Accident
“Oh, Harry.” Hermione stood in his doorway, taking in the mess. Harry sat up on his bed, blinking blearily at her.
“Harry, we’re going to be late for breakfa—” Ron cut himself off as he followed Hermione into the room. His eyes widened as he looked around. “Mate, what happened?”
In the light of day, Harry’s room looked a lot worse than it had the night before. The wardrobe stood with its doors open wide, completely empty with its contents strewn across the floor. The curtains to Harry’s four-poster had all been ripped off their grommets and sliced to shreds. His school books were strewn haphazardly around the room, pages torn out at random. Harry leaned forward a bit to peer into the restroom, smiling grimly when he saw that he had, indeed, shattered that awful talking mirror. He flopped back down on his bed.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Hermione flicked her wand, sending his clothes flying back towards the wardrobe. “It’s your accidental magic again.”
Harry nodded. “I had a nightmare last night and it just—” he waved his hands around to indicate what happened.
Harry knew why Hermione looked relieved, hearing that: nightmares meant he hadn’t taken Dreamless Sleep. The day before, after discovering that he had been taking it each night, she had lectured him for hours about the dangers of the potion. Harry hadn’t yet experienced any of the gruesome side-effects of long-term use that she described, but he’d only let her get halfway through the list before handing over every vial he had in his room.
“It’s alright, ‘Mione,” Harry cut her off before she could say anything. He sighed. “I just don’t much fancy having my entire room torn apart each night.”
Hermione bit her lip, looking down. “Of course not, Harry. We’ll think of something.” She turned and continued to make her way around the room, putting Harry’s things back to rights. Ron unfroze after a moment, then drew his wand to help, fixing the door to the en-suite and ducking inside.
Harry stood to help, levitating a pair of boots down from the ceiling rafters. He thought as they worked in silence. The night before, he had stayed in the dungeons until Malfoy stopped playing, the last notes of a peaceful song fading to silence. He watched Malfoy return to his room in the Eighth Year dormitory on the Map, then trudged up the stairs himself. By the time that Harry made it back to his room the night before, he’d only had time for another couple hours of sleep.
The nightmares hadn’t returned.
Perhaps Harry would have convinced himself to ponder what that meant, but he was distracted instead by Ron reemerging from the en-suite noticeably damper than he had entered it. “Shower’s fixed,” Ron said, “But sorry, mate, I repaired the mirror and it’s doing the chattering thing again. My eyes are dull compared to yours, apparently.” He leaned forward and squinted at Harry, as if to assess for himself the validity of the claim.
Harry rolled his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ron, nothing about me could ever be as vibrant as that mop of yours.” He ruffled Ron’s hair, ignoring his protests. He stepped past him to grab a fresh set of robes from his now-reassembled wardrobe. “Breakfast?”
Harry changed quickly, ignoring the chattering of the mirror as he freshened up the Muggle way. He’d never quite gotten the hang of breath-freshening charms, and he didn’t trust his magic enough to try it right then. Toothbrush it was, then.
The three headed out, locking and warding Harry’s room as they left. They rounded the corner into the Common Room, making plans to go through the library that afternoon to study. As soon as they stepped through the tapestry that covered the Eighth Year dormitory entrance, a black blur raced towards them.
Harry’s magic acted before he could even draw his wand, casting a more powerful Portego than he’d ever seen. By the time the Portego fizzled, the black blur had become one of the Third Year Hufflepuff girls, sprawled on her back in the middle of the corridor.
“Fuck,” Harry said eloquently. His friends raced forward to help the girl, but he held back, blood rushing in his ears. He shook his head, willing himself to Breathe, Harry, in, and out. In and out. It took a moment before the adrenaline rush faded and he refocused, trusting himself to walk forward to kneel in front of the girl.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you alright, er—sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Olivia,” she said with wide eyes. “But everyone calls me Liv.”
“Alright, Liv, are you okay? I’m sorry, you took me by surprise.”
She nodded, looking dazed in a way that had nothing to do with the fall. “I was looking for you, actually.” Liv tore her eyes away from him to look around before pointing triumphantly. “There! I wanted to give you some chocolate, in that box there.” She seemed to be recovering quickly, Harry noted. “I was wondering—“ she hesitated, glancing at Ron and Hermione as if she wished they would leave, “I was wondering if you might be free this Saturday. It’s our first Hogsmeade weekend and—“
“Thanks,” Harry cut her off quickly. She was thirteen, for Merlin’s sake. And a girl, a niggling voice in the back of his head reminded him. He ignored it.
Harry barely thought about reaching for the box of chocolates before his magic Accio’ed them, nearly taking out his eye. He gently pushed them into her hands and helped her stand. “I’m flattered, really, but I don’t think so.” He avoided the disappointment in her eyes, looking to Hermione for help and backing away with Ron.
Hermione turned to Liv, making sure she didn’t have any injuries. “Probably love-potioned those chocolates,” Ron muttered to him, looking at the box distrustfully. “Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.”
Harry nodded, but felt on edge for an entirely different reason. He knew that his magic had been acting up, making him cast spells stronger than he meant to and reacting easily to his emotions. But making flowers sprout everywhere on the Quidditch pitch was one thing. This was another. His accidental magic was dangerous now, destroying his room while he slept and knocking an innocent Third Year across the hallway.
Hermione hurried over to join them, a determined glint in her eye that promised an afternoon of grueling research in the library. She dragged them towards the Great Hall, saying something about dealing with things after they’d eaten.
Harry looked at his wand uneasily and pocketed it.