"How was your run, Harry? You were gone for an awfully long time."

Harry ended up being a little late for dinner, as he had waited until all the other Gryffindors had gone before entering the common room to put his viola away.

"Oh! Err, it was good. It's nice to just run, sometimes."

"Where did you go, then? Ron was saying that his brother Charlie used to go for runs around the grounds to increase his stamina. Is that why you are running?"

Harry slowly put down his fork and tried to marshal his thoughts into order. "Well…"

"Let him eat, Hermione," Ron interjected. He ate a forkful of potato salad, then said, "Bloke must be hungry after all that running."

"Oh! Don't mind me, then, Harry." But then she said pointedly to Ron, "Some people can eat and talk at the same time."

The boys burst out laughing at that, Ron barely managing to keep his food in his mouth.

"Come on. You know that wasn't what I meant." She folded her arms crossly and glared at them. "Chew your food, Ron."

Harry grinned openly for the first time that evening.

Lying in bed that night, Harry decided that he would have to think up a few more details about the running story he had given Ron and Hermione. He didn't like lying to them, but an explanation would be more trouble than it would be worth, as they would want to know everything. It would just be too painful.

He rolled over and tried to get to sleep, his brain just too fuzzy to think of details now. Tomorrow was Sunday, and he intended to get a lot of things done, including a practice in the morning. If he wanted to get up early, he needed to go to sleep soon.

But half an hour later, he was still not asleep, and his bedclothes were tangled from trying to find a position comfortable enough to sleep in. Harry sat up resignedly and padded softly out of bed. At the window, he drew the thick red curtain and peered out onto the grounds. They were bathed in moonlight, and perfectly still.

Harry let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding and slid to the floor, leaning against the glass. There was a gently breeze wafting the leaves of the trees every now and then, and Harry fell asleep watching it.

On Monday, Professor McGonagall had them transfiguring pencils into quills. It was a tricky transfiguration, as they all had to be able to prove that their quill was usable, and not just a feather. Harry managed, after three quarters of an hour, to transform his pencil into a neat quill, and thus managed to avoid being told to practise for homework, though McGonagall had commented on the messiness of his writing. Hermione had a tidy row of quills in different colours and styles, while Ron's was bedraggled and looked as if he had been chewing the end of it.

Before they could leave, however, Harry was called back.

"Yes, Professor?" He asked, extremely conscious of the fact that both his friends were waiting just outside the door. If she kept taking him aside to talk to him, they were going to get suspicious.

"I remembered this morning— here." She took a thin sheaf of paper off her desk and handed it to him. "It would be splendid if you could try and sight-read a few of these before next Saturday, Mr Potter. A few works from wizarding composers. If you have any troubles just ask me. Some of the notation will be unfamiliar."

Harry peeked at the first sheet. "I'll do that, then, Professor." He carefully slid them into his bag. "Thanks."

McGonagall nodded at him in dismissal, a slight smile curving her lips.

"Bye, Professor," he said as he hurried out the door to his friends. Perhaps he could tell them that she had warned him to be especially careful with all the dementors around.

The week passed by almost too quickly for Harry. Classes were picking up speed again, and the students seemed to be getting a lot more homework this year with the added electives. Even though Harry had quickly come to the conclusion that Divination just required a lot of bluffing and imagination, there didn't seem to be as much time to just be with his friends as before.

On Saturday, the trio spent a few hours in the library, doing their homework. Hermione had argued that they had better do it first, and had prevailed because it was quite cloudy outside, and starting to spit. But after working their way through their Charms essay, as well as the comparative table and sketches for Herbology, they decided that a break was necessary. Well, Ron and Harry did. Hermione seemed to think that her time could be better spent doing Arithmancy.

After a few minutes of squabbling, Ron ended the argument by stealing Hermione's textbook. Hermione immediately gave chase, calling out, "Ron, I need that!" Their thumping footfalls and the raised voices drew Madam Pince, who evicted them both despite Hermione's arguments.

Once Harry had brought all of their things out of the library, Hermione shouldered her bag with a great huff. Ron took his with a smirk and a wink at Harry.

"I know what you were doing! Ron Weasley, how could you get me thrown out of the library? Hermione's tone of voice indicated that she could think of nothing worse.

Harry tried to repress a smile, but unfortunately Hermione noticed and, with a loud thwack, hit him on the shoulder with her Arithmancy book. "And you. You were no help. I need to study, you know."

"Come on, Hermione, we needed a break anyway. It's nearly lunchtime, too. We have all weekend." Ron's voice was cajoling, though he was still smiling in pleasure at his success.

Harry agreed, pointedly rubbing his shoulder. "Yeah, Hermione. And I don't think I could write with this anymore." He gave her an exaggerated look of pain. "Oh, it hurts… the agony…"

Hermione was clearly resisting the urge to hit him again as she told him, "That's your left arm, Harry."

"So?" Ron cut in.

"He's right-handed. Which means that he can still write perfectly well. And I didn't even hit him that hard."

Harry gave off rubbing his shoulder at that.

"We may as well just go down to lunch, now, though," Hermione continued. "Now that we can't study in the library."

They all trooped down to the Great Hall, Ron speculating about what might be on offer.

While they were having lunch, Harry glanced up at the enchanted ceiling, and nearly moaned in horrified disbelief. The clouds from the morning hadn't gone away: if anything, there were more of them and they were darker than ever. While he was eating, and then joking with Ron, he hoped in the back of the mind that—

"Oh look," Hermione said off-handedly. "It's raining."

—it wouldn't rain.

Of course it would. What was he thinking? Harry Potter never got anything his way. Now he wouldn't be able to say that he was going for a run, for who in their right mind would do so in the pouring rain? It wasn't even falling lightly— no, it was lashing down.

Harry took a piece of apple and bit into it with more force than usual.

Later, when they were just hanging around the Great Hall chatting to Neville, Harry tried to think up excuses that would work. The problem was that it seemed he would be going every Saturday afternoon, and he needed something that would work again— either that or he would have to become very creative and hope that Ron and Hermione wouldn't get suspicious. But who was he kidding? They had been solving mysteries and poking their noses into things that probably weren't their business since nearly the beginning.

The running excuse would work for any day that it was fine outside, but that would become unlikelier as they approached Winter. And running just a day a week might not seem realistic— if he truly wanted to get fit that way he would have to do it more regularly.

What if he said he was running around the castle instead? He could say it was sort of like an obstacle course. Hermione would say it was unsafe, but he could reassure her that he was only doing it in deserted corridors. Or would she think that even less safe?

Yes, he could say that. He'd just tell her she was a worrywart. Good. Sorted.

"— and I think that Harry'd like it too."

"Huh?" Harry blinked and swivelled his head round to look at Ron. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

Ron and Neville looked at him askance, while Hermione said, "Keep up, Harry."

"I said that maybe we all could have a chess tournament, and have a prize at the end for the winner," Ron explained, looking rather smug with himself.

Harry thought that Ron might be presuming a little, especially because he would most likely the one to win. "With just us? Not much of a tournament."

Ron shook his head, ginger hair flying about. "No, a Gryffindor tournament. I just said that."

"Oh. Okay." Harry thought about it for a minute. "I don't think I'd get very far, but I spose that it might stop you trying to thrash me all the time if you have other people to play. I'd support that."

Hermione's expression was one of exasperated fondness.

"Well, if you thought about your moves more you could do quite well. Last time, if you had just used your knights better—"

Neville, surprisingly, interrupted him. "It's a plan, then. Why don't we go up now and see who is interested?" He looked like he regretted his forwardness almost as soon as he finished speaking.

"Yes," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "No point hanging round here anymore. C'mon, Harry, Ron." They started moving up the first of numerous flights of stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

The common room was packed, as no-one was out on the grounds due to the rain. Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson were debating quidditch plays in one corner, a group of first and second years were playing exploding snap, and the Weasley Twins were practising colour-change charms by turning everyone around them into various fluorescent shades. Harry didn't find it too hard to slip away when it was time for him to leave, especially because he could hardly have been missed. They had all split up to chat about the possibility of a chess tournament with other people anyway.

In his dorm, which was mercifully quiet, Harry stretched his arms out as far as they could go. He had felt quite pent-up in the packed room. Taking a deep breath and relaxing a little, he reached under his bed and retrieved his viola case. Then, in a moment of brilliance, he scrambled over to his trunk. His invisibility cloak. Perfect for a little avoidance.