The next morning, Harry woke up with a smile. That in itself marked the day as strange, because usually he woke up and blinked, staring up at the ceiling and thinking vaguely to himself, "Ah. Still here, then?" But this morning, he woke up and for a long moment, couldn't figure out what was different about the morning. Then he realized that it was the muscles in his face twisting up into a smile.
"Right," he said out loud, a little unnerved. "Good dreams then, I suppose." He didn't remember them, though he did recall claiming, only a few short days ago, that he didn't dream anymore, and found himself wistfully wishing he could recall this one. It must have been good, if it had made him smile. And he certainly wasn't smiling because he was awake. Generally Harry preferred to be asleep because at least when he was asleep and not dreaming, he had an excuse not to feel. As opposed to being awake and moving about life like nothing matters and wondering why but not having the energy to change it.
He got out of bed and showered and went to class with Ron and Hermione, tried to pay attention to them and to his professors, and at lunch, didn't choke on any food or taste any poison or love spells. In fact, he was nearly disappointed and figured that the curse or whatever it had been was over.
It was so hot that day, even hotter than the previous day, that Dumbledore decided to cancel the afternoon classes, because no one was learning anyway. It was just so hot inside that no one could concentrate. Hermione immediately whooped and cried something about all the extra study time, disappearing into the library, and Dean decided it was high time he taught Ron, Seamus, and Neville the rules of football. Harry was invited but declined, the heat making him irritable and crave solitude even more than he naturally did.
So mid afternoon found Harry dressed in Muggle jeans and an old t-shirt, slipping out a side door, and escaping the hot Hogwarts halls in exchange for the sweltering heat outdoors.
He moaned a little as the humid heat hit his body, instantly drawing sweat from his skin and making him wilt a little.
"This is ridiculous," he grumbled as he made his way over the grounds. "It's never this hot here."
He briefly considered going into the forest, where the trees would create enough shade to grant at least some degree of coolness, but it was too hot even to stomach the idea of walking across the grounds towards it. Besides, the forest was off-limits.
He went instead to the Quidditch pitch, watching from the shelter of the stands as Dean laughingly outlined the rules for football. Other students had gathered now as well, and they'd broken into two teams. Everyone was laughing and grinning, and Harry wistfully wished he had any sort of inclination to join them. He didn't, however, and he sighed, slipping into the changing rooms, hoping it was cooler there at least.
It wasn't. It was quieter, however, and he wearily slumped onto his back on a bench, closing his eyes. He hated excessive heat. He was thirsty and sweaty and irritated, and was trying desperately to think up something to distract himself with.
He went into the back closet that housed the school brooms and broomstick oils and such, intending to busy himself oiling up the old Clean Sweeps. Madam Hooch would surely thank him for it later.
He was just selecting a broom when the door to the closet swung shut, casting him into a hot, sweaty darkness.
For a long moment, Harry didn't move. He loathed the darkness. It was false and treacherous and it told a thousand lies that would have been plainly seen in the light. It made him cold, inside and out, and it made him shake with terror. He'd rather die by something he could see than die by something cowardly, that killed in the dark.
"God," he said, and it echoed in the darkness. Just a single, shaky syllable that held no respite from the emptiness.
He dropped the broom he'd been holding and spun towards the door, the clatter of falling broomsticks making him jump, making him pant with fear, as he crawled over buckets and broomsticks and chests of Quidditch balls.
"It's just there," he reassured himself. "The door's just there."
His hands closed on the latch desperately and he let out his pent up breath in a shaky hiss, pulling on the handle. It didn't move; the door was jammed.
It was incredibly hot in the broom closet, the heat made all the more encompassing with the force of Harry's panic. He'd be locked in here forever, he'd never get out, no one would ever find him, he'd die. Death was all well and good to secretly long for, but only a quick death, not a death in the darkness and sweltering heat on the hottest day of the year. Not death in a broom closet, alone. Not death in the dark.
"Please," he whimpered, tugging on the door again. Nothing.
Harry panicked.
He screamed and he pounded and kicked at the door, all logic blown from his mind. His wand remained in his pocket, forgotten, though it wouldn't have been much good. The door wasn't locked, no alohamora was going to get him out of this. He was trapped.
Eventually, when beating on the door proved useless, Harry started throwing things, screaming himself hoarse, his mind latching on the idea that nothing could sneak up on him and grab him if he kept the shadows terrified in the corners. He spun in mad circles, shrieking and randomly tossing broomsticks into the darkness, effectively trashing the closet. Finally, when the heat had caused rivers of sweat to run down his body and dizziness to make him weak, he slumped to the floor, panting. It was so hot, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Claustrophobia was driving him crazy.
He was back in the closet under the stairs again. He was locked in and Uncle Vernon was going to kill him when he got home and Aunt Petunia told him of how Harry had accidentally destroyed Dudley's science project. It was hot, nearly summer, and Uncle Vernon was going to keep him locked under the stairs for a week at least for this, with only the paltriest food shoved in through the heat register in the door. The walls were falling in on him and Harry couldn't breathe...
He crawled to the door and pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on it. His throat burned, he didn't know how long he'd been trapped but it seemed like forever.
"Please, someone..." he whimpered.
"What the devil?"
He jumped at the voice. Someone was in the changing room. It was Draco Malfoy.
Suddenly being trapped in a boiling hot broom closet was preferable to being found there by Draco Malfoy, and Harry shrunk away from the door, eyes going wide.
"How the hell did this fall in front of the door?" Draco was saying, out loud, as he approached the door. There was a small scraping sound and then a thump as the door opened very slowly.
His gray eyes were great at showing surprise, Harry vaguely noticed, staring in horror at Draco.
"Potter?" Draco cried.
Harry cleared his throat. "What?" he said, attempting to make his voice cold with icy disdain. It worked for Draco often enough in situations like this, after all. He swept passed Draco and into the blissfully light change room.
"What on earth-were you... you were..." Draco glanced suspiciously from the trashed closet to Harry's pale, sweaty face, and back again. His hands flew to his hips and he said in suddenly realization, "You were trapped in the broom closet."
"I wasn't!" Harry cried.
"You would have died if I hadn't let you out. Eventually. Of starvation or heat stroke or something." He sounded keenly disappointed.
"I wouldn't have! I had everything under control!"
Draco's eyes were very narrow now, and he said in a tightly controlled voice, "I'm not going to be around forever, Potter. Next time, I'm going to let you die."
"I don't want you to be around!" Harry spat. "I'd rather you just let me die!" He hadn't planned to say it and he certainly wished he hadn't. He hadn't even known he thought that way.
Draco laughed coldly. "Oh, Potter, if you honestly want to die, locking yourself in a broom closet's hardly the way to go." He stepped into the closet and picked up a bottle of broomstick oil, which was what he'd come down here for to begin with. "Razors work better."
Touching his neck almost subconsciously, Harry swallowed hard and didn't say anything.
"And kindly hurry up with the suicide thing, I look forward to not having to deal with you," Draco finished.
"You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you didn't have me to constantly compare yourself to," Harry said, rolling his eyes.
Draco stared at him for a long moment, coldly, fury making his eyes almost black. Then, he walked away without a word.