𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐱. what i want i rarely ever get.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

They're sat on the plush red sofa, a fire blazing homely before them, and he's never been so thoroughly frustrated in his life. It's an itch that crawls beneath his skin. Like invisible spiders crawling on the body. He seems unable to rid of them. Can't quite comprehend them either. He thinks, in the most dispirited way possible, that the dragons he's been informed are the first task, may just be what does him in.

He can picture it clearly; an audience of onlookers waiting for his failure, flames shooting straight for him, and his broom ceasing to show. Mad-Eye Moody had given him the idea, really, to summon his broom to the grounds since flying was his greatest strength. And a fat lot of help that was turning out to be — the last day had found him and Hermione in empty classrooms to practice the Summoning Charm — which, he felt, shouldn't have been so fucking difficult. The books and quills lost heart halfway across the room, the fly in Divination was surely just stupid ( no way a fly of all things was the only thing he could summon ) and the upturned chairs and Neville's toad, Trevor, were just barely making it towards him. If he's honest, he's ready to give up and accept defeat. His plan of summoning his broom feels like a forlorn dream. And that wore on the heavy feeling.

There was a weight. An indescribable, heavy weight that hung low in his gut and weighed his bones down each morning, grinding against one another as he internally fought to keep moving. He thought ( or more assumed, really ) that it was his instincts he was feeling. Nightmares and whispers of warnings for the things that were to come, and he wasn't all that surprised. It all seemed like really shitty luck, at the end of the day. Only famous Harry Potter would find himself in a tournament meant for ages seventeen and up, depending on magic he didn't have to complete it. He didn't care if he won, or if he came in last, his goal was to come out of the tournament alive. And so far that was proving to be difficult. But Hermione ( God bless her ) almost made the push feel worth it. She was patient with him, the right amount of encouragement and explanation that makes him think perhaps she should become a teacher; they don't call her the brightest witch of their for nothing.

" 'Mione." Harry starts with his head in his hands, all sorts of frustrated and given up. "What if I can't summon my broom?"

Hermione places a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing, "You can, Harry, it's just your frustration that's making you unable to do it. Magic is about intent and what you wish you do."

"Well I wish I didn't have to compete in this fucking tournament." Harry snaps, heels of his palm rubbing against his eyes until stars dance in his vision.

"I'll pretend I haven't heard the foul language you've been using lately." Hermione frowns, an underlying pity in her eyes. "I understand that you're frustrated, Harry, I really do — but magic can be a bit funny like that — it's like a block when you've become angry. If you attempted Lumos right now, I'd bet you'd have issues with it."