𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 | 𝐡. 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝟖𝟖 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧

Their final exam History of Magic was later the following afternoon, and still there was no word on McGonagall's recovery.

Harry had been counting on the morning to be able to rest and revise, but given the horrendous act they witnessed just hours previously outside Hagrid's hut that he chose to forgo the sleep in favour of reading Ophelia's colour-coded flashcards by the window in the common room, Ophelia leaning against his chest as she too flicked through her textbook, yawning every so often.

The fifth years entered the Great Hall at two o'clock on the dot and took their seats in alphabetical order, Ophelia sitting a few seats of Harry, and a seat in front of Malfoy who kept staring at the back of her head as she focused on a) ignoring the painful tightness of her chest, b) the tremendous headache and finally c) the unshakable ringing in her ears, her eyes were focused on the face-down exam paper that seemed to be coming in and out of focus, she had enough... discreetly she used her magic to suppress the more annoying parts of her health temporarily so she could concentrate on doing the last hurdle of her exams.

Tomorrow they had plans to head to the lake and have a picnic -- which Ophelia had already prepped during her tireless hours previous, they were tucked away in a charmed cupboard... she had even dropped off a tin at McGonagall's bedside and a handwritten note hoping she feels better soon, she looked so vulnerable and feeble, still unconscious she couldn't thank Ophelia for the sweet treats she had made her but she didn't want thanks, she wanted McGonagall awake so she didn't have to worry about the lingering fear in the back of her mind that they were isolated from the most trustworthy members of the Order.

"Turn over your papers." said Professor Marchbanks, "You may begin."

Harry stared at the first question for a solid few seconds, before realising he had not taken a single word of it.

Soon enough all he could hear was the scribbling of quills on paper like burrowing rats, making him feel incredibly conscious of the few sparing lines he had written under question four -- but there were so many dates, so many battles, so many names.... how was he supposed to remember it all on command.

Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids to cool them, he urged himself to think harder to catch up with his peers who had no doubt finished at least half of the paper now-- they had half an hour left--surely there must be something he remembers about the legislation about wands.... his mind drew a blank-- then he wasn't there.

He was walking along the same familiar corridor in the Department of Mysteries again, walking with a firm and purposeful tread, breaking occasionally into a run, desperate to reach his well-awaited destination until finally, he was in the cathedral-sized room filled with rows upon rows of shelves with the spheres again -- along and along he went until he reached number ninety-seven.

Yet there was something at the end of the row, something on the floor. A black shape moving on the floor like a wounded animal, Harry's stomach contracted with fear... and excitement.

A voice issued from his own mouth, a high, cold voice empty of any human kindness.

"Take it for me... life it down, now... I cannot touch it, but you can."

The shape on the floor shifted a little, the long-fingered white hand clutching a wand rise at the end of his own arm, as he heard a high cold voice say "Crucio!"

The man on the floor let out a scream of pain, attempted to stand but fell back, writhing in agony.

"Lord Voldemort is waiting."

Very slowly, his arms trembling the man on the ground raise his shoulders a few inches and lifted his head, his face was blood-stained and gaunt, twisted in pain yet rigid with defiance.