Harry woke the next day in a mood. A dark, inky black, grim death march kind of mood. It wasn't despair, nor true melancholia. It was like anger with the edge taken off, dulled because it would hurt more.
Harry knew one thing about himself: He liked to vent.
And this was a pretty big problem, as he couldnt't tell Hermione or Ron.
And, with how horrid Harry was at lying, he was quite sure that they'd be demanding answers as quickly as they could.
Harry found himself nearly vibrating with energy, but instead of going for a run, he took his broom to the pitch.
Harry was in the wind, and that was usually enough to bring him to his happy place, where the biggest concern was the next buffet of wind, the next gust, or that tree over there.
Harry'd managed to be halfway to the Forbidden Forest, just by not paying attention.
That was a bad thing.
Harry closed his eyes, thinking some things through.
When he opened them again, he was at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Harry didn't want to go into the forbidden forest.
With an Oath that was more a curse, Harry's feet hit the ground, his left hand grasping his broom overhand.
Harry could trust his feet, always had.
Feet were fleet, and they'd kept him safer from Dudley than his mouth ever had.
Harry kicked off, jupmping up and landing on his broom.
Then, as he headed back to the pitch, he began practicing mounts and dismounts.
It was far tougher than just flying, or even just running.
Harry found himself glad that Snape hadn't targetted him that day.
He stumbled into Gryffindor Tower covered in sweat that dried as he walked.
Cats have a danger sense. Hackles rise, and they look for trouble. When cats are afraid, they get big, fluffing their fur - and shedding it. This wasn't quite that, though. This was the air before a thunderstorm, electric and impending.
Minerva was on one of her usual "basking places" - in reality, she liked to measure the school. She was far from lazy, after all. It was just that being a small tabby cat with far better ears than her human form was such a delight!
Still if something felt this wrong, she'd have to figure out what it was, and address it. Rising to her feet, she craned her head down. Was that Potter, with a broom?
[a/n: Leave a review? Minerva wants to have more screentime.]