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Harry’s hair never quite sat right. This was rarely a problem, but looking at himself in the mirror covered in dirt and sweat, with a bloody arm and a red neck from where Moody, or rather Crouch, had grabbed him… he was beginning to see what Petunia meant when she called him a miscreant.
Of course, it wasn’t as though that was all the hair, there was the dirt and grime, and the above mentioned blood, but the shaggy grown out look definitely didn’t help. He hadn’t gotten a proper haircut since the summer of second year, and despite his hair more growing out than down, he was beginning to remind himself of Sirius when they first met. He briefly wondered about his godfather, wondered how he could tell him, how he could form the words…
It was fine, Dumbledore had probably already told him anyway. Moody, Cedric, the graveyard, the speech, his arm…
This year was so good in so many ways. But now every time he thinks of Cho he thinks of his dead friend, and every time he thinks of the things he’s learned he thinks of Crouch's dark eyes and rough hands.
Harry felt his arms begin to ache from leaning on the sink for so long. He heard a bang, and realized that Dean had probably been trying to get in the loo for a while. It wasn’t as though they only had one, but Seamus was probably still showering. Harry supposed he should shower, but his skin felt too cold, and too dirty. He needed to leave.
Harry exited the bathroom and was practically tackled by Dean on his way in. He laughed, and then realized how wrong it was. Joy, in this cold dirty world.
He missed Cedric.