Flames Of Destiny : Conflicting Emotions // HJP [2]

Chapter Eight : Flying Session

As expected, dinner in the Great Hall that night was far from pleasant for Harry. Word of his shouting match with Umbridge had travelled fast, even by Hogwarts' standards. Whispers seemed to circle them as they sat eating, and oddly enough, none of the whisperers bothered to lower their voices. It was almost as if they wanted Harry to overhear, hoping he'd get angry and give them the story straight from the source.

"He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered..."

"He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who..."

"Come off it..."

"Who does he think he's kidding?"

"Pur-lease..."

(Y/n) sighed inwardly, sensing trouble brewing. She had a feeling Harry wouldn't tolerate much more of the idle gossip. Preparing for his inevitable exit, she casually stuffed as many slices of apple pie as she could into a napkin, slipping it into her bag, all while tearing into her roast chicken with a fierce determination, as though she hadn't eaten in days. Across the table, Ron watched her, a mix of amusement and mild disgust on his face—though he wasn't exactly eating with grace himself.

"What I don't get," Harry said, his voice shaking as he laid down his knife and fork—his hands trembling too much to hold them steady—"is why they all believed it two months ago when Dumbledore told them..."

"The thing is, Harry, I'm not sure they did," said Hermione grimly. "Oh, let's get out of here."

Oh no, exactly as (Y/n) had predicted.

Hermione dropped her own knife and fork in frustration; Ron shot a longing look at his half-eaten apple pie before following, and (Y/n) took one last, determined bite of her fifth roast chicken leg before trailing after them. People stared as they exited the Hall, but by now, (Y/n) had grown accustomed to the whispers and sideways glances.

"What d'you mean, you're not sure they believed Dumbledore?" Harry asked Hermione when they reached the first-floor landing.

"Look, you don't understand what it was like after it happened," Hermione replied quietly. "You arrived back on the lawn clutching Cedric's dead body... none of us saw what happened in the maze... we only had Dumbledore's word that You-Know-Who had returned, killed Cedric, and fought you."

"Which is the truth!" Harry snapped, his voice rising.

(Y/n) groaned softly. Here came his temper again, simmering just beneath the surface.

"I know it is, Harry, so will you please stop biting my head off?" Hermione replied, weary but firm. "But before the truth could sink in, everyone went home for the summer, where they spent two months reading about how you're a nutcase and Dumbledore's going senile!"

Rain pounded relentlessly against the windowpanes as they trudged along the empty corridors back to Gryffindor Tower. (Y/n) felt as though her first day had lasted a week, yet she still faced a mountain of homework and had one small plan she wanted to carry out. She cast a glance out of a rain-streaked window at the dark grounds, already picturing the muddy terrain outside, as they finally reached the Fat Lady's corridor. Hagrid's cabin was still dark, the absence of light unsettling.

"Mimbulus mimbletonia," Hermione said before the Fat Lady could even ask.

The portrait swung open, and the four of them scrambled inside. The common room was nearly empty, with most students still down at dinner. Crookshanks stretched out from an armchair and trotted over to meet them, purring loudly. Once (Y/n), Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their usual seats by the fireside, Crookshanks leapt onto Hermione's lap, curling up like a fluffy, ginger cushion. Harry's gaze settled on the flames, his exhaustion evident.