𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

Chapter 4

Transformation: Chapter Four

It had been an exhausting evening. After facing an irate Snape in what had been Harry's worst Occlumency lesson all year, he'd managed to run to the pitch to catch the last hour of Quidditch practice. Jack had taken to forcing them into early morning and late night practice, as if it would improve their skills to play at all hours of the day. It had begun drizzling shortly after Harry arrived, and when he tramped off the pitch with Ron and Ginny, all three were damp, unhappy, and covered in mud.

After that, it had been an hour of Charms with Hermione and a frustrated attempt to decipher his scribbled Potions notes before Harry could finally climb into bed.

"Mum'll kill me if I get another P in Transfiguration," Ron muttered to Harry over the slow snores of the rest of their dorm-mates. "I don't know how she finds out, but I reckon Ginny. See how she likes it when Mum hears about how she's been skiving off Charms to meet Dean."

"At least the team's looking better," Harry sighed, flopping back into his bed. "That pass Natalie made today, that was brilliant."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, Mum'll be loads happier when she finds out my courses are suffering 'cause of Quidditch. 'Night, Harry."

Harry barely managed out a "'Night, Ron," before an enormous yawn overtook him. Any attempt at clearing his mind before sleep turned swiftly into sleep; Harry was so tired that he scarcely remembered climbing under the duvet before he was dreaming.

In his dream, Harry was at the Burrow, lying in the grass with Ron. They seemed to be watching a Quidditch match in the sky, though Harry couldn't make out any of the players, and when he sat up, it wasn't Ron at all, it was Dudley.

"Heard you screaming about Cedric in your sleep again," Dudley said, giving him a piggy grin. "Who's Cedric, your boyfriend? Don't tell Malfoy, he'll be mad . . ."

Harry scarcely had time to question this when Dudley pointed behind him and, sure enough, there was Malfoy, coming towards him. Only, for some reason, he was wearing one of Ginny's sundresses, and Harry stared at his bare legs, oddly muscular in the context of the yellow dress, and –

The dream changed. Harry was no longer lounging in the grass of the Burrow, but standing in a dark, drafty room of stone, his hands clenching the back of a chair. "Soon we will strike," he hissed, and his voice was high and cold. "Where are Jugson and Rookwood, are they in place?"

"Master," said a low, female voice, "they have been there for a week, acting as book collectors. Avery is to join them–"

Harry's thin, white hands curled around the top of the chair, his knuckles standing out like bone. "And the Dementors are there, Bella?"

"Yes, yes, Master," Bellatrix murmured eagerly, "all is in place, everything is set up, I've arranged it all–"

"And Malfoy?" Harry asked, his voice tight and terrifying.

But what Lucius Malfoy was doing, Harry didn't find out. He felt the dream slipping away from him, and he tried desperately to remain, but it felt as if something were grasping after him, pushing him out . . . his whole head felt as if it were about to shatter, his scar searing . . .

"No!" he shouted, sitting bolt upright in his bed, forehead feeling as if it were about to split open. The ache throbbed as he looked around dazedly. He was in Hogwarts. In his own bed. Safe. Far away from Wales, where Lord Voldemort was pacing, deep in conversation with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Near the window, Neville gave a particularly loud snore, and then the dormitory settled back into its habitual quiet, broken only by the sleeping sounds of the four other boys inside it. As for Harry, he looked around, panicked.