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Unthinkable Thoughts (01 THIS FILE FORMATTED TO PRINT IN DUPLEX (BOTH SIDES OF THE PAGE) IN STANDARD OR BOOKLET STYLE. DELETE THESE 4 ROWS BEFORE PRINTING. 458 PAGES. IT WILL PRINT 1 SIDE TO A PAGE BUT WILL TAKE TWICE AS MUCH PAPER. THE FILE IS OFFSET TO ALLOW BINDING. HARRY POTTER UNTHINKABLE THOUGHTS CHAPTER ONE ~ UNEXPECTED USE FOR A WAND The Fifth Year Boys' Dormitory in Gryffindor tower, a room so magical and peaceful and secure that it had long since been the only place Harry had ever felt at home, was silent. It was very early in the morning. The wonderful clock that Sirius had sent him for his latest birthday - a small but perfect sphere in the style of a Snitch that hovered quietly whirring and clicking next to Harry's pillow, whose thousands of intricate working parts could tell him the time in any bedroom in the Wizarding World - informed him politely, and with a natural respect for the hour, that it was just after 4:30am. Harry did not know why he had woken so early, but it was becoming a regular occurrence since he had come back to Hogwarts for his fifth year. Perhaps you have something on your mind? Hermione had suggested. Well done, Herm, thought Harry. When had he ever not had something on his mind? Perhaps you are developing insomnia? Ron had suggested. Ron, who would take forever to rouse himself each morning after so many hours of trouble-free slumber that he could sleep for England, what could he possibly know of insomnia? Perhaps Madam Pomfrey could make you up a sleeping draught? Neville had suggested. Hmmm, perhaps. But Harry didn't have any trouble falling asleep; it was waking up that was the problem. His mind drifted. Many people mattered deeply to him. Most of them were in the immediate vicinity of where Harry now lay awake, staring in the darkness at the thick hangings around and above him. Dear, dear Ron, asleep just feet from where Harry lay, who had made his own family Harry's. Always first to jump to his defence, always first to voice his outrage at the slightest unfairness. Ron would lay down his life for Harry, and Harry knew it. Harry prayed that he deserved Ron's unconditional friendship, and wondered whether he himself could be as good a friend to Ron if the circumstances were reversed. He knew how difficult it was for Ron to be always in Harry's shadow, always the guy at Harry's elbow; but never the guy with scar, the guy with the Firebolt, or the guy with the fame. And of course Hermione, who in her own way loved Harry as dearly as her own parents, and who, despite her better judgement, had a thousand times got Harry out of the muck with some evil piece of homework. Harry understood the differences between Ron and Hermione, but what he loved about them most were their similarities: they gave him - without limit - what they each had to give. Others crowded his thoughts. Neville, Dean and Seamus, fellow warriors in the perpetual battle with the Slytherins. Hagrid and his unquestioned support. Fred and George with their fierce loyalty. Ginny and her flattering affection. Other Weasleys, who had made Harry one of their own. McGonagall, who worried and cared but couldn't show it. Dumbledore's wonderful wisdom. And Sirius. Finally, a tangible link with his past, with his parents. Harry hoped hard that he truly deserved all this love, for surely that's what it was. Hogwarts was home, in every sense of the word. And on each of the recent mornings that he had found himself awake at this hour, he had realised that he was now over halfway though his time at the school, and that before he knew it he and the other Gryffindors would have to leave the protective walls and find their way in the world. That thought was as scary to Harry as any possible scenario involving Voldemort. In such moments, Harry knew that even the aspects of life at Hogwarts that seemed sent specifically to test him - Snape, Malfoy and all the other Slytherins - appeared less irritating, less important, less significant. In these silent hours before the Tower awoke, Harry's softened view of his world was a comfort to him, and he realised that actually he enjoyed these moments of solitude and reflection. Perhaps that was why he continued to wake: this was the only time he got to himself. It was raining. Quidditch practice could be messy and dispiriting in the rain, but still he looked forward to it that evening. He went over the requirements of the day, listing the lessons in his head. A tedious Transfiguration essay was still due after lunch; his was by no means finished, and he knew Ron hadn't started his yet. That seemed the only blot on the landscape of the day, and he resolved to get his underway and wake Ron a little later to give him a chance to hash together his own version of Harry's work. Harry smiled. Hermione disapproved of copying, like she disapproved of many things, but she often left her scrolls lying conveniently around when she knew the boys were close to missing a deadline. He had found her Transfiguration scroll on his bed the previous evening, no doubt delivered by her cat Crookshanks, who was always her accomplice in such subtle subterfuge. That way, Harry surmised, Hermione's own conscience was clear. Still, he silently thanked her and cast around for his wand. 'Lumos,' he whispered. There was some good stuff here, Harry thought. Hermione was certainly more than just an astonishingly hard worker, she was a very talented Witch deep down. He read through her scroll and within an hour had cribbed enough of her work to complete his own. As if on cue, the silent form of Crookshanks landed lightly on his bed next to him, and he nuzzled Harry's neck affectionately. Harry had long since ceased to be amazed at Crookshanks' ability to get around the castle, the way that closed doors and bed hangings never seemed to pose him any difficulty. Another ally, thought Harry gratefully, reaching through the hangings to replace his wand on the small cupboard next to his bed. As he held the hangings open, Harry gave the cat Hermione's scroll and Crookshanks sprang away noiselessly, back to the girls' rooms. The door to the fifth form boys' dormitory neither opened nor closed. That was just what Hogwarts was all about, another aspect of his home that he now took completely for granted. I should take fewer things for granted, resolved Harry. 'Tempus,' he whispered. The Snitch-clock informed him that it was now just after 6am. I'll wake Ron at half six, thought Harry. That will give him easily enough time to cobble together an essay and still get to breakfast before the majority of the school. Ron didn't appear to understand Harry and Hermione's liking for getting to breakfast early, but most days he grumpily went along with it. Gives you the psychological advantage, said Hermione. All those slovenly Slytherins emerging from their sewer of a dungeon at the last moment, when we've been chatting over toast for a good while. The best start to any day! Harry smiled as he heard her saying this in his head. The conversation happened nearly every morning, but he didn't mind. He was with Hermione on this one completely: anything that set them apart from Malfoy's mob was a good thing. How would he fill this slack half hour before he would get Ron up? It was raining more steadily. The sound of the rain beating against the small leaded windows was strangely comforting and he snuggled further under the covers, sumptuously comfortable in the warmth of his bed. Sometimes he dozed back to sleep at about this time, but he knew that morning that it wasn't to be so. Despite his comfort, or maybe because of it, his mind strayed away from the images of security to those which troubled him. Big issues like his parents, his battle with Voldemort, his concern for Sirius's safety, they never really went away: a constant dull ache in his stomach and in his heart. But lately, there had been something else. Or perhaps it had always been there. It was pouring with rain now. The slashing of the rain against the window now seemed distressing rather than reassuring. Harry allowed himself to consider this latest sick feeling in his chest. It absolutely couldn't be. Please no. How could he ever tell his friends that? He dragged his mind away from it, but he knew from experience that the fight was in vain. Why? If he could fight the Imperius curse, if he could summon a Patronus and fight the Dementors, if he could fight Voldemort and win, why couldn't he fight this? Deep, deep down Harry knew why: because those things were magical, whereas this, this was primal. Something that would be there even if he weren't a Wizard. The images and thoughts and feelings wouldn't go away and his mind was racing in full, horrible flow now. A desire so strong it scared him was welling up inside him. He could feel his own body responding to the desire, and the state of arousal he was experiencing was more fierce than it had been for some weeks.
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