Another Prisoner, Another Professor

On the day of the Quidditch match, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walk down to the pitch.

"You're going to be fine, Harry!" Ron yelled over the sound of the strong wind. The rain was pouring down in great sheets. Even though they had only left the castle a minute ago, all three of them were soaked through. "It's bloody awful rain, but Diggory's not going to do any better in it than you are."

"What?" shouted Harry, who had heard less than half of what Ron had said.

"I said Diggory's not going to do any better in it than you are!" Ron yelled again. "You saw him at the library, he's not exactly built like a brick wall!"

"Wait," Harry shouted, "this is that Diggory?"

"How many Diggorys do you think there are in this school?"

"Well, at the moment there are five Weasleys," called Hermione from behind them. Ron ignored her.

"He's more solid than I am, though," yelled Harry as a crack of thunder sounded overhead. "He's got less of a chance of being blown off his broom."

A horrible thought struck him. He had been side-by-side with Seekers before, as they raced for the Snitch, close enough to touch. What if the wind blew him into Diggory and he, Harry, had another one of his mysterious...he wasn't sure what to call them. They seemed to be somewhere between blackouts and visions. With a grim smile, he thought of what Professor Trelawney would say if he told her that he was having visions - probably that unexplained hallucinations were a sure omen of horrible, painful death. Why had he been so stupid as to drink Neville's potion in the first place? Snape couldn't really kill a student's toad in class...or maybe he could. It had seemed like Trevor was in grave danger at the time. Still, to drink Neville's potion, because of a toad... Perhaps he should have told Hermione about the visions after all. For all Harry knew, there was a quick and easy solution that could cure him in five minutes. But he hadn't wanted to worry her, not when she was under so much strain already. He had drunk a flawed potion to protect Neville and not told the whole truth to protect Hermione. As the rain pelted down overhead, Harry found himself wishing that he'd been more selfish.

Inside the changing room he dried himself as best he could, but he was still wet from head to toe. The three Chasers had produced fire from the tips of their wands and were huddling in a circle trying to get warm; Wood sat on one of the benches and stared at the wall almost catatonically. Even Fred and George couldn't manage to make any jokes to ease the tension.

Finally Wood rose mutely from his seat and gestured that it was time to go. Though he customarily made a speech before each match, he seemed to have lost the will to speak at all. "Poor Wood," Fred whispered to Harry as the team filed out the door. "If we don't win the Quidditch Cup this year, they might have to send him to St. Mungo's."

"That is, if they don't send him to Azkaban for murdering the Slytherins," said George, stepping out into the rain.