Seventh Horcrux

Harry Potter vs. Alastor Moody (Pt. 1)

"They just are" – I shrugged – "You would understand if you met them."

Hermione said, "Harry, if you were raised by Muggles, then where do all of your biases come from?"

"I have legitimately no idea what you're talking about."

"You have no respect for Hufflepuffs, and sometimes you just completely disregard Muggles like they aren't even people" – Hermione cocked her head, giving me a suspicious look – "Your family is alright with you coming here, right? You didn't just decide they were unimportant and go off without telling anyone?"

I tried to cut in on her completely unwarranted paranoia. "Hermione –"

She rambled on. "Because that really seems like something you would do."

I huffed, insulted. "I told them. And I'll have you know they were very happy to see me go. There was hugging and everything."

She giggled. "Aw."

"I wasn't involved," I said, hoping she wouldn't get any ideas. "They also had a party."

"That sounds nice," Hermione said.

"I wouldn't know. It was after I left."

Hermione seemed quite stunned and failed to respond. Since the conversation was clearly over at that point, I wandered inside in search of lunch.

"Now she insists I've been 'emotionally neglected.' Whatever that means."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, 'Mione can be kind of weird about stuff like that.

"It's like the house-elves all over again," I grumbled, "except I'm the house-elf. And she's trying to kill me with her deformed mittens."

"What does that –"

"It's a metaphor, Ron. Don't strain yourself trying to make sense of it," I said.

I paced the floor of Ron's room, bursting with agitated energy. Usually, when I felt like this, I would relieve my tension by destroying something. But magic was not permitted over the summers, and I refused to break things with my hands like a Muggle.

"She'd probably forget about it if we got out of the house for a bit," Ron said.

I stopped pacing. That seemed reasonable, for a Weasley suggestion. As much as Hermione struggles to care about things that are traditionally immoral, a quick distraction usually causes her to lose interest.

Ron continued, "I bet even a couple of days would do it."

"I'm listening."

I woke up early the morning after the World Cup – no surprise since I'd spent most of the previous day sleeping. Ron had been rather upset at Hermione's and my disinterest in the game – insisting upon waking me up every ten minutes and snatching Hermione's book from her hands – but he forgot our "betrayal" easily enough after the Cup's climactic finish. At least, I presume it was climactic; I slept through it.

I left my invisibility cloak and other blankets crumpled on the couch as I wandered towards the tent's kitchen. The fridge was well stocked, but I'd never cared for cooking.

"Dobby," I snapped.

The house-elf arrived a few minutes later, looking nervous. "Yes Great Master Harry Potter sir?"

"You're late," I said.

"Dobby is sorry, so very sorry!" he cried, slamming his limbs violently against the floor in what might charitably be referred to as a bow. "Master Lucy came home very late, and he wanted me to fetch him pain potions. I did not want to be making him angry."