Sometimes Bad is Good

Chapter Eight

Harry's eyes were open before he even registered what was happening, he was upright in his bed, the blankets pooled around his hips and his chest bare in the firelight. He knew it hadn't been a nightmare that had woken him, the empty phial on his desk and the lack of post-nightmare jitters proved that. But why was he awake at this hour - whatever hour it was?

Wordlessly and wandlessly, he cast a Tempus, and let out a groan when the exact hour appeared in floating wisps in front of his head, the bright white numbers seeming to pull apart and drift away at the edges.

6:15 am.

And then his brain put together the sounds of muffled yelling, yelling that seemed to be coming from the other side his door. A somewhat familiar -he couldn't exactly tell through the thick door dividing them- voice yelled a particularly vulgar word at the top of their lungs, which was very quickly followed up by a stream of insults worthy of a sailor, and Harry could almost hear the slap that followed. It had been Ron's voice, and wherever Ron went, Hermione followed. They were already here.

"Great start to the morning," he muttered to himself, swinging his legs and then his body out of his warm and now very lonely bed. He was in the beginning stages of stretching, his back beginning to arch over the spot he'd just vacated, when an extremely loud and vicious bang on his door jolted him. His poor muscles and bones, they hadn't even been properly stretched yet.

Wincing, he moved over to his trunk and picked up the small pile of clothing laid prettily on the lid, something he'd made sure to prepare last night before he went to sleep. It seemed to have been a good idea -as rare as they may be for him- at the time, and seemed to be now, as the person banging on his door was not exactly calm and patient. He placed the pile of moderately expensive clothing on the still warm bed and quickly, but carefully -as he didn't want to injure himself- snatched up the emerald silk bathrobe lying limply on his study desk beside a large oak jewelry chest, which he used for a potions storage.

The yelling outside was just increasing in volume as he opened the door, and he had to quickly duck out of the way as Ron's fist went to slam into his face. Ron seemed to realize that the door wasn't there anymore, and peered into his room with confusion, his mouth beginning to shape into a question. He spotted Harry's hunched figure and blinked. "Oh, uh.. hullo Harry," he said, confusion in his voice.

Straightening, Harry pushed Ron's shoulder roughly, making the broad shouldered redhead stumble back slightly. "'Hullo'?" he demanded angrily, making a sweeping gesture at the chaotic scene before them; nearly all of the Weasley's gathered and united against the Slytherin families, the main people spitting insults with their wands out. "You come in here at six in the morning, screaming at the top of your lungs, banging the hell out of my door, and all you can say is 'hullo'?!"

Ron blushed with embarrassment, smiling sheepishly and ducking his head slightly. Harry noticed a small cut a little to the right on Ron's forehead, and wondered how the hell that had gotten there, as a cutting curse would be far larger. Ron's sheepish expression distracted Harry from searching for more injuries, however. "Yeah, well ... we got worried when no one answered our firecalls earlier, and when we got here and saw the Slytherin's cursing at mum and dad .. well, I guess things got a little out of hand."

"'Out of hand'? Yeah, I'd say it got a little bit more than out of hand!" Harry snapped, noticing the way Ron's eye twitched in the familiar telltale sign that he was nervous. "The least you could have done was knock on my door, I would have gladly sorted the idiots out before things even got to this level! There was absolutely no need for anyone to get hurt," he said, forcefully calming himself down at the slightly hurt look on Ron's face.

"But no one's hurt Harry -" Ron tried to protest.

"You have a cut on your forehead," he interrupted roughly, gesturing to the small wound with a flick of his hand. "It's small and dried up some, but its still there."