Butterfly Effect ; H. Potter

8. the firebolt.

Antheia was speechless. She watched, frozen, as Harry stormed out of the inn.

"Harry," she whispered, standing up and following him before Ron pulled her sleeve.

"It might be best to just let him cool off," he said. Antheia nodded reluctantly.

Dinner at the Great Hall that night was extremely uncomfortable. Ron and Hermione continued to watch Harry nervously all through dinner while Antheia tried to come up with some small talk; none of them were daring to talk about what they'd overheard, because Percy was sitting close by them. When they went upstairs to the crowded common room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half a dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits. Harry, who didn't want Fred and George asking him whether he'd reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked quietly up to the empty dormitory, and headed straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books aside and quickly found what he was looking for - the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his mother and father. He sat down on his bed, drew hangings around him, and started turning the pages, searching.

Antheia watched Harry storm out of his dorm a couple of minutes later, tears in his eyes. Ignoring Ron and Hermione's protests, she marched out after Harry. He wandered off toward the Quidditch Pitch and sat down in the middle of it.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Antheia asked, before immediately shaking her head. "No, of course, you're not." Harry flinched in shock.

"Nobody told me," he said with clear pain in his voice. "Not Dumbledore, or Hagrid, or - anyone."

"I reckon Fudge didn't want you to worry. He really should've told you, though," Antheia said. She walked forward and wrapped her arms around Harry as she felt his muscles relax. Harry rested his head in the crook of her neck and started crying silently.

"Black will get caught soon, Harry. I promise," she said.

"He - he deserves it," Harry said between sobs.

Antheia sighed but didn't reply. She didn't really know if anyone really did deserve Azkaban. From what her father had told her, it was a terrible place. Having now experienced what a Dementor does, she couldn't imagine going through that every day.

─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

"Harry you - you look terrible."

Harry hadn't got to sleep until daybreak. He had awoken to find his dormitory deserted, dressed and gone down the spiral staircase to a common room that was completely empty except Ron, who was eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his stomach, Hermione, who had spread her homework over three tables, and Antheia, who was zooming through a Potions textbook.

"Thanks, mate. Where is everyone?" said Harry.

"Gone! It's the first day of holidays, remember?" said Ron, watching Harry closely. "It's nearly lunchtime, I was going to come and wake you up in a minute."

Harry slumped into a chair next to the fire. Snow was still falling outside the windows. Crookshanks was spread out in front of the fire like a large, ginger rug.

"You really don't look well, you know," Hermione said, peering anxiously into his face.

"I'm fine," said Harry.

"Harry, listen," said Hermione, exchanging a look with Ron and Antheia, "you must be really upset about what we heard yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn't go doing anything stupid."

"Like what?" said Harry.

"Like trying to go after Black," said Ron sharply.

Harry could tell they had rehearsed this conversation while he had been asleep. He didn't say anything.