Have you ever felt so angry at so many different people, that you weren't quite sure where to start?
Harry Potter was having that sort of a day, and he credited his magic to keeping the slobbering* girls off his back. He knew if one of them had tried to convince him to ask her out - girls and their games, he'd have gone ballistic. Or, knowing his magic, possibly made her go ballistic.
It didn't matter, Harry thought as he rested, laid down really, on top of the Astronomy Tower. It didn't. Didn't make him less angry though. So he closed his eyes and listened to the wind.
He let his mind leap with the wayward wind, drawing forth fanciful thoughts as he imagined he could smell jasmine on the breeze. A foolish thought, he chided himself, before grinning, best to admit Harry Potter is a fool. Truths hurt less when you acknowledge them fully.
Snape hadn't had to - Harry thought, his eyes filling with fury as his hands clutched into fists.
No. Not Snape.
Harry wasn't here to get locked up in that perpetual shouting match.
He was here to think about Hagrid. Hagrid who'd not so much told him about his Mother's friend, Severus Snape. "Did you know my parents?" Harry'd asked, and Hagrid had. Had known them, surely, the entire time they'd been at Hogwarts.
Worse, Hagrid had told Harry that he'd written his parents' friends, looking for photos. You didn't wipe out a friendship without putting some work in, Harry thought wrathfully. Even if his mum had burnt every picture that had Snape in it - a female version of Ron or Ginny Weasley... Other people would still have the evidence. He'd have known. Unless, unless Hagrid had deliberately lied to him. Harry'd thought that Hagrid didn't know how to lie, not well, not convincingly. But this was Hagrid, who had tried, often enough, to tell Harry that Snape didn't hate him. Why couldn't he have just mentioned this? Or let it come up accidentally from pictures?
This was important. And Hagrid had kept this from him; it was a willful deceit. Kind, gentle Hagrid - it seemed unbelievabl
Why was it so wrong for Harry to want to know about his Mum? No one had as much as told him her favorite color (James' was a brilliant sky blue).
Harry sat, the sheer strength of the emotion causing little nail-marks to erupt on his palms, his fists clenched more than he meant. He wasn't sure he could forget this, or forgive it.
And, above and beyond all else, the question, the frustration, came out in a barbarian yawp, "WHY?!" Harry shouted at the sky, and then immediately hoped no one had left the window open.
Harry took the web of thought connections, and bundled them carefully into a memento box labeled Hagrid in his mind. There were other memories there, and they started to smoke a little, before Harry glared the fire out.
One person seen to, Harry thought. Hopefully -
Harry frowned, certain it was after curfew, I have to ask.
[a/n: this was totally not how I had it written. Do you know what Harry is going to ask?
Hagrid is indeed a gentle soul. He's much better about lying when it will hurt people to tell the truth.
Second chapter of the day, please review!]
*Slavering. Sigh. But Harry doesn't know that word.