On the morning of the match, Harry was awakened by Percy.
Percy stood at the entrance to the boys' dormitory, his school robes buttoned tightly and his prefect badge pinned to his chest, glinting in the morning light. His knock followed a fixed pattern: three knocks, a pause, then three more. They were not loud, but the rhythm was rigid, as if he were rapping his knuckles against a document that needed signing for.
"Harry, Professor Dumbledore wants to see you. Now." Percy's voice squeezed through the crack in the door, leaving no room for negotiation.
Harry lifted his head from the pillow. His eyes were swollen, and his hair, flattened against the pillow all night, was sticking up wildly. He had slept badly again. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Hermione lying in the Hospital Wing: her grayish-white skin, her curled fingers, the photograph clenched in her palm. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow. It was cold.
Percy waited by the door. He neither urged him nor left.
Harry climbed out of bed and splashed cold water on his face. It was icy enough to sting, making his pores tighten sharply. He pulled his school robes off the back of a chair, fastened the buttons wrong, then redid them. He tried pressing down his hair with his hand, but it would not stay down, so he gave up. Percy walked ahead, his stride quick, yet every step matched Harry's pace.
He held a copy of Prefect Monthly, whose cover bore the title How to Manage Your House Effectively. He was not reading it. He had rolled the magazine into a tube and gripped it in one hand as he walked ahead. The two of them crossed the corridor and headed up to the