Chapter 8 - Negligence

Harry sat on the roof again.

He picked new ones every day, occasionally coming to the "tried-and-true" places. Now he was stretched out imposingly on the vent of some high-rise, with his arms under his head. Judging by the fact that his eyes had slowly stopped slipping, he would never fall asleep again, unless, of course, he was exhausted. His Dursleys had helped him cope with the increased energy in his family, and at Hogwarts... he wasn't just wandering around the castle at night, and the constant adventures, the workouts, the adrenaline did the trick. So if he did not fall asleep before a certain hour, then sleep on a slight moment of instinct as a hand away until a full, so to speak, exhaustion. Potter hardly slept at all, which was why there were noticeable circles under his eyes, though everyone knew that a wizard was much more resilient than any Muggle.

Though... on the other hand the mage was glad of this opportunity to stay awake. He had no nightmares. The night wolves gave him a brief respite before attacking again with twice the strength. Time after time, Harry woke up in a cold sweat and with an unexhaled scream on his lips. Sometimes he couldn't remember what he was dreaming, sometimes only fragments, but with such striking clarity that it seemed to be real. Too bad you couldn't brew a dream-no-vision potion here. And the Muggle counterpart, already weakly effective on wizards, was not perceived at all by the body, in which blood was stirred with the venom of the basilisk and tears of the phoenix. Even potions - magical potions! - were diminished by his blood, to say nothing of any pills. And how many liters of potions did it take to make them have any effect on him?

Harry snorted merrily and rolled over onto his right side, fumbling with his hand for the Elder Wand. As always, it was right next to him. Smirking, Harry pulled out his glasses, which had been subjected to unorthodox execution by a clumsy library visitor, and tried a non-verbal reparot on them. It didn't work right away.

- And this is the Lord of Death," Harry whispered to himself, imitating one potions professor. A single tear rolled down his cheek. - Our new celebrity.

He hadn't even noticed he'd named himself, drifting off into the conflicting bitter-sad memories of the Professor - his lips had said it himself, at the beckoning of one gray lady who had melted into the air a couple of miles above her Master with a mysterious smile on her lips.

It is too soon, he is not ready to know who he really is... He does not yet have the support that everyone needs.

But this small show of weakness was immediately wiped away with a special fierceness. If only he had listened more carefully in class... or at least read... Harry regretted his inattention more than ever. Snape had been right in calling him an "impenetrable dumbass and idiot," and Malfoy had been right in giving him the nickname "Potty" for "slob." And Harry realized only now - "slob" he was a slob in spells, and in appearance, and, in general, in life. And if only they gave him a second chance, a chance to fix things, to make up for lost time... He would grasp it with his teeth, he would not even shy away from Dark Magic.

And suddenly he had an idea that made no sense whatsoever. What did he have to lose, really? Nothing so terrible could happen anyway, could it?

Rising abruptly to his feet, Harry licked his dry lips. All or nothing, there was no third way. The wizard exhaled deeply. His wand lowered, and his head whirled back and forth. No, he wasn't going to make it, and that was it. What was he hoping for, anyway?

- He blew his brains out, didn't he? - he asked sarcastically to himself, sitting down at the edge of it, with his legs overhung. - Well, if you say "Hog," you can say "Warts.

Without any enthusiasm or excitement the wand cleared the air, and into the silence of three in the morning the cherished words shouted: "Accio! A textbook on Charms by Morray Rogvanix!" Harry had seen one in Sirius's hands once, at Grimmo. contrary to his usual flightiness, he was flipping through the pages quietly and enthusiastically, greedily reading, it seemed then, into every line.

A second, a second... nothing happened, and suddenly with a sharp pop right into the hands of the stunned magician, who for a moment forgot how to move, let alone breathe, fell leather-bound volume, from the cover of which a feline skull grinned unkindly at the world around him, glimmering vividly with scarlet stones instead of eyes.