Meeting Margot
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We've Got TonightChapter 2 free porn video
Harry Potter left the Headmaster's office, feeling numb. He knew he should be feeling something, anything at all. But he wasn't. He was just numb.
He felt like a crab which had been sucked dry by a starfish; utterly empty. He had led his friends into a trap, where they had to fight twelve Death Eaters. None of them except him and Luna Lovegood had escaped injury. Ginny had broken her ankle, Ron had gotten attacked by those weird brain things, Neville had a broken nose and a snapped wand, and Hermione had fallen to a vicious looking curse. Madam Pomfrey told Harry that it was an organ shredding curse, and that the power behind it had been weakened by the fact that Dolohov was silenced. It had done enough damage anyway though, that Hermione would have a scar for life.
None of that mattered though. Not really. What mattered more than anything else was the fact that his godfather Sirius Black had died, killed by his own psychotic cousin, and all because of Harry. If he had only remembered about the mirrors, if he had remembered that Snape was an Order member, if, if, if...
But most of the blame lay with Albus Bloody Dumbledore. Because Albus Bloody Dumbledore thought he was fucking god and only he knew what was best. Harry started to feel something now: cold anger. This wasn't the hot headed rage he was known for; this was a cold, calculating anger. He would never trust anything Dumbledore said, not anymore.
But, just as quickly as the anger came, it fled, leaving only sadness behind. There wasn't much he could do against Dumbledore, and he was too consumed with grief to do any sort of rational thinking.
Over the next day, Harry kept to himself, only putting in a token presence at the hospital wing, where Hermione was on a dozen different potions to treat her injury. Neville, Ron, Ginny and Luna had already left and were already hanging out with their own groups of friends. Harry was oddly conflicted; when he was with people he wanted to be alone, and when he was alone he wanted company. Most of the time, he just drifted along, not really thinking about much.
Memories of Sirius played out in his mind: Their first meeting; seeing him ride off on Buckbeak; meeting him occasionally over the next year; Christmas at Grimmauld Place ... For having known the man for only two years, Sirius had come to mean an awful lot to Harry. He was the only one, absolutely the only one, to not care about the bloody Boy-Who-Lived; to Sirius, he was just Harry, godson. Not even Ron and Hermione could say that.
Now, here it was, the night before the leaving feast and he was sitting by the lake, hidden in a patch of bushes, clutching his letters from Sirius. He had pulled them out of his trunk, along with the mirror, which he had just in time stopped himself from breaking in a fit of grief-fuelled rage. Here was the makeshift good luck card from the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, just a folded piece of parchment with a paw print, but it had meant so much to him back then.
It was all too much. Everything always seemed to happen to him, and he never caught a break. Even in his own head, it sounded whiny, but he couldn't help it. Didn't he deserve to feel a little whiny? Parents lost, relatives who hated him, people who only saw the scar that meant the Boy-Who's-Parents-Died, torn up in the press one day and put up on a pedestal the next, godfather dead, and finding out it was now either kill or be killed.
Harry put his head on his knees and wept. He hadn't allowed himself to really weep since he was a small child in his cupboard, and it all came pouring out of him. He didn't wail. His grief was too big to let it out all at once in a howl of agony, it seemed.
Warm arms suddenly came around him and pulled him into a soft body. He tensed briefly, but gentle hands stroked his hair. "It's OK, Harry, let it out," a soothing voice said into his ear. "Let it all out, Harry."
Tears fell onto his own head as they both wept together, Harry clutching desperately at whomever it was, not caring, only knowing that somebody was here to comfort him when he most needed it.
At long last, his tears dried up, petering out in sniffles and hitching gasps. Sitting up, he reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, blowing his nose and wiping his red, puffy eyes. He cleaned it with his wand and offered it to the girl who had hugged him, her shape only a blur without his glasses.
"Thank you, Harry," she said, sounding as choked up as he was, accepting the handkerchief and cleaning her face up.
"No, thank you," Harry croaked, his voice raspy from crying, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I'm sorry I cried all over you."
"It's OK," she said gently. "You looked like you needed it."
Putting his glasses back on, Harry studied the girl in front of him. He recognized her from the DA. She had medium length black hair, blue eyes and a slightly upturned nose, which, like his, was slightly red from crying. Full lips, which were smiling slightly, plump apple cheeks. Maybe a couple inches shorter than him. She was not wearing school robes, this being a weekend, and he felt his face heat up slightly as he saw the large breasts poking at her thin Muggle t-shirt, nipples firmly erect in the evening chill. He tried to remember her name, to distract himself.
"Sally-Anne Perks, right?" he asked.
She smiled more genuinely this time. "Right in one, I'm surprised you remembered. But call me Sally or Anne, both at once makes me sound pretentious."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Of course I remember. You were in the DA and I helped you with your Protego shield once."
A faint blush stained her own cheeks as she shifted nervously. Almost against his will, Harry felt his eyes track the jiggling motion of her breasts as she shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, I remember that."
Harry berated himself. You're grief stricken; don't stare at her tits, Potter.
Shaking his head at himself, he dragged his mind back to the conversation and addressed Anne. "What brings you out here, anyway? Not that I'm not glad to see you or anything, just curious."
Anne hesitated. "I got some bad news earlier," she said finally. "My parents were killed yesterday. Somebody used Fiendfyre and burned their house down."
"I'm sorry, Anne," Harry said gently, taking her hand and squeezing it. He was inwardly surprised at his own daring; back in February he couldn't even bring himself to touch Cho at that horrible date in Madam Puddifoot's, and yet here he was, holding this girl's hand as easy as could be.
She blushed again and sniffled, but squeezed his hand back. "Thank you, Harry. I guess you do know how I feel, don't you?"
"I sure do," he said softly. "My godfather died earlier this week."
Anne nodded and shyly scooted closer, so her thigh was brushing his. Their hands still entwined. There was a comfortable silence for a while. The squid was doing lazy strokes across the lake. Somewhere near the castle, somebody was playing with a Weasley Wildfire Whiz-Bang. A soft breeze blew from the direction of the forest, bringing the mysterious scent of loam and trees.
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