LANCASTER / H. POTTER

THIRTEEN

As they entered November, the weather turned frigid and cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows of the Gryffindor tower defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots. Quidditch season had begun and in the midst of all the fuss over the first Gryffindor versus Slytherin game, Copeland and Oliver had still yet to speak of a gameplan. They barely spoke at all. Conversation between them had been kept short and sweet, and despite all of his promises, Oliver couldn't look Copeland in the eyes. He had become deeply suspicious of her, with no knowledge of the culprit of the gash on her torso. A wedge had been driven between them. To say her practices weren't productive was a slight understatement. All she could do was over analyze every look, every painstakingly brief conversation between her and Oliver. Would he tell? Would Fred and George tell?

"Copeland! Watch out!"

Broken out of her reverie by Harry's disembodied scream, Copeland blindly dodged out of the way of whatever was pursuing her. Due to Oliver's inattentiveness, Copeland had swiftly fallen behind on their training regimen. It was Harry's idea to sneak onto the Quidditch Pitch at night to practice, but it made it proper hard to really see much of anything.

"Hell, are you alright?" Harry's voice came from somewhere on her left.

"Yeah, just having a hard time focusing lately," She mumbled, gripping the smooth handle of her broom as they hung suspended in air.

"I've noticed," Harry told her. It was silent for a few moments before he spoke up again. "You know whatever it is, you can tell me."

Copeland sunk into herself. If only it was that easy.

"I feel like you have a lot on your plate without my emotional dirt, Harry," Copeland simpered, swinging her feet one hundred feet above the pitch.

"Like what?"

Copeland felt her insides turn, and the words tumbled out of her mouth without meaning to.

"I don't think The Dark Lord has finished what he started. I think Voldemort is going to come back."

She knew she shouldn't have said that, but Harry didn't wince like everyone else did at the sound of his name. Instead, he stared straight into her eyes with an somber expression and replied:

"Me too."

The confession hadn't lightened the tension in the air. It festered like an open wound unbandaged by words unsaid, a sinister feeling washing over the Quidditch Pitch. Copeland felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck. She glanced sideways at Harry, who was examining her expression. They spoke at the same time.

"Can we go inside?"

Copeland couldn't help but smile, neither could Harry. Instead of saying much else, they grounded their brooms on the pitch and walked in comfortable silence together to the common rooms.

The following morning Copeland was jostled out of bed by Percy, who told her she was being called to Dumbledore's office. The look in his eyes was an odd mixture of jealousy, curiosity and disappointment. He didn't even know what she was going for, yet she could feel in her bones he would write home to Molly about it.