When they reached the edge of the lake, Harry pulled them behind a small grove of trees and hid them away from any passersby. He threw the Cloak around their shoulders as an extra precaution, and once he was sure no students could see them and make comments about him, a grown boy spending time with his mum, which was embarrassing, Harry sprawled across her lap with a lazy stretch.
"Seriously?" she said. Harry settled like a sleepy cat, blinking up at her with a tired scowl.
"Read to me!" Harry demanded, ever the spoiled brat.
"You tricked me," mama said with a small smile. "You little shit. We should practice your Mermish -"
"Later," Harry mumbled into her robe. "Tired! Read to me!"
"Very well, my liege," she said with sarcastic gravity. She summoned an interesting volume on Spartan war magicks. With a pop, two steaming plates of dinner appeared beside them, along with a cup of Alabasandria's favorite blackberry tea. It was from one of the Hogwart's elves, as they all liked her for some unknown reason. Harry reached an arm from underneath the Cloak, which was keeping them comfortably warm despite the chill in the air, and spilled crumbs all over her trousers as he ate.
She sipped her tea, enjoying the aromatic steam rising from her cup. With her other hand, she settled her book against Harry's back and propped it open with her arm as her fingers curled through Harry's thick hair. It was getting long, she mused. He needed a haircut. Harry squirmed and mumbled, his nose ending in the crook of her knee. He was already half asleep. Alabasandria began to read.
Harry Does Not Commit Any Atrocities
Things were tense amongst the adults, this was indisputable fact. Harry tried to spread butter on his toast with his eyes focused on the head table, where Minister Fudge and Headmaster Dumbledore were having a semi-whispered argument. It was very heated. There was a lot of hand-waving and violent eye-rolling. He got butter all over his hand as he watched Madame Maxime stand in a huff from where she'd been arguing (not quietly in the slightest) with auror guards who had been permanently posted at the school since the Prophet had declared Voldemort had returned.
Harry had spent his winter break recovering from his attempted kidnapping and so had been spared from the horde of interested press and nosey classmates. It was likely only thanks to Sirius, who was sitting beside him, that spared him from questioning.
Sirius laughed at Harry's distracted eating and offered him a napkin.
Unfortunately, his ultimate prank of poisoning the Headmaster had fallen through somehow, based on Dumbledore's obvious health and energy - he was only out of breath because of the whispered yelling, Harry figured, and not because he was dying. Harry wasn't too upset because it was very funny watching the politicians squabbling, but mama grumbled every time she looked at the man.
(Unbeknownst to Harry and Alabasandra, the poisoned candies had been contaminated and thrown out when Fawkes, who was having a hell of a time digesting the beetle body of Rita Skeeter, vomited out her yucky chitin exoskeleton right into the little dish of treats. Dumbledore was not about to eat beetle-flavored mushy lemon candy and so never noticed the attempt on his life.)
Harry probably should have been concerned about his attempted kidnapping, but he wasn't. Mama had spent several days coming up with the perfect runic symbols to tattoo complete resistance to any mind-altering potions and spells, including Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draughts, which kind of sucked, but she was paranoid. The point was that it couldn't happen again, and Harry had sworn at least a dozen times to everyone that he'd be more careful and cautious. Aurors followed him to all his classes. Sirius barely left his side and tucked him into bed every night, sweeping the corners of their dorm for what? Another animagus rat to scurry him off to Voldemort? He had a constant troop of shadows wrapped around his ankles and peeking around corners, courtesy of mama. His friends fussed and worried and Neville had cried a bit, overwhelmed from his first minion adventure. Anyway, Harry was sick of it.
Overreacting, the lot of them!
He'd had closer calls with death. The Cruciatus had hurt, bitterly. Every square inch of his body had ached something fierce for a few days, but otherwise, he'd been fine. Yet the attempted kidnapping had left everyone rather shaken.
Harry figured he would have been able to do something had he successfully been carted off. He would have snapped out of it eventually and everything would have been fine.
… Okay, it was a bit embarrassing that he'd been tricked, if he was being honest. He probably would have been fucked if Voldemort had grabbed him. The boy refused to dwell on it though. It was over. And everything else was going fine, so why focus on the bad stuff?