Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Ron said nothing, but looked disgruntled. They sat in silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishing his Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the very end of the parchment, rolling it up carefully and sealing it, and Harry staring into the fire, wishing more than anything that Sirius’s head would appear there and give him some advice about girls. But the fire merely crackled lower and lower, until the red-hot embers crumbled into ash and, looking around, Harry saw that they were, yet again, the last ones in the common room.

“Well, night,” said Hermione, yawning widely as she set olf up the girls’ staircase.

“What does she see in Krum?” Ron demanded, as he and Harry climbed the boys’ stairs.

“Well,” said Harry, considering the matter, “I’s’pose he’s older, isn’t he… and he’s an international Quidditch player…”

“Yeah, but apart from that,” said Ron, sounding aggravated. “I mean, he’s a grouchy git, isn’t he?”

“Bit grouchy, yeah,” said Harry, whose thoughts were still on Cho.

They pulled off their robes and put on pyjamas in silence; Dean, Seamus and Neville were already asleep. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and got into bed but did not pull the hangings closed around his four-poster; instead, he stared at the patch of starry sky visible through the window next to Neville’s bed. If he had known, this time last night, that in twenty-four hours’ time he would have kissed Cho Chang…

“Night,” grunted Ron, from somewhere to his right.

“Night,” said Harry.

Maybe next time… if there was a next time… she’d be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she had probably been expecting it and was now really angry with him… or was she lying in bed, still crying about Cedric? He did not know what to think. Hermione’s explanation had made it all seem more complicated rather than easier to understand.

That’s what they should teach us here, he thought, turning over on to his side, how girls’ brains work… it’d be more useful than Divination, anyway…

Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted somewhere out in the night.

Harry dreamed he was back in the D.A. room. Cho was accusing him of luring her there under false pretences; she said he had promised her a hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog Cards if she showed up. Harry protested… Cho shouted, “Cedric gave me loads of Chocolate Frog Cards, look!” And she pulled out fistfuls of Cards from inside her robes and threw them into the air. Then she turned into Hermione, who said, “You did promise her, you know, Harry… I think you’d better give her something else instead… how about your Firebolt?” And Harry was protesting that he could not give Cho his Firebolt, because Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was ridiculous, he’d only come to the D.A. room to put up some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby’s head…

The dream changed…

His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone… he was flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly… it was dark, yet he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours… he was turning his head… at first glance the corridor was empty… but no… a man was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping on to his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark…

Harry put out his tongue… he tasted the man’s scent on the air… he was alive but drowsy… sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor…

Harry longed to bite the man… but he must master the impulse… he had more important work to do…

But the man was stirring… a silver Cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt… he had no choice… he reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man’s flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood…

The man was yelling in pain… then he fell silent… he slumped backwards against the wall… blood was splattering on to the floor…

His forehead hurt terribly… it was aching fit to burst…

“Harry! HARRY!”

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were twisted all around him like a strait-jacket; he felt as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.

“Harry!”

Ron was standing over him looking extremely frightened. There were more figures at the foot of Harry’s bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him… he rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.

“He’s really ill,” said a scared voice. “Should we call someone?”

“Harry! Harry!”