that this was the cause for the pain. Everything seemed to take too much effort; it was like taking two steps forwards and one step backwards. It was like walking against the tide, dragging one foot after the other against a powerful force that wanted you to stay put.

Harry felt like succumbing to the tide of life, like letting it swell and flow over him.

Yet, every time he went to stop, something else pushed him on. Something else stronger, wiser, older, smarter. Something telling him that he was better than this. Something that, if he wasn't, would invade him and make him change, would force him to be the better person they deserved. He had become a grotesque puppet, and now even his thoughts weren't his own. Twisted, and mauled, and ripped, and shredded and remade countless times until he was not himself, but what they wanted him to be. Their trophy. Their saviour. He smiled and did what he was told. He played Quidditch, he went to lessons and he cleaned his teeth. Inside he was dying, slowly and painfully dying. Harry hated the thing he was becoming; he hated them for doing it to him. He had tried to rebel, and they had ruthlessly take him and controlled him. He was Harry Potter, he did not rebel. He sat on the checked board and waited for the powers that be to decide his fate. He was their most important pawn, but was a pawn nonetheless.

A shrill bell signalled the lessons end. Harry sighed in relief and slung his bag over his shoulder, following Hermione and Ron as slowly as possible to double Potions. He felt thankful that at least the Slytherins' attitude towards him had not altered one jot since the start of the war. He saw no adoring gazes from Pansy or Millicent. Draco and Blaise never offered him their hand. He knew where he was and he knew what to expect. It was oddly reassuring.

The chill of the potions classroom enveloped the seventh year class as they entered. Harry could never understand how a classroom filled with people and flame all day long could remain so stubbornly cool. Pulling his thin robe close about him did nothing to alleviate the feeling of slowly being turned into a human ice statue.

Harry sat down between Hermione and Neville just as Professor Snape strode up to the front of the room and began to reel of a complex list of ingredients and instructions. He didn't listen. He never did, knowing that Hermione would scowl and give in, another thing that had not changed.

Just over an hour later, Harry found himself in a comfortable haze of confusion. Mechanically he added this or that, stirring clockwise twice, stirring anti-clockwise three times, checking the colour, checking the consistency. Sneaking a brief glance Hermione's cauldron, Harry felt relieved to see that, like his own potion, hers was simmering slightly, and was dull brown.

Snape was prowling the classroom, glaring in an intimidating manner at any student that dared to meet his eye. Occasionally, he would pass comment, either quiet praise to the Slytherins' or cool rebuke to the Gryffindors'. As Snape passed by him without comment, Harry relaxed and added the next ingredient to the simmering mixture.

Upon contact with the potion, there was an almighty boom, and a dense grey cloud tumbled forth from the smouldering remains of Harry's cauldron. It engulfed him into a vacuum. Time seemed to slow down, noise ceased and he could see nothing but the swirling vapour that surrounded him.

For what seemed like an eternity, he floated, suspended by the cloud until a bony hand grabbed hold of his robe and hauled him out. As this happened, his glasses fell from his face, effectively rendering him blind. Harry tumbled onto the cold stones that covered the floor of the dungeons, and knew no more.

Harry regained consciousness to be faced with a most unpleasant sensation. It felt as though someone had submerged their hands into a pail of ice and then instantly transferred them to his face, or that Nearly Headless Nick had taken it upon himself to play one man Ping-Pong through Harry's cheeks.

Groggily, he opened his eyes. He saw a painfully pale, almost skeletal man leaning over him. Without his glasses, Harry could make out no feature, save for dual black voids where eyes should certainly be.

"Are you Death?" Harry murmured.

"Don't be foolish, Mr. Potter," Snape's silky tones responded. "I can assure you that you are still very much a part of this mortal coil."

Two hands positioned themselves under Harry's arms and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, feeling light headed. Around him, he could make out the fuzzy outlines of his classmates. His ears were ringing insistently.

"Miss. Granger, perhaps you would escort Mr. Potter to the medical wing?" Snape continued.

Hermione did not respond, but moments later, Harry felt a hand position under his elbow, and something cool being pressed into his left hand- his glasses. Forcefully, Hermione steered Harry out of the room. As the door swung closed, Harry could hear Snape demanding to know who had caused Mr. potter's cauldron to explode.

Harry frowned. Why was Snape being so considerate all of a sudden? And why was Hermione being so quietly stern? And why...his frown deepened, why did these glasses feel different to the ones that he'd been wearing not ten minutes ago?

Squinting down at them, he was surprised to see a pair of sleek, rimless glasses clasped within his clammy palm instead of the expected black rimmed, circular pair that he'd owned for the past few years. He put them on tentatively, and found that the fuzzy edges smoothed, and everything came back into focus. They were nearing the hospital wing, and Harry could feel his earlier headache intensify, as his mind was flooded with unanswerable questions.

Hermione pushed the door open and ushered Harry inside. Madam Pomfrey bustled over to them, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Harry felt distinctly uneasy.

"Mr. Potter," she said curtly. "What seems to be the matter today?" The nurse raised an eyebrow that only succeeded in increasing Harry's sense of bewilderment.

Nonetheless, he opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione's smooth voice told him that puppet status was still in play. As her voice floated over him, Harry allowed himself to tune out form the world around him. As his eyes blurred out of focus, he thought how apt it was- nothing was clear-cut any more. What he wouldn't give to have the blissful innocence of a child, to be unaware. What he wouldn't give for the nightmares to stop.

"Harry?" Hermione snapped.

Harry's head jerked. He blinked once- Hermione's frowning face swam into view.

"Harry, I am returning to potions, stay here and rest, and I'll drop by with Ron after the lesson."

Harry nodded mutely, and Hermione marched off purposefully without another word. Madam Pomfrey directed him to a bed and tutted disapprovingly as he lay down. She, too, left him, murmuring under her breath. Not for the first time, Harry wondered why Snape had even bothered to help him up, let alone send him up to the medical wing. Nothing made sense, not that it ever did anymore...

Ron ungraciously shaking his shoulder awoke Harry from a fitful sleep. He rubbed his eyes and opened them. At the foot of the pristine bed, Hermione stood, arms folded, looking indifferent. Ron gave a brief upturn of the lips and suggested that they leave for lunch if they expected anything to be left upon their arrival. Hermione told him to go on while she waited for Harry to collect his things and straighten out his crumpled robes.

They exited the hospital wing in silence, and Harry wondered if he had done anything to upset Hermione. Walking down the numerous corridors, the two met no one until the Great Hall was in sight. Draco Malfoy was walking up the marble staircase in the entrance hall, and was heading straight for them. Harry sighed resignedly, and prepared himself for Malfoy's ritual insult.

Over the past year, Draco and Harry had fallen into a comfortable pattern. When passing in the corridor, or seeing each other in class, Draco would make some form of snipe about Harry's family, his situation in life, or the war. Harry, in kind, would retaliate and about five minutes later a teacher would deduct five points apiece and tell them to keep walking, or go to their seats. It had become as natural as greeting a friend, or panicking about a piece of Snape's homework that had been neglected, and would not be completed to a satisfactory standard by the lesson.

So it came as a great surprise to Harry when, in passing the blond boy, nothing was said. Harry actually stopped in the corridor, frowned slightly, and turned round to watch Draco walk silently away. This incident did nothing to alleviate the feeling that something was, most definitely, going on.

Harry was quite happy to mull over these thoughts by himself, but the second that Malfoy had disappeared around a corner, Hermione stopped, sharply slapped Harry's arm and demanded to know, "What the hell was that?"

Harry looked perplexed. "What?"

"He's Slytherin! We hate Slytherin" Hermione looked incredulous.

"I know that, thank you, Hermione," was Harry's dry response.

"We're Gryffindor!"

"Yes," Harry agreed. "Where dwell the brave of heart-."

Before he could continue, Hermione cut him off with a scathing, "I hope that you don't expect me to find that funny."

"What do you mean?"

"Harry, I was at the sorting ceremony, and I clearly remember that you were at the sorting ceremony. You have been in Gryffindor House for the past seven years, just like Ron and me."

Harry nodded in agreement, wondering what Hermione was getting at.

"It therefore seems a little odd," she continued. "That you would quote the qualities of a Slytherin when describing a Gryffindor."

Harry's mind reeled. "I...uh, I think I'm going to have a lie down again. Maybe I do feel a little bit off colour, after all," and with that, he turned on his heel and walked briskly in the direction of the Gryffindor common room, Hermione calling out after him.

After a minute or so, he slowed down, then stopped. Quickly, he turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, thinking over the day's events as he went.

It was the potion, and he knew it. It must be having rare after effects, sending him delusional. However, this did not make sense- everyone else was being strange, not him.

Professor Snape had actually told off a member of his own house for the potions accident. Harry knew full well that the cloud was a product of his own poor attention span, yet Snape had even worried enough to send Harry off to the medical wing. This prompted another thought in Harry's mind- why had Madam Pomfrey been so cool towards him. Usually, on Harry's frequent forays into the pristine world Madam Pomfrey, she was warm and reassuring towards him. This morning she had been nothing but cool.

The more Harry pondered, the odder things became... it was almost as if Gryffindor and Slytherin had somehow swapped, this theory was only confirmed by Hermione's insistence that Slytherin's were 'brave of heart...' meaning, of course, Gryffindor's were 'cunning folk'. None of it made any sense to Harry, and his headache was sufficiently bad to deter any further thought on the subject.

He decided against flying, and instead of getting his broom from the shed, Harry walked up in to the Gryffindor stands and sat in silence, staring out over the Forbidden Forest and trying not to think about anything.

He was startled from his thoughtless daze about twenty minutes later by a movement in front of him. Looking up, he saw Draco Malfoy gracefully gliding across the pitch. The blond had not noticed him, he was far too involved with complicated manoeuvres to notice anything else. Harry watched in silence for a few minutes before shrugging slightly, and going back to not thinking about anything, which didn't last for long.

Draco had apparently spotted Harry at some point, and made Harry aware of this by dropping a small stone onto his head. Harry scowled, but felt some relief. Draco was the antagonist once more.

"Sod off, Malfoy," he snapped.

Draco stayed put and threw another stone. It bounced of Harry's head with a muffled 'thunk'.

"I said sod off, Malfoy!" Harry cried.

Draco laughed evilly and flew off across the pitch at high speed.

Harry attempted to go back to his thoughts, but it just wasn't working. He may not have been looking at Draco; but that painfully annoying grin the Slytherin had was burning on to the insides of his eyelids. And it did not help that now said Slytherin had located Harry, he insisted on flying back at intermittent periods to throw more projectiles, or insults. Finally, Harry reached the end of his tether. He stood up abruptly, stormed resolutely to the broom shed and bulled out his Firebolt. In seconds he had kicked off, and momentarily forgot his wrath. Flying, to Harry, was true freedom. The lurch of his stomach that told him he was air borne, the adrenaline that told him now he was in control, the streaming tears from his eyes that told him how recklessly fast he was going. The joy in his heart that told him that he was alive.

His breath caught in his throat as he executed a recklessly steep dive. He smiled. Not the weak, flitting up-turn of the lips that was so often present nowadays, the one that did not reach his eyes, the one that barely stretched his pale cheeks. This smile was genuine and full, and heartbreakingly sad at the same time. It was almost as if, somewhere along the way, Harry had forgotten how to smile, and his muscles were slowly readjusting themselves to the sensation. It started, just as the dive did, slowly. Then, as the wind whipped the hair viciously away from his eyes, the smile grew. His eyes narrowed in mirth, his cheeks rounded, and a small whoop of glee escaped his solemn lips.

Draco Malfoy sailed past as Harry sharply pulled up, and yelled an obscenity that was lost in the wind. Harry flew on. Draco reappeared moments later directly in Harry's path, and Harry was forced to halt abruptly.

Any chides that may have lain on Harry's tongue did not get the chance to be voiced as Draco help up a Snitch.

"What do you say, Potter?" he arched an eyebrow.

Harry slowly nodded, and Draco let the contraband ball go. It zipped away, cutting through the air like a small, guided knife. Shooting a quick glance in Draco's direction, Harry pursued.

For perhaps thirty minutes, the two boys fought a silent battle, swiftly turning first this way, then that. Shooting down, swooping up, an elegant dance with no steps, but a definite goal.

Harry's heart leapt as the Snitch revealed itself for the forth time. Without checking Draco's position, he flew after it, weaving as it wove, diving as it dove, matching it corner for corner, turn for turn, never gaining yet never falling back.

Occasionally, Harry would catch a flit of black or blond in the corner of his eye, and knew that Draco was following in earnest. He was glad to notice that the other boy was gaining no more than he on the speedy ball.

Harry sighed in frustration as the Snitch disappeared in a dip and twist he had neither anticipated nor followed. Draco, however, continued on determinedly and after five minutes of following the Slithering, Harry spotted the Snitch twenty feet ahead. He put on a burst of speed and overtook Draco. Clutching his broom tightly, Harry slowly caught up with the Snitch. Just as he prepared to reach his hand out to grasp it, Draco appeared from below him. Harry was unable to stop and the two brooms collided. While Harry managed to cling desperately to his Firebolt, Draco was catapulted from his own broom and started to fall towards the grassy pitch, black robes flapping about him like useless wings, unable to save him. Harry watched in horror as the other boy fell, only jerking back to reality as the thud of body meeting earth reached his ears.

Harry tilted the nose of his Firebolt down and was by Draco's unconscious body in seconds. He made a quick check for broken bones, and saw none apparent. He then proceeded to look for abrasions, but could find no blood. Finally, Harry checked Draco's head for anything nefarious should the other boy be suffering from a concussion. Gingerly, he applied pressure to the scull, and found only a slight swelling near the joining of head and neck. Harry drew back to look at Draco's face and after a few seconds noticed something strange. Slowly, he reached out a hand, and with his index finger, he pushed Draco's long fringe away from his face. Harry gasped at what he saw. Slashed across Draco's forehead was a thin, pale pink scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.