Ex-Friends || A Drarry Story

Three: Eight

"You mustn't go do anything drastic, Harry," Hermione said, exchanging a look with Ron, who looked a little worried. Harry had been looking terrible ever since finding out the news of what role Sirius Black had played in his parent's deaths.

"Like what?" he murmured, picking at his food. He hadn't eaten ever since finding out what had happened, two days ago. He could tell Ron and Hermione had rehersed this conversation.

"Like going to look for Black," Ron replied. "He isn't worth it."

"He killed my parents."

Ron and Hermione paused.

"Fudge said he isn't affected by Dementors, there's no reason for him to be there if he isn't going to suffer."

Ron asked, looking very tense, "So what're you saying? You want to kill Black or something?"

"Don't be silly," Hermione interjected in a panicky voice. Harry looked up from his plate, feeling his hand twitching on his lap. He closed his fist, nails digging into his palm. "Harry doesn't want to kill Black, right, Harry?"

Harry didn't answer. He didn't know what he wanted to happen.

More days passed, visiting Hagrid, trying to help him build a strong defense in favor of Buckbeak, the Hippogriff that had slashed Malfoy's arm when riddiculed. Ron and Hermione tried to keep Harry's mind off of Sirius Black, but he just coldn't shake the idea of his parents being dead and Black running around free.

Christmas morning came around, and Harry awoke to presents at the foot of his bed. He put his glasses on, blinking a few times, seeing that Ron was already tearing the wrapping paper off his pile of presents.

Mrs Weasley had sent him a scarlet sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front, a dozen mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle. At the bottom, he saw a long, thin package, and Harry's stomach began to buzz and he grabbed it.

He ripped the parcel open, gasping as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bed. Ron's jaw dropped and he jumped off his bed for a closer look. "I don't believe it," he said hoarsely.

It was a Firebolt, the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. He held the handle gingerly and it began to vibrate. He let it go, feeling the most alive he had in weeks since his beloved Nimbus had been destroyed.

"No card, blimey!" Ron let out a sigh. "Who would spend so much money on the best broom yet?"

"Dumbledore couldn't have. . ."

"What's going on?" Hermione had just come in, carrying a few of her presents to show the two boys, as well as carrying Crookshanks, her ugly-looking cat.

"Don't bring him in here!" Ron shouted, yanking Scabbers, his rat, from his pillow, placing him in the chest pocket of his pajamas. Hermione didn't listen and placed Crookshanks on Seamus's empty bed, and looked at the Firebolt with an open mouth. She didn't appear excited when they mentioned they didn't know who sent it, biting her lip.

"Who would have bought it?"

"Dunno," said Ron, shrugging. "C'mon, Harry, let's take your new broom for a spin."

"I don't think you should!" Hermione said shrilly.

Before they could say anything else, Crookshanks sprang from Seamus's bed, right at Ron's pocket. His claws ripped the pajamas and Scabber's attempted a wild escape over his shoulder. Ron seized Scabber's by the tail, aiming a misguided kick at the crazed cat, accidentally kicking Harry's trunk. Crookshank's fur suddenly stood on end, and a shrill whistling was filling the room. The Pocket Sneakoscope had become dislodged and was spinning on the floor. Crookshanks was hissing and swatting at it.