House/Team: Lions

Class Subject: Care of Magical Creatures

Category: Bonus Chapter 2/3

Prompt: [object] Poison Hemlock

Wordcount: 2122

Harry stared down at his unfinished essay, hoping, somehow, that it would finish itself. The essay simply remained there, as infuriating as only a blank piece of parchment could be. The only words adorning it was the title: Uses of Conium maculatum, Poison Hemlock.

Newly enchanted bats swooped around the rafters, tinny calls vibrating at the edges of Harry's hearing. One hung just above his head, wings wrapped around itself like a blanket.

He tipped his head back to watch it, feeling the tension lessen in his neck immediately. It opened its mouth, although whether in a yawn or a call he couldn't tell, the tiny teeth he expected to see glaringly absent. The bat shuffled slightly further along it's perch, Harry's gaze following it almost hypnotically.

Tiny scraps of fluff fluttered down from its wings, calling back to the duster it had been Transfigured from, as it settled down.

Harry sighed, a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him as he slowly lowered his head to his desk.

He could sleep. No-one was around to stop him.

Madam Pince wouldn't disturb him, provided he wasn't sleeping on one of her precious books. He'd been subject to her particular method of waking students before: a pause in her slow prowl as she sized up her target, before swooping down with a screech. The unfortunate student would then find themselves being harried outside, loose items clutched to their chest like a life raft, before the door slammed closed, the noise ringing out in the deathly silence of the library as Madam Pince carried the book to safety, a wounded veteran returning from the war.

This wasn't true in all cases. Madam Pince was sympathetic towards the plights of stressed out students, driven to her library past the point of exhaustion. The younger students, and Harry could remember being in their shoes so clearly it was like it happened yesterday, viewed her as a sort of harpy, a terrifying figure, confused as to why the older students loved her.

He couldn't sleep.

Harry sighed, lifting his head and staring unseeing at the books lining the small alcove he was hiding in. The library around him was quiet. Almost everyone was attending the Halloween Feast and Harry's stomach tightened at the thought of it.

He should go and join them, sit next to Ron and Hermione, laugh and talk with them… but he couldn't.

It was Halloween. October 31st.

Harry could remember, as a child, sitting in the dark of his cupboard, listening to Dudley's heavy steps up and down the stairs. He would always slam his feet into the steps to rain dust down on Harry's head, occasionally dislodging the spiders to scurry away across his pillow.

Halloween had always made Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon nervous, skittish in a way that Harry hadn't understood at the time. They hadn't acknowledged it for several years, hoping perhaps that it would simply slip beneath Dudley's radar, caught between their distrust of anything magical and the desire to give their son everything.

It had all came to a head when they were young, Dudley realising the sweets his fellows came in with the next day, lunch boxes overflowing, were given away the night before. He screamed until his face turned red, threatening to pass out from lack of oxygen. And Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia broke in the face of it.

But not for Harry.

He knew his parents had died on that day, the day before he arrived at the Dursley's.

And then he found out the truth on how they died, and any desire to celebrate sweets and decorations slowly drained out of him with the passage of the years.

Harry blinked, pulling a breath in through his teeth, pushing back against the rising tide of anger burning like a hot coal in his chest. It wasn't fair. The Wizarding World celebrated the defeat of Voldemort and yet, they somehow forgot what it had cost him. What it kept costing him.

Anger, however, wouldn't help him write this essay.

Harry sighed once more, running his fingers through his hair, tugging fruitlessly at the wayward clumps at the back of his head. It was only typical of Snape to set them an essay due shortly after Halloween.

Harry knew Hermione had finished hers. He had seen the ink gleaming dully on the title, handwriting neat and legible even from across the table in the Great Hall at breakfast.

Ron was horrified when Harry had said he was going to finish his essay, but Harry hadn't let him protest, slipping out of the Common Room before he could say anything, Hermione's look of delight following him out.

The only problem with his plan of avoiding people, was that he actually had to finish the essay. Snape was even harsher following Halloween, tongue twice as barbed and on high alert for any opportunity to belittle Harry as he swept around the small, crowded Potions classroom like the overgrown bat he was.

As if sensing his thoughts, the bat above Harry's head squealed, wings flaring out, membrane between the fingers paper thin, before it settled back down.

Poison Hemlock. Where had he put that book?

Harry spotted the heavy book half hidden beneath his bag, the slip of parchment he had shoved between the pages to act as a bookmark almost falling out. He stretched out to grab it. And froze.

On the back of his hand, in the light from the ducats on the wall, shone the words: I must not tell lies.

Harry's breath caught in his chest, threatening to choke him. He wanted to scream, wanted to tear into Umbridge with his bare hands, wanted to lock himself away and never emerge again-

It was too much, emotions paralysing him even as they overwhelmed him.

Not now. Essay. Had to finish the essay.

His movements were jerky as he pulled the book back towards himself, hurriedly catching his bag as it swayed terrifyingly close to the edge of the table.

"Hemlock," Harry whispered to himself, aware of the scratchiness in his throat. It was worth more than his life to bring a drink into here, into Madam Pince's sanctuary. Maybe he would stop by the feast, at least for the end.

He picked up his quill from the ink bottle, tapping it on the rim to remove the excess, and began to write, scarred hand trailing down the text. He didn't look at the words adorning his skin, refused to let Umbridge break him.

'Used in Doxycide.'

A grin unfurled across Harry's face despite himself.

It had been a good summer, armed as they were with heavy masks and large spray bottles of Doxycide. The tiny creatures, not fairies Hermione had been quick to point out despite their similar appearances, were vicious. Fred could still be counted on to recount the tale of their savagery when he had to clean the curtains of a room Sirius had tentatively called a parlour room.

"It may have even been a drawing room, or a sitting room, or a guest room, or a meeting room honestly," Sirius said, face screwed up in concentration as he stared around the room, furniture shoved to the walls and dust heavy in the air.

"Reggie was always better at that sort of stuff than I was. He lapped it up."

There was always a note of deep regret in Sirius' voice when he mentioned his brother, as if the topic hurt him more than words could say, but he continued mentioning him. It soothed Kreacher to hear Sirius talk about Regulus, the elf's mumblings decreasing ever so slightly.

He missed Sirius.

The summer hadn't been long enough to make up for all the time they had been kept apart. And even now, with Sirius hiding in a cave, a fugitive once again, it seemed like too long.

Doxycide. Concentrate.

It was like fighting back against a river, an unrelenting press of water trying to spirit his thoughts away to the thorny subject of Umbridge or the loneliness that gripped him when he thought about Sirius alone in a cave.

Doxycide, in the words of the textbook, had a pungent odor. It stunk. Mrs Weasley maintained that the smell meant it was working, in the same tone of voice that she cajoled one of her children (and Harry) when they were injured and complaining bitterly about the foul tasting liquid she made them swallow. It tastes bad because it's working, it itches because it's working.

What would have it been like, to be able to live with Sirius?

It wasn't something he thought about often, memory too painful, too tainted with regrets, but now it was a welcome distraction from the minutiae of poison hemlock.

Doxycide would still be present. It had almost saturated the curtains and furniture by the time they all left to return to Hogwarts, a thick, sickly scent. Sirius had begged off helping, claiming the extended Animagus transformations left him too sensitive to the smell, and after seeing Professor Lupin turn a sickly shade of grey and run from one of the rooms, Mrs Weasley hadn't been about to press the issue.

Sirius claimed he didn't care for the artifacts they pulled from the drawing cabinets and dressers, but Harry had seen the way his hands had lingered over them, almost despite himself. Mrs Weasley had been a force to be reckoned with in her crusade to clear the house, but if it was just the two of them, and Kreacher?

There was so much history wrapped up in the wood of that house. And Harry knew none of it.

He'd lost so much on that Halloween night so long ago, and no-one seemed to remember it, but Sirius and Professor Lupin.

Harry jerked awake, heart thumping in his chest, a faint ringing in his ears. What was that noise? The bat above him had flown away, maybe to pick off whatever insects emerged and fluttered around the grounds at night. Did bats eat Doxies?

He had to focus. Had to finish this essay, not get lost in memories and daydreams that could never happen.

The words stood out like a brand on his hand: I must not tell lies.

Harry didn't lie. Voldemort was back, risen from the dead, pale and skeletal, clad in black flowing robes.

Sirius believed him, Dumbledore believed him, Ron and Hermione believed him. And that was enough.

Harry stretched, feeling the uncomfortable knots of tension in his back click and release, joints cracking in his hands. He rubbed his hand across his tired face, idly noticing the smears of black on his skin and the corresponding smudges on his essay.

Snape already hated him, what was one more reason? Harry tapped the edge of his quill against the page, struggling to concentrate once again. Nearly over, nearly at the end and not a single sentence more.

Almost unbidden, he thought of the Halloween Feast taking place far below him. Tables groaning with pastries and pies, rice and pasta and everything Harry could possibly think of. His stomach growled.

Sirius was out in the cold. Harry should get him some food.

He scrawled the last few lines of his essay, barely even caring about the drops of ink that splattered onto the parchment. He'd go to the Feast, he'd smile and laugh with Ron and Hermione, and he would steal food for Sirius.

And then, maybe, when he snuck out to see his godfather, laden down with stolen pastries and blankets carefully knitted by Hermione, and holes large enough for Harry to fit his entire torso through despite her best efforts, they would talk.

Sirius knew his Mum and Dad. He knew them in a way that Harry would never get to. He craved that connection, poured over the photo album from Hagrid until the pages were soft to the touch and the text was faded from the press of Harry's fingers against the words. He would carry that to Sirius, and they would talk. Just like they would if Harry was able to live with him.

Harry blew on the still wet ink, barely able to wait until it was dry before he shoved it into his bag, parchment crinkling beneath his grip. He swayed slightly when he stood up, tired passing over him like a wave. But it would pass. He braced himself on the shelves as he moved towards the exit, towards the light and the decorations and the warmth of other people.

It wasn't perfect, Harry was broken, but he would mend, eventually.

He smiled as he moved towards the Halloween Feast, heart feeling lighter, mind set on the future.