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Harry Potter awoke with an uncharacteristic, burning desire to get miserably plastered and wander around singing off-key while mourning his woeful existence. However, he couldn’t do such, because he had class in twenty minutes, and the wretched sunshine pouring into 6th year dormitory windows was heralding morning. So instead, Harry pulled a safety-pin through his earlobe and tugged on his uniform. Ron gave him a very confused look and quirked a red eyebrow. Harry just shrugged and didn’t bother with brushing his hair—because he just didn’t CARE. Also because, to frank (or perhaps more appropriately, to be Peter, or to be Robert, or maybe even to be Morrissey, but that was stretching it a bit), it didn’t help in the slightest. Brushing his hair, that is. Ron shot another confused look at Harry’s back and he ran back to their dorm to grab Harry’s potions text. It was all well and good to go to class without attending to matters of basic personal hygiene, but to even attempt to enter Snape’s class without the appropriate materials was not just folly, it was madness. Harry continued stalking down the halls and suddenly felt that his black student’s robe was simply the most apt article of clothing he owned. There was the nagging notion in the back of velvet draped brain that he’d forgotten something in the dorm, but he was interrupted from his reverie by Colin Creevey, whom he quite casually flipped off. Inwardly, Harry smiled a smile of the blackest despair and his face remained a sullen frown. It was a Wednesday and he’d always hated Wednesdays (actually, as far as Harry could remember, he didn’t much like any days. In fact, he hated every day, because their passing meant that it was one more day he was still alive). He paused for a second and thought he might’ve heard Ron calling him. Pity. Instead he entered the Great Hall and almost walked to the Slytherin tables. He, thankfully, caught himself at the last minute and instead sat in the very last place at Gryffindor. On this morning Harry was certain that there was something wrong with his house, seeing as they were all a bunch of infernally happy morons. Even in the morning. “Harry.” Although it actuality it was nothing of the sort, Ron’s voice sounded irritatingly sing-song. “What?” He was quite proud that he seemed to be able to snap and mutter at the same time. “What’s wrong with you?” This came in chorus with the newly-arrived and wretchedly neatly-pressed Hermione; both she and Ron looked quite started at having said the same thing at the same time, but they got over it relatively quickly, because Harry was tracing patterns on his arm with a butter knife and this was a rather concerning. Hermione snatched the knife away from Harry’s grip, tsk-ing at him and displaying one of her patented Miss-Granger-Says-No-Looks. “What has gotten into you?” She asked concernedly. Hermione, Harry noticed dully, was reminded him more and more of McGonagall by the second. And having one of your best friends turn into an abnormally strict professor who was alternately a cat, was the second-bleakest thing in the world. The first bleakest, of course, was the prospect of living one more day in this horrid world. Oh, and does the reader know that Harry’s parents are dead? Well they are. They’re dead, dead, dead. Harry picked up a fork and tried to stab himself with it. Hermione promptly snatched it away. So what if he felt like joining his parents. After all, they were dead, dead, dead. Harry looked at his “friends” and sneered while still managing to look like his was waiting to take death’s hand to his breast. This, he figured, was also something to be proud of. Perhaps he could some lessons in “looking-like-the-world-has-it-in-for-me-and-even-the-devil-has-my-address” from Professor Snape. Yes. Good plan. Anyway. With an overly dramatic sigh, Harry brought a hand to his chest and closed his kohl shadowed eyelids. “Oh, bugger off, I’m just as fine as I was yesterday.” His eyes snapped open for effect and Ron jumped. Hermione looked scared, or more accurately, she looked a bit nervous, like she had suddenly stumbled over some fabulous discovery and in a few hours time would be running down the hall whooping “Eureka!!”. To Hermione, Harry had just become a lovely walking science problem. Her eyes began to gleam with only slightly repressed excitement. Ron backed away from the both of them. Oh, woe, thought Harry and tried to stab himself with a spoon. End |