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Chapter Text

July 26

Harry wonders, not for the first time, if he has simply dreamed up the last four years. If his years at Hogwarts, his friends, his magic…if all of it was something he had imagined for himself out of sheer desperation to escape Privet Drive.

Maybe even the Dementors that attacked him two weeks ago weren't real. Maybe it's all just a fantasy.

After all, Harry has nothing tangible in his room to remind himself of what is real. After the Dementor attack, after the letters from the Ministry, from Mr. Weasley, and from Sirius, he was left completely and totally alone. A final letter from Mrs. Weasley told him to "keep his head down and stay out of trouble" and that someone would be sent to retrieve him the morning of his hearing for underage magic, and then there had been radio silence from any and all persons related to Wizarding Britain.

After realizing Harry wasn't immediately being removed from their presence, the Dursleys resorted to confiscating his things and locking him in his room. Harry couldn't even sense a magical aura, with any and all objects that hinted at magical origin locked away in the cupboard under the stairs - which had two new locks with keys that Vernon kept on him at all times. He has nothing to prove to himself they had ever existed at all.

Vernon had even taken Hedwig's cage and shook it outside with the gate open until she flew away, screeching indignantly. Watching from his freshly barred window, Harry hoped she flew to the Weasleys or maybe all the way back to Hogwarts. He hoped that wherever she was, she was safe.

Petunia, blaming him for her son spending days in a near comatose state, had shown an even more vicious side of herself than usual. It was probably a good thing Hedwig was gone. The tiny amounts of food his aunt gave him weren't enough to sustain him, let alone another mouth to feed.

Considering Petunia found any opportunity to pinch and slap him, he didn't want to consider what she might be willing to do to his owl purely out of spite.

If Hedwig is real, that was, which Harry had seriously been debating for the last few hours.

He just can't believe that if it all is really real - if he had found friends who would follow him into danger, met adults like Mrs. Weasley and Sirius, that they would just leave him here like this. They all knew exactly what he had been through. The monster he had faced and had to fight in that graveyard, the other, just-as-terrifying-but-in-a-different-way monsters he had singlehandedly defended himself and his cousin against just a few weeks ago.

For the first two weeks of summer - before the dementor attack - he had even sent out frequent letters, begging for information, for updates. Hedwig hadn't returned any of his letters unopened, so he knew she had gotten through to the recipients - Sirius, Ron, Hermione, even Ron's parents and Professor Lupin.

But he'd had no responses.

Just a thunderously loud silence, like he was sending letters into a void.

Rolling onto his side, he ignores the lumpy mattress and crushed flat pillow underneath him and lets his hand drape over his waist, fingering absentmindedly at his clearly defined rib bones.

Gazing sightlessly at the wall inches from his face, Harry ponders again if he's gone insane. Maybe he's actually been attending Stonewall High this whole time. Maybe he was committed years ago. Maybe everything - even the current moment - is a dream, and soon he'll wake up eleven years old back in his cupboard.

Maybe one of those options would be better. Then he'd be - normal. Or at least not hunted. Not abandoned. Not left out in the cold, with enemies slowly circling him, just waiting to pounce.

But no.

Whenever he's nearly convinced himself that magic isn't real, whenever he's decided it was all just his imagination, he feels something rise up inside of him. Something staticky and swirling, and so hot it feels icy cold. When this happens, if he runs his fingers down his skin, small lines of electricity jump from his hands like little lightning bolts. It doesn't hurt him; it just fills the room with enough static electricity that if he looks in the mirror, his hair will have risen slightly into the air.

Once, three days ago, he had caused the lighting to start and then sat up and had actually managed to cup it in his hands. The bolts of white power had sent ricochets around his curled palm and between his hands when he brought the other up to mirror it.

This was magic. It has to be. There was no other explanation.

So, if magic was real, his time at Hogwarts had to be real, too.

This meant that all those lovely people, his friends, his godfather, adults he trusted and respected and had started to count on, despite plenty of evidence telling him adults couldn't be trusted…it means they had actually left him here.

It was like a logic puzzle or something from primary school maths class.

If A equals B, and B equals C. Then A must equal C. If A is true, then C must be true as well.

But C being true would mean that everyone Harry considered family - the people he would do anything for - have really and truly abandoned him here.

Left him with a family that they have to - have to - know don't care for him. Harry hadn't shared details, but he dropped enough clues over the years so that anyone would know precisely how the Dursleys had treated him. Dropped hints like breadcrumbs, hoping, praying, that someone would follow them and actually do something to help him.

Lifting his hand in front of his face, he tries to find that cold, floaty headspace he has been retreating to more often this summer. When it felt like Harry was watching the world from behind a glass case - or perhaps while frozen in a block of ice, his only source of warmth - of life - that crackling power deep within him. He could still see everything about his situation clearly, maybe clearer than ever, but it's like he's viewing it through another person's eyes.

But that cold, removed place he sometimes finds, it helps him not feel anything.

He doesn't feel frustrated when his uncle smugly locks him in after a trip to the bathroom.

Doesn't feel unwanted and alone when he goes days without speaking.

Doesn't even really feel the pain when his aunt viciously pinches the skin of his arm, leaving little bruises like polka dots.

It's like he sinks into himself, into a well of icy cold water. Water that was somehow electrified.

As sparks begin forming in his hand, Harry smiles.

Chapter Text

August 12

Harry runs his hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact with his reflection. Somehow, the electric currents from his hand made his usual bird's nest hair flat for probably the first time in his life.

He plays with his fringe a bit, pulling it up and away from his face so it curves back to the crown of his head in a little pouf. For so long, he had always pulled his hair in front of his face, trying to hide the red scar that streaked from his temple across most of his forehead, one branch even neatly dissecting his eyebrow and edging down towards his left eye.

But after weeks of making lightning jump from his hands, he no longer wanted to hide the distinctively shaped scar. It felt like he had reclaimed it somehow.

It was no longer a remnant of the attack that had killed his parents and irrevocably changed his life. Instead, it symbolized the strange magic he had discovered within himself while stuck in Muggle Hell.

The lightning was the only way he had kept himself sane over the long six weeks he had spent at the Dursleys. Six weeks of no contact with any other magical beings, other than the Dementors that attacked him and batty old Mrs. Figg, who was apparently a squib.

During his many hours locked away in his room, he had occupied himself testing the boundaries of his strange new ability. The longer he had endured the Dursleys, the longer he had gone without any contact from his friends - his true family - he could feel something inside him dying. As if he was losing all his strength. As he practiced with the lightning, it seemed like that was recharging and livening him up. Almost like the magic he was creating could give him strength instead of draining his magical core like most magics. As the summer dragged on, at times, it seemed like the lightning was the only thing that kept him going.

But that was all over after today. Finally, finally, someone would pick Harry up and take him to the Ministry to attend his hearing for underage magic. Even though he had to deal with this bullshit hearing for the magic he had only performed while defending himself, he couldn't even work up any real outrage. At least in the Ministry, he'd be back with his own people. He'd be able to feel the ambient magic in the air, something pointedly missing from Privet Drive to the point that Harry felt starved of magic most days, and not just starved of food.

With only a few weeks left until the Hogwarts term started, he assumed he'd be brought to stay with the Weasleys after the hearing. Or maybe Sirius. He'd be happy with either.

Still pissed as hell at them for their silence - at everyone really - Ron and Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, hell, his lingering resentment towards Lupin for never reaching out after his third year had sparked up again this summer. Harry was looking forward to shouting quite a lot over the next couple of weeks and making everyone grovel, even if some of that had to happen via letters. Maybe he'd send a howler or two.

But he was mostly just relieved he'd return to where he belonged. This was the longest he had stayed at the Dursleys since starting at Hogwarts. Usually, he could get out of here around his birthday, but July 31st had come and gone. Without the usual flurry of owls with cards and presents, too. Harry had been hoping he'd get some of Mrs. Weasley's food packages to help tide him over.

This thought brings him back to why he carefully avoided looking at his own face. Lowering his gaze from his hair to finally meet his eyes, Harry winces as the weight loss he's experienced this summer becomes clear. His cheekbones are more prominent, the hollows beneath them shadowed. His skin is pale from the hours indoors, and it looks dull, lifeless. The purple bruising under his eyes from sleep interrupted with nightmares, stands out all the more against his ashen skin tone. The only supports of brightness on his face are his eyes, which are just as verdant as ever.

It's not as bad as it was when he was younger - when he was with the Dursleys year round, instead of now, with only six weeks of going hungry. But there is a noticeable difference in how he looks now compared to the end of the term.

Harry sighs. There's nothing he can do about it now, and if he knows Mrs. Weasley, she's sure to have a feast prepared for dinner, and she'll insist on him having thirds.

Running his hand down his shirt, he reminds himself he'll need to pace himself when he's finally faced with as much food as he can eat again. He doesn't want to make himself sick.

Deciding he's as ready as he's likely to get - he can't do anything about the way that Dudley's clothes are too big for him or the way both the pants and shirt are faded in color - Harry returns to his bedroom and picks up the letter that had been delivered last night.

Harry,

Someone will be by tomorrow morning to take you to your hearing at the Ministry. Be ready to go by seven.

R. Lupin

The owl that had dropped it off at his window hadn't waited for a reply, but Harry wasn't sure what he would have sent anyway. He hadn't appreciated the abruptness of Lupin's message, especially considering this was the first bit of mail he'd received since the "You're expelled" letter, which had been quickly followed by the "Be a good boy and stay where you are" letters, and the "You're not expelled, but you're going to have a hearing" letter. After weeks of silence, a two-sentence letter had the lightning crackling in Harry's hand, and it took quick motions to keep the sheet of parchment from catching on fire.

Anything he had sent Lupin in response probably would have been quite rude. Better to save that conversation for in-person. Harry could get his frustration out and then move past it quickly.

Glancing at his alarm clock, Harry saw it was only ten minutes to seven. He had told the Dursleys last night that he was being picked up this morning, and they had reluctantly unlocked the cupboard under the stairs to allow him to pack his things to leave. Tucking his pajamas into the top of his trunk, he closed and locked it, tapping the rune he'd had Hermione carve into the bottom that let it shrink to the size of a shoebox without needing a wand.

Picking up his now much smaller trunk, Harry exited his room and went downstairs. At his footsteps, Petunia peeked down the hallway from the kitchen and glared at him. He'd heard Vernon leave for work not long ago, and Dudley wouldn't be up for ages. As Petunia was more likely to ignore him unless it was to give him orders or reprimand him, Harry was glad this morning would likely be confrontation-free. Knowing a freak was coming to pick him up would probably mean she stayed hidden in the kitchen until he was gone.

Watching the clock over the mantle slowly tick away, he was startled when there was a loud CRACK like a car backfiring at exactly 6:58. Peering out the window next to the door, Harry frowned in confusion. The person making their way up the walk was definitely a witch, but she wasn't anyone Harry recognized.

He cracked the door open just barely when she reached the steps without giving her a chance to knock.

"Wotcher, Harry!" The witch said with a grin. She did not fit on Privet Drive, and Harry was glad Petunia wasn't out here to see her house had been visited by someone with pink hair and robes that were clearly nothing a muggle would ever wear.

"Er. Hi. Who're you?" He asked, keeping the door mostly shut. His wand was in his pocket, but casting more magic on his way to a hearing about underage magic seemed like it'd be in poor taste.

"I'm Tonks! I'm an Auror, and I'll take you to the Ministry today. Oh, um. I'm not taking you because I'm an Auror. You're not in custody or anything." She hurries to tell him, probably reading the growing panic he was sure was evident on his face. "Dumbledore asked me to take you!"

"…Right. So he sent someone I've never met before to take me?" Harry asked incredulously. He couldn't imagine Dumbledore would be that unthinking. Slowly, Harry slid the hand not holding the door to his back pocket and gripped his wand tightly.
"Yep!" Tonks chirped. "Oh, and um…Snuffles said you might not believe me, so he said to tell you, 'I solemnly swear I'm up to no good.' He said that would help you trust me."

Harry releases his wand and loosens his grip on the door, letting it open a few more inches. Only eight people alive knew that passphrase. Himself, Sirius and Remus, the twins, Ron and Hermione, and Pettigrew. But Pettigrew didn't know they were using "Snuffles" as a code word for Sirius. Tonks had to have been sent by one of the others - someone Harry trusted.

Harry opens the door the rest of the way, "No offense…but why did you come? Why not someone I've met before?"

"I work at the Ministry, so it was easiest for me to come!" She says with a shrug.

Harry frowns again. Mr. Weasley works at the Ministry, too, he thinks. And for that matter, so does Dumbledore. He's Chief Mugwump or Supreme Warlock, or whatever. Shrugging slightly to himself, Harry decides not to question it anymore. He thinks Voldemort himself could show up and offer a chance to get away from Privet Drive, and he'd jump at the opportunity.

Leaning down to pick up his shrunken trunk from where he placed it, he pauses at Tonks' question, "What's that for? You won't need it for the hearing."

"Err, no, it's for after. It's my stuff. To take wherever I'm staying after this. At the Burrow maybe, er, you know, the Weasleys?"

Her head tilts, and shockingly, her hair seems to fade in brightness. "I don't think you're going anywhere different after the hearing, Harry. I was told to escort you there and then return you to your relatives' house."

His stomach drops out from beneath him, and it feels like someone has reached into his chest and begun squeezing his heart.

"W-what? No, I thought I was leaving after this. I've never had to stay this long here before. I always get to leave and spend the last half of the summer somewhere else."

Her brows contract, and she shrugs slightly, "I can double-check while you're in your hearing. But I was told pretty explicitly to bring you straight back here afterward." She looks down at his trunk again, "Here, let me banish that back to your room. If you're right, I'll come back and get it for you, but there's no need to bring it all the way to the Ministry."

With a quick wave of her wand, the trunk in his hand vanishes, and he lurches slightly, off balance from the loss of weight and the devastating revelation she shared.

"Now, we've got to head out so you aren't late! We heard a rumor that they would try to make an example out of you and want to ensure you're there on time."

Without waiting for a response, she gently takes his elbow to pull him forward. As she closes the door behind him, Harry tries to calm himself down with deep breaths.

She must have just misunderstood. There's no way Dumbledore would make him come back here. Or at least, there's no way his friends, Mrs. Weasley, and Sirius would let him stay here all summer. It's only a few more weeks until Hogwarts starts back up; what would be the point of returning him here?

Tonks is guiding him away from the house, and as they reach the edge of the lawn, she says, "Since I've got Auror credentials, we're going to Apparate in using the D.M.L.E. entry point."

"'Apparate,' what's -" Harry is cut off when Tonks turns sharply, and Harry jerks along behind her. There's a yanking sensation and intense pressure from all sides - like he's being forced through a small straw, and then he's stumbling on a hard marble floor, the only thing keeping him upright being Tonks's firm hand on his arm.

Harry stands momentarily, bent over his knees, hoping his loose shirt will hide the slight tendrils of lightning curling around his hands. He did not like whatever that was. Didn't like Tonks yanking him around, either.

Looking around, Harry is surprised to find they've left Privet Drive behind them. They're now standing in an entryway of sorts, facing out into a large room that looks like it's divided into the Wizarding version of cubicles. Small structures that remind Harry of tents fill the room with neat walkways between them. One nearby has the doorway held open with ties, and he can see an ample office space inside - a much larger space than the outside of the tent takes up. He can see two men in deep red robes talking but can't hear a word they're saying despite them only appearing to be about 2 meters away.

"This is the Auror Corps, Harry. Every full auror gets their own canvas to work out of. However, you share with your mentor when you're an auror trainee. They make it easy to work out in the field; just pack up your tent, and all your paperwork and gear comes along with it!" Tonks tells him cheerfully.

Tonks starts walking further into the rows of tents, and as Harry follows her, he spots a few gaps that would fit a tent. Those must belong to aurors working in the field. Overhead, a few paper airplanes zip around, going in and out of tents as he watches. Considering there must be a hundred tents (minus a few missing), it's surprisingly quiet in the cavernous space. He hears a few passing voices from a distance, people who must be walking outside of the silenced tents like him and Tonks.

"It's this way to the offices for the higher-ups. You'll be meeting with Amelia Bones, Harry. She's Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Harry's startled to hear that his hearing is with someone so high up in the Ministry. "Er - is that normal? For her to do underage magic hearings?"

Tonks doesn't reply for a second too long, and there's a false note in her voice when she says, "Can't say I've known too many that have had to have a hearing for something like this, so I'm not sure exactly what the procedure is."

Harry flinches slightly at what could be a subtle rebuke - hearings for underage magic surely can't be that rare. Tonks makes it sound like it never happens.

Harry's not reassured when she continues, "I'm sure meeting with her is completely normal, though! Nothing to worry about, Haz."

Harry decides not to ask any more questions and just follows along quietly. Finally, they reach a large oak door with a golden plaque next to it that reads "A. Bones."

Tonks has her hand halfway up to knock when the door opens, and a woman takes a half step forward before seeing them and pausing.

"Auror Tonks." The woman, who looks somewhere between Aunt Petunia and Professor McGonagall in age, flicks her gaze to Harry, which flits all over his face and then stops on his scar. She blinks twice, brows raising in surprise before she blanks her expression. "And Mr. Potter, if I'm not mistaken. What can I do for the two of you? I would have thought Mr. Potter would have already been on his way to Courtroom Ten."

"Courtroom Ten? We thought his hearing was in your office, Madame Bones. And we got here early; I was just going to check Harry in with you and then show him around the Ministry until you were ready for him."

The older woman frowns at Tonks, saying, "I received word last night that the hearing was scheduled as a full Wizengamot trial and was to start promptly at eight o'clock."

Harry glances at his watch; it's a few minutes past 7:15. It was a good thing Tonks had picked him up two hours early. They probably would have been late if she had picked him up any later.
"But why is it a Wizengamot trial, Madame Bones?" Tonks asked, "It's his first offense, and in his statement, he says there were extenuating circumstances. He acted in self-defense, which is permissible under both the Statue for Secrecy and the Decree for Underage Magic."

Statement? Harry thinks, I never gave a statement. Other than what I told Mrs. Figg.

"The guidance came from the Minister's office, Auror Tonks." Madame Bones's lips were pursed. Harry didn't think she liked the Minister. Or maybe just didn't like someone changing her plans. She seemed the stern sort.

"Regardless," she continues, "Mr. Potter is here in time for the trial. I'll escort him down to Courtroom Ten, Auror Tonks."

Tonks glances at him worriedly, then back to Madame Bones, "Oh. Er, I think I'm - er, alright then. I guess I'll pick him up afterward and take him home."

Please don't bring me back there.

"Nonsense. I can arrange for him to come home after the trial just as easily, and if I remember correctly, your shift begins at nine-thirty. We might not be finished by then. You're dismissed, Auror Tonks."

With another glance back at Harry, Tonks nods to her boss and turns sharply on her heel to walk away. Harry watches her for a moment before looking back to the older woman, a bit nervous about why she seemed insistent on being alone with him.

Madame Bones is already watching him, and their eyes meet briefly before Harry looks away, unsure how to act around this unfamiliar adult.

"I believe you were to be notified of the change in plans for your hearing. But it appears that the owl wasn't received in time." She glances at her watch before offering, "We have a few minutes to spare. Do you have any questions?"

"Er, I guess. I don't really know anything about the process." He says with a shrug. "I just thought I'd be asked a few questions."

She pauses, considers, and then turns around and reopens her office door. "Why don't you come in, Mr. Potter. We can speak in a bit more privacy."

He follows her in and looks around the tidy office. It seems smaller than the space inside the tents he had looked into on the way here, but he spots a door in the corner behind the large desk, so there might be a lot more to the office he can't see.
She guides him to a small couch and gestures for him to sit before settling into a chair facing the sofa.

"Mr. Potter, while the originally planned hearing to be completed solely with me would have been a much more informal affair, a full Wizengamot trial will be more complicated. In your notification, either for the original hearing or the notice about the trial, you would have been offered the use of a public defender if you could not acquire a solicitor on your own. Did you hire one?"

"I - I didn't get any notice that mentioned that. I need a lawyer?"

Her lips purse again, and Madame Bones looks angry. She walks to her desk, reaching for a parchment and quill. Scribbling a quick note, she rolls it up quickly before walking to the fireplace behind her as she says, "I hope you'll trust my judgment Mr. Potter. But yes, you'll need a lawyer today. I'm sending a note to my personal lawyer asking her to come through."

She throws a pinch of floo powder in the fireplace and mutters an address before flinging the rolled-up scroll through the green flames.

Returning to the chair near him, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a galleon. "Here. You'll need to give this to her before she can represent you."

"Thank you…Madame Bones, why - why are you helping me?"

She sighs. "I believe in justice, Mr. Potter. And I don't like it when people use the justice system to carry out their own vendettas and agendas. I read the various statements provided that recount the night you used magic. It's clear to me that you were acting in self-defense, and there was no breach in the Statue of Secrecy, as the only person you performed magic in front of was your cousin."

"What's more, it's deeply concerning to me that there were Dementors in Little Whinging. I have several theories about why and how they tracked you down, and not a single one of them indicates good things."

She was staring out the window - what must be a false window since Harry was sure he'd heard the Ministry was in London, and the view out the window showed a peaceful lake surrounded by tall willow trees.

"Beyond the many injustices in your story, as for why I'm helping you…well." Her eyes drop to the small table between their chairs, and she looks unsure for the first time since starting the conversation. Fiddling with a stationary sneakoscope on the side table, she continues, "I'm sure you've heard this before, but you look a great deal like your father." Harry jolts in surprise. "The Potter genes have always been strong. You look like your father, who looked like his father. I never met your great-grandfather, but I'd bet you also look like him."

"You - you knew my father and grandfather?" he asked. No one had ever mentioned his grandfather to him before.

Madame Bones nods and opens her mouth to say more when her fireplace flares green again, and a woman steps out smoothly. The woman is dressed in sleek black robes, although their fit reminds Harry more of a long-sleeved muggle dress than anything. Her appearance - the robes, the dragon skin shoes, the understated jewelry, hair pulled back into a smooth bun- speaks of subtle wealth. Nothing like the way Malfoy and the other purebloods Harry has seen prance around dripping in luxury, but he can tell this woman has money.

The woman dusts some unnoticeable ash off her shoulder while scanning the room. When she sees the two of them in the sitting area, she nods courteously to him, her gaze lingering just a second too long to be casual before giving Madame Bones a more genuine smile. It softens her previously austere face into something much friendlier.

"Good morning, Amelia. I must say, it's been a while since I received an urgent summons to the Ministry. Your note was short on details; what do you have for me today?"

Madame Bones stands and goes to shake the woman's hand.

Smiling, she responds, "Evie, sorry for the short notice, but I'm hoping you can do me a favor. And most of it will likely be pro bono if you're willing, or we can work something out later. This is Mr. Potter," she gestures towards where Harry has stood from the couch, "He's been accused of underage magic and risking the Statue of Secrecy by performing defensive magic in front of his cousin, whom he lives with. This is his first chargeable offense. Mr. Potter will receive a full Wizengamot trial this morning." As she spoke, the woman's - Evie - frown grew more and more pronounced.

"I'm hoping you'd be willing to represent him." Madame Bones glances at her watch and winces. "I'm afraid you don't have much time. We're set to start the trial in about forty minutes."

Madame Bones turns back to Harry, "Mr. Potter, I'll leave you to discuss your situation privately with Ms. Raynotte. She's been my solicitor for several years now, her father serving my family before her. I'll be waiting just outside the door and escort you to the courtroom." She looks back to Ms. Raynotte, "We'll need to leave no later than 7:50 to ensure we're on time."

With that, Madame Bones smiles again at Harry and exits the room, closing the door softly behind her.

"Well, I suppose we had best get to know each other quickly then, Mr. Potter." Ms. Raynotte tells him, her tone wry.

"Err, sorry. I'm not really sure what's happening. This morning has been a bit of a whirlwind. I thought I was just having a hearing with Madame Bones, but when we got here, she said it was a full trial. And then, when I said I hadn't been told of the changes or talked to a solicitor, she sent you a note."

Ms. Raynotte gestures for him to sit again, and she takes the chair Madame Bones had recently vacated. Sitting, she places a small briefcase he hadn't noticed on the floor next to her.
"I see. That does sound like a confusing morning. Let me try and explain what I can do, although you'll need to fill me in on some details, I'm sure."

She pauses to make sure he's following, and he nods quickly.

"As Amelia mentioned, I'm her family solicitor. She didn't share many details in her note, but she believes that you desperately need a lawyer, at least for today's trial. If I am acting as your solicitor, I can speak on your behalf, present evidence, and call for witnesses - although with no notice, I probably won't be able to do much of either…but regardless, I know the laws and procedures of the Wizengamot and can help you through today's trial. Is that something you'd like?"

She's barely finished speaking before he says, "Yes! Yes, I'd very much appreciate that. Er, do I need to pay you?" He lifts the galleon Amelia had shoved into his hand, "Sorry, this is all I've got on me," he says sheepishly.

Ms. Raynotte smiles, and again, Harry is struck by how much it changes her face, seeming to light up her blue eyes and make her more approachable. She reaches forward and takes the galleon. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. Unfortunately, we don't have time for a full client-solicitor negotiation, but let's just verbally agree that this galleon will pay for my services today to act in your best interest during your trial and to ensure that anything you share with me today remains confidential for the rest of my life."

Harry's surprised the money would last longer than today, "Wow. All that for a galleon?"

Ms. Raynotte's lips quirked in something closer to a smirk than a smile, "Well, it's a bit lower than my usual rates, but I owe Amelia a few favors. If you'd like to continue with my services after today - beyond the confidentiality I already spoke of, which is standard - we'll have to discuss my fees. But time is short - tell me quickly about the magic the Ministry has charged you with - leave as little as possible out."

Harry agrees, quickly summarizing his summer and the events of a few weeks ago when the two dementors came to Privet Drive. She interrupts him rarely, only asking a few clarifying questions, such as how long he'd lived with the Dursleys, when he learned how to cast the Patronus spell, and if there had been any health effects following the Dementor exposure that either he or his cousin had experienced.

By the time he was finished retelling, they only had a few moments left before they had to step out and meet Amelia, so Ms. Raynotte sped through, explaining her quickly thought-up strategy.

The Ministry had accused him of breaching the Statute of Secrecy by performing magic in front of his cousin. However, Ms. Raynotte explained to him that, pursuant to Amendment 9.3.12 in the Statue of Secrecy, members of a wizard's household were entitled to know about magic. As Harry's primary residence was with the Dursleys, all three of them could know about and witness magic. Thus, Harry had not violated the Statue of Secrecy in any way, and Ms. Raynotte would request a dismissal of this charge right off the bat.

The accusation of underage magic would be more complicated to dismiss, as justified usage or not, Harry had performed magic. While it was permissible for underage witches or wizards to use magic in defensive situations, Ms. Raynotte explained that dementors showing up in Privet Drive was highly irregular and against ministry policy and, depending on why they were there - potentially illegal. It would be a harder sell to the Wizengamot that it had happened at all.

For a moment, Harry was incensed, thinking Ms. Raynotte didn't believe him, but she quickly reassured him that wasn't what she was saying.

"To be honest, Mr. Potter, there are many other spells a young wizard stuck with muggles all summer would want to perform before using the patronus charm. If you just wanted to wave your wand around because you missed the magic, I have to believe you'd go with something a little easier or something that would actually benefit you while at your relative's house. If you used the patronus charm, I think it's more likely because you needed it."

With that, Harry relaxed again and let her finish explaining. "It's a shame this is your second offense for underage magic, Harry. First-timers are just given a warning and note in your file."

Harry snorts, "Right, well, my 'first offense' wasn't even me. That was a house elf, and the Ministry just assumed."

Ms. Raynotte's gaze sharpened, "Explain what you mean, Mr. Potter."

He shrugs, "A house elf came to my relatives' house. He cast the hovering spell that the Ministry registered as me."

"Do you have access to this house elf, Mr. Potter?"

Harry thinks, "Er, I dunno." He shrugs, "I haven't spoken to him in a while."

"Try and call him." Ms. Raynotte glances at her watch and winces, their time is short.

"Er, Dobby? Can you hear me?"

There's a long moment where all that can be heard is the tick tick tick of the clock on Madame Bones's desk, and Harry is sure Dobby isn't coming. But then there's a POP, and Dobby is standing in front of Harry, staring up at him with his great big eyes that are already tearing up.

"Harry Potter calls for Dobby?"

Harry is about to greet the elf when Ms. Raynotte leans forward and catches Dobby's attention.

"Hello, Dobby," she says kindly, "I am Evie Raynotte, Mr. Potter's solicitor. Unfortunately he's caught up in some legal trouble at the moment, and he tells me that you once cast a hovering charm in his relatives home several years ago. Is this true?"

Dobby glances between them for a moment before his ears droop low, and he says, "Dobby did be casting hovering magic in Harry Potter's home three years ago. Dobby just be trying to help Harry Potter."

"That's great, Dobby. Would you like to help Mr. Potter today?" Dobby perks up again at her words and begins to hop in excitement.

"Yes! Yes, Missy Raynotte, Dobby would very much like to help Harry Potter."

"Wonderful, I'm delighted to hear that Dobby. I'll need you to give an official statement that you were the one who cast a hovering charm in Mr. Potter's residence three years ago. I may need to call on you during the trial in a few moments to give a witness statement as well if you're willing?"

When Dobby continues nodding his head happily, she asks, "Would you also be willing to go to the Improper Use of Magic Office and get the report for Mr. Potter's use of underage magic. Actually, go ahead and just get a copy of his entire file. Once you have that, if you can slip it into my bag - along with your statement, I'd greatly appreciate it."

She glances at her watch again, "If it's possible to get all of those documents within the next twenty to twenty-five minutes, that should be enough time. Mr. Potter and I need to go now, Dobby, but you've been a big help, and Mr. Potter and I are both very grateful."

Dobby does a little dance in joy before saying, "Thank you, Missy Raynotte; Dobby is happy to help you and Harry Potter." Dobby looks back at Harry with a giant grin and then disappears with another POP.

Standing and gathering her briefcase, Ms. Raynotte turns back to him, "Well then, Harry, that ties things up nicely. We can get the charge for the Statue of Secrecy violation dismissed, and if I get your earlier offense of underage magic corrected, then this will have only been the first offense and, therefore, not one you can be charged for." At his drawn-in breath, she raises a hand and makes a placating gesture, "I know, I know. This shouldn't have been an offense either because you acted in self-defense." She waves him up from his seat and walks to the office door before continuing, "And in the future, you can try and get this stuck off your record as well. Hopefully, when the Ministry is a bit more…friendly to you again. Unfortunately, I think this is the best you'll get with how things are currently, and as your solicitor, I'm advising you to avoid getting into the dementor situation for now. Just let me get it all dismissed so you're not facing expulsion and criminal charges, and then the details can be dealt with later."

Harry supposes that makes sense. He's a bit annoyed that he won't be able to defend himself with the whole truth, but he figures it's better to be cleared of everything and take the easier way out, than stick with his story - with the truth - and potentially be found guilty.

Following Ms. Raynotte back into the hall, they see Madame Bones waiting nearby. She glances over both of them and sends a questioning look towards Ms. Raynotte, "Was that a house elf I felt breaching the wards?"

"Yes, we needed to speak to one. I've agreed to work with Mr. Potter today and represent him."

Madame Bones sighed in apparent relief and gestured with her arm to back the way he and Tonks had come. "Wonderful, I'm sure you'll serve him well today. We should be going."

Madame Bones began walking, but Ms. Raynotte fell back and walked with Harry. He noticed her wand moving in a quick gesture, and the sounds of the D.M.L.E. faded to quiet background noise.

"I've cast a quick privacy charm. It's not totally foolproof, but it should keep us from being overheard by any casual eavesdroppers. I need you to understand that this trial will likely be somewhat hostile, Mr. Potter. Members of the Wizengamot might say things that are intentionally designed to frustrate or upset you. They will likely call into question your character, judgment, and mental sanity. You must not react." She sternly tells him, her blue eyes lasering into his, "Unless you are asked a direct question at a particular part of the trial, you do not need to respond. Let me speak for you. You have the right to not respond, and I implore you not to. If we do this right, you won't have to say a word, and I might be able to embarrass the Wizengamot all in one go. Do you understand?"

Harry nods. He wonders if he should feel frustrated that his truth is being silenced again, but honestly, he's just relieved. He doesn't have the best track record for keeping his tongue but avoiding speaking at something as official as this sounds great. He would hate to say something that made things worse.

And Merlin knew Harry had no clue how a Wizengamot trial was supposed to be run, nor had he had much time to prepare. This all sounded much bigger than the quick hearing he had been planning for.

Amelia is walking a few steps in front of them, and they pause when she stops in front of an elevator bank. After a brief moment, the golden gates slide open, and the three of them enter. Thankfully, they have the space to themselves, barring a few parchment airplanes that zoom in above their head.

Harry looks back at Ms. Raynotte, hoping she might have more advice for him, but she looks him slowly up and down, her expression unhappy.

"Hmm. I wish I had another hour to prep you, but we'll make do. Are you all right if I transfigure your…outfit into something more appropriate. It's not permanent, but it should last a few hours. Just enough to get you through the trial and home again."

Harry feels shame burning in his stomach - it's not his fault that this is his best clothing. Even his school robes are fraying at the sleeves, and the hems are inches too short. Besides, he thought he'd look silly wearing Hogwarts robes at a hearing that might expel him from said school. He nods to Ms. Raynotte and manages to contain his flinch when her wand points at him.

A few transfiguration spells and charms later, and Harry is dressed - or appears to be dressed - in a much more formal outer robe, black with green at the waist, sleeves, and hems, paired with simple black slacks and white button-down.

Much better.

The elevator is slowing down when Ms. Raynotte turns to Madame Bones and says, "You should probably enter the courtroom separately from us. We'll give it a minute or two before following you."

The older woman nods in acceptance, then turns to Harry and gives him a small smile. "Good luck, Mr. Potter." The grates slide open, and she exits without looking back.

The nerves Harry has been doing his best to ignore, start to creep up again, and his hands itch as if they're containing his lightning beneath his skin. Like it's begging to be released.

Ms. Raynotte looks at him and gently places one hand on his shoulder. "Remember, Harry. Let me do the talking. If you're asked a direct question, look to me before answering. We'll discuss it, and I'll either answer for you or give you the go-ahead to answer yourself. Understand?"

He just nods and tries to force a smile back.

Her hand drops, and somehow - impossibly - her back straightens even more, and her chin lifts to float high enough that he thinks she'd be looking down her nose, even at people inches taller than her. "Right then. Follow me, and let's get this farce of a trial over with."

She steps from the elevator and sets off into the hallway lined with shiny black stones. Harry follows her.

Chapter Text

A quiet murmuring echoes around the room, which dies down for a few seconds after Harry enters, trailing after Ms. Raynotte. Ms. Raynotte doesn't seem to notice; as she's begun flipping through various scrolls of parchment she's already started pulling out of her briefcase.

Glancing around the cavernous space, Harry feels anger overtake his nerves as he recognizes this courtroom. Recognizes it from a pensive memory in which he watched the trial of a Death Eater. They're trying him - for underage magic - in the same space they tried murderers and terrorists. The same murderers and terrorists who revered the person who killed his parents. He's being tried here - as if his crimes are in the same category as those monsters.

In addition to recognizing the space, he can read the not-so-subtle messaging behind it all - the size, the severe black stone walls sending harsh echoes around the room, the cold faces staring down at him - it's all meant to cow him. To scare him, to impress upon him just how small and insignificant he is.

Dragging him here at all, let alone making this as much of an ordeal as it was turning out to be, it was all some sort of message - a political statement. It was not a real effort to try him for any perceived wrongdoings. Not an attempt to get to the truth of the matter or hear him out.

No, Harry thinks to himself, as he sees many of the Wizengamot outright glaring at him or just ignoring him altogether; the outcome of this trial was decided already.

Harry sees Fudge, puffed up in self-importance, speaking to a squat woman beside him. Fudge wasn't looking at him - was, in fact, giving the appearance of being much too important to look down at Harry - but the woman he spoke to made eye contact with him. A nasty little smirk grew on her face before she, too, looked away from him.

Scanning the rest of the crowd, Harry guesses that there are nearly fifty people, although the benches they're all mingling around clearly have room for many more. He spots a few more familiar faces - Lucious Malfoy being one of the few he can name. He thought he remembered seeing some on Platform Nine and Three Quarters or wandering Diagon Alley, perhaps escorting children Harry knew at school.

Harry was startled to see Percy Weasley seated close to Fudge as well. Percy wasn't looking at him either as he shuffled papers around and rearranged the three quills on the desk in front of him.

Harry eyed the oversized chair in the center of the room, with its chains at the feet and armrests, but followed Ms. Raynotte to a discreet table closer to the front of the room and was relieved when no one stopped him from sitting next to her.

They were only seated momentarily before Fudge picked up his gavel and slammed twice on the podium. As if that was a signal, Harry heard the doors behind them slam shut, and the other Wizengamot members took their seats, the soft rustling of their purple robes eventually falling into silence.

"I call to order this session of the Wizengamot, on the twelfth of August, for the purpose of a disciplinary hearing of Harry James Potter, accused of violating the International Statue of Secrecy and the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery." Fudge's voice was loud, with some charm on either him or the room, causing it to spread out and echo from all sides.

"Interrogators…" Fudge began listing numerous people seated on the benches, each nodding as their name was called. With a grudging tone in his voice, Fudge also acknowledged Ms. Raynotte as Harry's legal representation. It appeared that Fudge was just about to move on when the doors behind Harry slammed open, and a voice interrupted.

"Witness for the defense, Albus Perceval Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." Harry startled and whipped his head around to see Dumbledore striding across the room. Although the Headmaster didn't look at Harry, he did pause when his eyes met Ms. Raynotte's, an almost missable hitch in his steps.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, I'm sure Harry appreciates your willingness to speak in his defense." Ms. Raynotte said serenely, "When your witness statement is necessary, I shall call on you." And with that, she turned back to Fudge and gave him a little nod as if to say Move along, please.

Harry catches glances thrown between members of the Wizengamot, but considering he has no clue who most of these people are or where their loyalties lie, he has no hope of understanding how people are reacting to Dumbledore's appearance and subsequent brush-off.

Well, Mr. Malfoy looks smug, but Harry thinks that's just his usual expression.

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Dumbledore approach Ms. Raynotte's other side and conjure up a poofy armchair, which he promptly settles into.

Fudge makes a little "Hmpf" noise and continues, "The charges against the accused are as follows: That he knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previously written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on July the eleventh at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underge Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statue of Secrecy."

"Ms. Raynotte, will you be speaking on behalf of your client today?"

"Yes, Minister Fudge, I will be." Harry has no idea how Ms. Raynotte can sound so calm and collected, especially with how Fudge glares down at her. It's like she's utterly unbothered by anything. Harry resolves to try to emulate her; after all, she warns him they will try to anger him. He needed to be as calm as possible and ignore any barbs they sent his way.

Harry takes a few deep breaths and tries to subtly relax back against his chair. He fixes his eyes on Percy Weasley and tracks Percy's quill flying rapidly across the parchment. He reached a calm state much quicker than he had expected as if all the time staring at the wall this summer had made it a habit.

From a distance, he can hear Fudge ask, "Is your client Mr. Harry James Potter, resident of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?"

"He is. And I will attest that my client is sitting here with me."

"You agree that your client received an official warning from the Ministry of Magic for illegal underage magic three years ago, yes?"

"I agree that he received an official warning three years ago, yes." Harry side-eyes Ms. Raynotte. Wouldn't now be a good time to bring up Dobby?

She flicks her eyes to him, and the corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile as if to acknowledge his questioning look.

Have patience. She seems to say. Trust me, Harry.

"And your client conjured a Patronus on the night of July eleventh," Fudge asked, although there really was no question in his tone.

"He did, Minister."

Harry can see Dumbledore shifting in his seat as if debating interrupting.

"And your client is aware that he is not permitted to use magic outside of school while underage, and especially is not to use magic in the presence of a muggle." Fudge's neighbor, the squat woman who has been wearing an ugly expression since the moment Harry walked in, is leaning forward as if she's entranced by Fudge.

Entranced by Fudge, who even Harry, usually quite absent from any political going-ons, can tell is a moron of the highest order.

"A point of order, Minister. The muggle Harry performed the Patronus Charm in front of his cousin, whom he lives with - Mr. Dudley Dursley. As a close relative and a member of Mr. Potter's household, per the International Confederation of Wizards' Statue of Secrecy Amendment 9.3.12, Mr. Dursley is entitled to know about and witness magic.

"Per Mr. Potter's statement, as well as the witness statements provided by a Mrs. Arabella Figg and Dudley Dursley himself, all of which were corroborated by the report from the Obliviators and Aurors who reported to the scene following Mr. Potter's use of magic, no other muggles witnessed this."

Ms. Raynotte is tapping a report in front of her that Harry hadn't even noticed she pulled out. It must be the report Dobby pulled for her from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

"In light of the fact that the only witnesses to Mr. Potter's use of magic were a relative who is entitled to do so and a squib who is already well aware of magic and is protected under the law - I move that the charge of violation of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statue of Secrecy be dropped."

Ms. Raynotte's voice is as smooth as butterbeer, and after speaking, she just calmly watches the Wizengamot.
Harry is still in that far-off place where he doesn't feel much, but he thinks he might be in love with her if only for the looks of frustration and irritation she's sent ricocheting around many of the Wizengamot. Removed from his distracting emotions, he can pick up more.

He sees Mr. Malfoy make eye contact with a woman two rows down from him, his lips pursed in some emotion - either annoyance or ire. She's got silky smooth dark hair and eyes that remind him of a panther. Madame Bones sends Ms. Raynotte a brief, barely noticeable smile before turning her attention to a sandy-haired man next to her, and they share words.

The squat woman has lost her grin.

Fudge furrows his brows and leans over to a placid-looking old man on a row below him. They share a brief whispered conversation before Fudge stands back up.

"The Wizengamot acknowledges and agrees that Mr. Dudley Dursley, who witnessed Mr. Potter's Patronus Charm, was allowed to do so per the existing legislature. As such, the charge against the International Confederation of Wizards' Statue of Secrecy is dropped."

"Thank you, Minister; my client is grateful for your dedication to upholding the rule of law." Ms. Raynotte says with a little nod of appreciation and not even a hint of a smirk on her face. Harry hurries to adopt an expression of gratitude - even if it is the farthest thing from what he feels towards most of the Wizengamot.

"Yes, well," Fudge sneers, "We still have to address his use of illegal underage magic. I notice you did not contest this."

"No, Minister, my client and I are not contesting his use of magic while underage." Fudge has just enough time to look smug again, Dumbledore once again leaning forward as if to interrupt, before Ms. Raynotte continues, "What we are contesting, however, is that this is his second offense, and thereby deserving anything beyond a warning."

"Pardon me, Ms. Raynotte, but did you not acknowledge just a few minutes ago that this was not the first time Mr. Potter has received a warning from the Ministry of Magic for illegal underage magic?" Fudge asks incredulously.

"Oh, I am not contesting that he received a warning three years ago. I am contesting that he performed the magic for which a warning was sent. I spoke to a house-elf this morning who will go on record for performing the hovering charm at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey in August of 1992. Not only is he willing to provide a spoken witness statement, but he has also given a written statement."

"A house elf?" Fudge says, "We're to take the word of a house elf in this manner. Mr. Potter could have just ordered the thing to lie under oath."

"Objection, Minister. That was a slanderous statement about my client's character." For the first time, Ms. Raynotte's voice changed from the serene tone she had been using; now, it was glacially cold and sharp enough to cut through the quiet murmuring of the Wizengamot members.

"The house elf is not sworn to Mr. Potter and never has been, so he would not be required to follow any orders my client gives him. Regardless of the elf's loyalty, the written statement was provided on Gringotts charmed parchment and sworn with the house elf's blood. Had it proven false, the parchment would not have accepted it." Here, Mrs. Raynotte waves around a rolled-up piece of parchment so the room can see it. "And I would remind the Minister that there is a long-standing precedent for accepting House Elf witness statements in good faith, even when they are bonded to a party involved.

"So, would you like me to call for the house elf to join us, Minister, or will the written statement be enough?"

"We haven't got time to wait on a house elf. Let us see the written statement."

Ms. Raynotte nods graciously and uses her wand to guide the parchment to the old man Fudge had spoken to previously. Once it reaches him, he unrolls it and places it atop a stack of parchment. A tap of his wand, followed by a quick flick, and the stack of parchments are dispersed amongst the Wizengamot. Harry assumes he copied Dobby's statement on them before distributing them.

The room is quiet for a bit as everyone reads Dobby's statement. Harry spares half a thought to wish he had a chance to read it before everyone else did - what if Dobby referred to him as 'The Wonderful Savior Master Harry Potter' or some other nonsense, and now the political who's who are all reading the gushing compliments of an obsessed house elf? - but it's a fleeting thought, barely there long enough to raise a hint of embarrassment at the back of Harry's neck before he's able to focus back on Percy Weasley, who's now tapping the feather of his quill while reading his own copy of Dobby's statement.

When Fudge puts his sheet of parchment down, his mouth is twisted in an angry little pout. "Ms. Raynotte, even if we were to dismiss the initial warning against Mr. Potter and note that another performed it, he still must answer to his illegal magic this year."

"Of course, Minister. And as his first offense, pursuant to the law, he deserves an official warning for his first offense, and no other penalties."

Fudge sputters momentarily and then is interrupted by a quiet "hem hem" from the woman beside him.

"If I may interrupt, Minister?" she says in a simpering tone. She waits for Fudge to nod his permission, "Ms. Raynotte, it seems as if you are hoping to simply waive aside Mr. Potter's many discretions on mere technicalities. The child has a history of poor behavior, the incident earlier this summer merely the most recent in a string of very concerning behavior -"

"I would remind the Wizengamot that we are not here to judge Mr. Potter's character or any referenced past behavior, merely his actions on the eleventh of July." Ms. Raynotte's voice is stern as she interrupts, and it echoes around the chamber. "If you are going to make inflammatory statements about my client's character, I must object."

"'Inflammatory!'" The woman exclaims, affronted. "Not two years ago, the boy blew up his aunt! It's right there in his file." The Wizengamot members behind her were shuffling in their seats, observing Harry with judging eyes.

"Objection! Again, I would remind the Wizengamot and Madame Umbridge that the only actions for review today are those Mr. Potter took on July 11, 1995. And in regards to the incident you reference, Madame, if these files are correct," Ms. Raynotte waves her hand over the neat stack of parchments on the table in front of her, "Then the Ministry generously overlooked this bit of accidental magic due to the ongoing situation with Sirius Black - you cannot mean to reverse this stance now, over two years later."

Ms. Raynotte stood from her seat now and paced forward to stand directly in front of the benches the Wizengamot were seated on. Harry couldn't quite make out her face, but her tone made it clear that despite having to look up at them due to the room's layout, she considered them all beneath her.

"The law is quite clear. Mr. Potter did not violate the Statue of Secrecy, and those charges have been dropped. While Mr. Potter did perform underage magic, this was only his first instance of it, as the first occurrence as charged has been proven to be performed by another. Despite any personal opinions, the process laid out by the Wizengamot itself requires that the first incident of underage magic receive only a warning and nothing more.

"My client has been unfairly penalized, the very fact that we are here in this room," Ms. Raynotte gestures around her, the movement encompassing the large room. "- a full Wizengamot trial for a simple case of underage magic is indication enough that politics and personal grudges are at play here. I want to remind you all that this is a fifteen-year-old boy. Dragging him through a farce such as this is a disgrace to the Wizengamot's centuries of honorable service to our nation, and those responsible for it ought to be ashamed."

Harry noticed Fudge and his little toad-looking friend share an incensed look at this, and he knew then that they were to blame for the trial and all the other nonsense.

"Now, do you wish for me to call on any witnesses - Mr. Dobby the House Elf, Mr. Dumbledore, and Mrs. Arabella Figg are all standing by waiting to provide their testimony if the Wizengamot desires it? Otherwise, might I suggest the Wizengamot vote on Mr. Potter's case?"

*

Harry is still mildly surprised by how quickly it got resolved after that. Fudge had blustered for a few more minutes but eventually had to give in that the precedent was clear. Harry was dismissed with a stern warning that any future underage magic would see him back.

Dumbledore had swept out of the room without a word to Harry, although he had said proudly, "Well done, my dear," to Ms. Raynotte before leaving.

Harry was dithering by the table, unsure of what to do now. Madame Bones had said she'd take him home, but she had been waylaid by another two members of the Wizengamot up in the stands. Ms. Raynotte had shared a few quiet words with him, expressing her gladness that his case had reached a successful resolution and an offer to provide additional legal counsel in the future. With a renegotiated contract, she had said. Which Harry took to mean a much higher hourly rate. Not that a galleon was hard to exceed. Although she had been worth all that and more, and Harry thought he might just end up contacting her in the future.

But she had departed too, and now Harry was impatiently waiting for Madame Bones to finish up and come down.

He was hoping he could have a few more minutes of her time - he wanted to try and ask her if there was any way she could take him somewhere else - anywhere else than his relatives. She was involved with the Aurors; if he told her how the Dursleys treated him…well, maybe she'd do something. No one else had - his first primary school teacher, his school nurse, the kindly librarian who always had the best book recommendations. They all tried to help, but nothing came of it, or one conversation with the Dursleys had them watching him with suspicion and disgust.

But he hadn't tried it with anyone from the wizarding world. Maybe she'd be more receptive.

He sees some ministry workers - not dressed in the purple Wizengamot robes come in from a subtle door at the top of the stands and begin casting cleaning spells throughout the room. As they reach the lingering Witches and Wizards standing amongst the raised benches, the Wizengamot members stand and start going down the stairs and to the exit. It looks like Madame Bones will be one of the last to leave due to her position on the benches, and Harry really doesn't want to have to talk to any of these people when they pass him on the floor.

Harry hurries across the room and slips out the door, hoping to avoid confrontations. He wanders down the hall a bit, just far enough he'll be overlooked as people exit. He'll wait for Madame Bones here and then ask if they can speak again in her office.

Harry is contemplating how he'll explain his home situation to Madame Bones when his arm is gripped, and he startles.

"Wotcher Harry!" It's Tonks - his escort from earlier, "Glad the trial got tied up all nicely. Knew they wouldn't find you guilty, especially not with Dumbledore coming in as a witness!"

She pulls him forward, down the hallway, and away from the courtroom door.

"Wait, I - I was waiting for Madame Bones."

"Oh, no worries, Haz. Madame Bones will probably be a bit longer; she tends to get held up after Wizengamot duties." They've reached the lift at this point, and unluckily, the golden grates slide open immediately. Tonks pulls him in.

"So, are you taking me back to her office to wait for her?" Harry asks as the lift begins to jolt - to the left, instead of up or down this time.

"Nonsense! I can take you home; won't take me but a minute!" She says cheerfully.

"No. No, I wanted Madame Bones to take me. I was hoping to talk to her about something - something personal." Harry feels like he's rapidly losing control of the situation. And of himself.

Tonks side-eyes him and then raises her wand. Harry flinches before he can stop himself, but she just spells a slightly shimmering bubble around them before turning to face him head-on.

"Harry. If you're hoping to talk to her about Sirius's situation,"

Harry thinks the lift must have dropped in a sharp dive, or maybe just his stomach, "How do you know about Sirius?"

She frowns. At first, he thinks about getting interrupted, but she explains, "He's my cousin. And - well, I've been to the place he's staying. Most of our group has been there and seen him and learned the truth of his story as we've stayed there occasionally."

She keeps talking, but Harry's hearing seems to fade. Sirius is here? He's definitely here and hasn't fucked off back to the Caribbean or wherever he was at the beginning of last year like Harry half-hoped when he hadn't heard from him. He's here and apparently stays someplace so large that there are often multiple other visitors.

But Harry wasn't one of them.

The lift is slowing down, and Harry looks back at Tonks in time to hear the end of her lecture. "…so you see, it's just not the best time for that right now. With public opinion the way it is, dragging up the Sirius stuff… it's not likely to go well for you or Sirius."

The lift finally stops, and with a sharp twist of her wand, the bubble fades into nothing. Tonks grabs his arm again and pulls him out into what seems to be a lobby of the Ministry. Harry is so overwhelmed with the information Tonks told him and what he read between the lines of what she said that he really only takes in impressions.

A great gold statue towering over everyone.

Red-robed aurors standing guard, several of them tracking Harry and Tonks with their eyes.

A wall of green flamed fireplaces.

Blinking signs with directions to various activities and departments - Potions and Spell Patents - Floor 3. O.W.L. And N.E.W.T. Retakes - Floor 7. A Seminar on Creature Care - Floor…

But Harry doesn't see the rest of the signs, as Tonks is shoving him in a red phone booth and it starts to rise.

Harry seems to blink, and they're on the streets of London. Tonks is guiding him down a deserted alleyway.

Another blink, and they've apparated back to the dreaded Privet Drive.

Blink. Tonks is walking him to the door. She's saying something in his ear, but he can't focus.

Blink. He's standing in the entryway of Number Four. He hears a CRACK and knows Tonks has left him there. With no hope of leaving anytime soon.

The crack of her disapparation seems to echo in the neighborhood, in the house, in him.

He thinks - maybe - it's the crack of something irreparable breaking.

Chapter Text

August 30

The summer had been long and brutally hot. Despite this, Harry was always cold.

Staring out his barred bedroom window at a beautiful sunset, Harry finally lets go of that one kernel of hope that had lingered all these long weeks. The hope that somehow he wouldn't actually have to spend the entire summer at the Dursleys.

But tomorrow was the last day before the return to Hogwarts, and the silence from his friends had lasted. He hadn't even been taken to Diagon Alley to pick up his school supplies. The lists had come out a few weeks ago, but as soon as he recognized the envelope for what it was - just an impersonal letter from Hogwarts - he had crumpled it up and thrown it away unopened doing his best to swallow down the anger scratching at his throat.

He's not sure how they - Dumbledore, the Weasleys, Sirius - think he's supposed to get to Diagon Alley to do his shopping without someone taking him there. It's not like Petunia would drive him into London for a shopping day if he asked. But time has run out, and he only has one more day to complete all his school shopping and get to Kings Cross to catch the train. And it appears like he'll be on his own for that.

Per usual, he supposes. He's always on his own when it really matters.

Heaving a sigh, Harry stands from his bed, pausing for a moment to allow the lightheadedness from standing quickly to pass. He's grateful that Petunia has gotten lax about locking his door as the summer wore on without any hint of defiance or "freakishness" from him. It's unlocked tonight, so he can head downstairs to find his relatives.

Vernon and Petunia are curled on the couch together downstairs, watching something on the telly. Harry's not sure where Dudley is. His cousin had slowly recovered from the Dementor attack and spent most of the subsequent weeks outside of the house. Harry - restricted to his bedroom most of the day, regardless of whether the door was locked - had scarcely seen him.

Hearing his footsteps, Vernon's eyes swing to him with a glower. Petunia, although her lips purse, seems intent on ignoring Harry, and she stays focused on the screen in front of her.

"What do you want, boy?" His uncle snarls at him.

"I go back to school in two days. But I'll need to go to London tomorrow to pick up my supplies for the year." Harry clenches his hands behind his back but keeps his voice even and face smooth, eyes trained on the ugly landscape painting hanging above the couch. He lets his emotions drain away so he won't react to anything nasty his relatives say - he needs his Aunt and Uncle to agree with his request, or he'll be screwed.

Vernon's face turns purple with anger, "Are you truly so stupid as to believe we'd give you money for that, you little freak? Money that could be spent on our son?"

"No, no, of course not. I can figure that out on my own."

Harry has been ever so careful to never even hint that he's got piles and piles of literal gold and silver sitting in a vault beneath London. His relatives would demand it all be handed over to them the second they got wind of that.

Better to let them think he's going to shoplift or beg for money. "I'll get myself there tomorrow, too. I just need to get my trunk and things from the closet before I go. I'll stay in the city tomorrow night, so I won't return until next summer."

Vernon scans him up and down, and Harry can practically read his thoughts straight out of his head - deny Harry his request and be stuck with him for longer, or let Harry have his things and get him out of their house a day sooner than expected.

It's probably the ultimate dilemma for Vernon Dursley, Harry thinks. The most challenging choice his useless uncle will ever have to make in his entire life. Harry knows his thoughts are bitter with resentment - and envy for his relatives' simple life that Harry will barely even admit to himself. He smooths the thoughts away before they can show on his face.

Turning back to the telly, Vernon grudgingly says, "I'll unlock the cupboard in the morning before I leave for work. No funny business before you leave. Take all that trash when you wake up and get out."

Relieved that their discussion went shockingly well - Vernon must want him out as much as Harry wanted to leave - Harry nods obediently and returns to his room.

He can't really pack, with his trunk still locked away, but he begins gathering his clothing into neat piles on his desk so that he can get out of here all the sooner in the morning. Crawling under his bed to open the loose floorboard, Harry pulls out a couple of granola bars and bags of crisps he had managed to hold on to all summer, only turning to them when he was truly desperate. Tucked underneath them all was a small wad of cash - bills and coins, and Harry is grateful for his foresight in years past. Each time he visited Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade and had a few moments to himself, he'd get some galleons converted into Muggle money so he'd have some funds stockpiled for summer, and would leave whatever was left here beneath the floor. He knew that one day, he'd be grateful for the extra money slowly accumulating in his hiding spot.

It wasn't much, but it should be enough to buy him a one-way train ticket into London and a good breakfast in the morning. Enough to get him to Diagon Alley - to Gringotts - where the fortune his parents left for him was waiting.

Harry carefully wraps the money in his thinnest shirt and tucks it into the pocket of the jeans he'll wear tomorrow. Glancing around his room, Harry figures anything left can stay where it is. Most everything he actually cares about is locked up downstairs anyway.

Flipping the light off, Harry lays back down on the bed. He knows he'll be woken up within a few hours because of nightmares, and he's tempted to just stay up as long as he can, but tomorrow is sure to be exhausting, so it'd be better to get as much sleep as possible - even if that's not all that much.

Harry lets his eyes drift shut and falls asleep to the distant sounds of whatever show his relatives were watching downstairs.

*

He is up with the sun and leaves his bedroom only a few minutes after he hears Vernon's car drive away. With the muggle clothing he'd been wearing all summer bundled up inside a spare pillowcase and dangling from his hand, Harry quietly goes downstairs and breathes a sigh of relief when the closet door is unlocked as his uncle promised.

Dragging his trunk out, he opens it just long enough to drop his clothes in and pull out his invisibility cloak and wand. As soon as the familiar holly touches his palm, Harry feels a previously unnoticed weight drop off his shoulders. A tension in his body that he had become so used to he had stopped trying to shake it out, suddenly relaxes.

Harry taps the rune to shrink his trunk to a more manageable carrying size and then throws the cloak over himself, double-checking that his feet are entirely covered by the cloak. Weeks ago, Tonks had said something about there being guards at Privet Drive. He's not sure who they are, but he'd rather not have to talk to any of them.

And if they think he's disappeared under their noses and panic for a bit - it serves them right.

This early, it's quiet on Privet Drive. Harry has become familiar with most of the neighborhood's morning habits out of pure boredom during his weeks here. He'd sit in his window, awake well before the sun, and observe the muggles around him.

Vernon is usually one of the first to leave, with Number 8 down the way, leaving at about the same time. The mum in Number 3 was usually up early and, most mornings, was out jogging. Harry sees the back of her disappear down Magnolia Crescent, her long ponytail swishing with her steps.

No sign of any magical observers, but they could easily be disillusioned or hidden by other methods.

So Harry is soft-footed as he quickly walks the few blocks over to Acton Street. Another person is waiting, a kid not much older than Harry. Probably catching the bus to a summer job. Harry gets here just in time, and a bus rounds the corner only a minute or two after he arrives. Using the squeal of the brakes as cover, Harry shuffles closer to the other teen and slips on board behind him, squeezing past while the boy pays his fare.

The ride to the train station is uneventful; only one other person - an old woman who sits near the front - gets on, and Harry is able to slip off the bus using the rear door when they stop. Finding a dimly lit corner, Harry glances around to ensure no one is too close and then whips off his invisibility cloak. Shoving it deep into his jacket pocket, Harry walks to the counter and purchases a ticket for the next train to Kings Cross. He figures he could sit under the cloak the entire train ride, but morning trains into the city are likely to be more crowded, and he'd rather not be stuck trying to avoid people sitting on what they think is an empty seat for the entire journey into London.

Checking the departure board, he determines he's got enough time to grab breakfast, and Harry stands in the short line at the tea shop. After the ticket, he only had a few pounds left, but it was enough to get a cup of peppermint tea and a sausage roll. Harry heads to his platform with the breakfast and is relieved to see the train already there. Climbing on board, Harry shoves his trunk into the luggage storage and can snag a seat with a small table.

While the train idles, he slowly and methodically eats his breakfast. The sausage sits heavily in his stomach, but he paces himself enough that he's still working on it by the time the train departs, the seats around him having been filled with commuters. Whenever his stomach roils too much, he sips on the peppermint tea and lets that calm the nausea.

It'll take a while until he can eat normally again, he knows from experience. Today will be alright since he'll be buying everything, and it will be easier to limit himself. Tomorrow at the feast, however - with a nearly inexhaustible supply of food cooked to perfection spread out in front of him - his willpower will have to be strong enough to resist if he doesn't want to get violently ill afterward.

It's a peaceful journey to Kings Cross, made longer than usual by the frequent stops for all the workers traveling into London. Eventually, they reach Kings Cross Station, and Harry huffs a soft laugh when he realizes they've pulled into Platform 10. He'll have to walk right by the platform for the Hogwarts Express to exit.

Luckily, Harry can find the Leaky Cauldron easily. He vaguely remembered how to get there from the station via his trip with Hagrid years ago. The pub is mostly deserted at this hour, but Tom is standing behind the counter wiping out mugs. Hearing Harry enter, Tom glances up, and Harry plasters a smile on his face.

"Mr. Potter! It's good to see you!" Tom says with a smile, "When we didn't see you come through a few weeks ago, I thought you must be staying away this summer and getting your school things by owl."

"Hello, Tom. It's nice to see you again as well. And no, just getting to it a bit late this year. Actually, I was hoping you might have a room to rent for the night - figured I'd just stay in town tonight and catch the train in the morning instead of making two trips to London."

"Of course, of course, Mr. Potter. We're always happy to have you. Your old room eleven is open. Let me just grab that key for you and you can go on up and drop off your trunk."

Tom bends down to grab the room key and beckons Harry to follow him up the stairs.

"Now, I'm sure you remember from two years ago, but breakfast is from six in the mornin' to nine-thirty, lunch is available starting at eleven o'clock to two, and we'll serve dinner from five to last call. Have ya had breakfast this morning, Mr. Potter? You've gotten here quite early."

"I've already eaten breakfast, Tom, thank you. I'm going to run to the bank and then get my shopping done, but I'll definitely be ordering dinner from you tonight. I've missed your cooking since the last time I was here."

Lie. The Leaky Cauldron's cooking is either too bland or too salty - no in between. But Tom's had a soft spot for Harry for years, earned on that first visit to Diagon and cemented during those weeks Harry stayed here before third year. Harry's more than willing to compliment the Leaky and Tom's cooking to keep on his good side.

Especially considering what he's about to ask.

When Tom lets him into room eleven, Harry sets his trunk down next to the entryway and opens it to dig out some coins. Seeing the galleons in his hand, Tom hurries to say, "It's just one galleon for the night, Mr. Potter."

Harry adopts an embarrassed expression and shuffles his feet, "Er, yes, I know. But, well, I was hoping the rest could maybe cover your discretion? I know when I've stayed here in the past, it's drawn you quite a bit more business, but I'd really like to be a bit more incognito about this visit. So, I could pay you a little extra to make up for any lost business?"

Tom winks and taps his nose with his pointer finger. "O' course, Mr. Potter. If anyone asks, I haven't seen ya all summer. You just let me know what you'd like for lunch, and I'll send it on up when you're back from your shopping."

The gold vanishes from Harry's fingers, and Tom closes the door softly behind him. Harry eyes the bed and debates slumping down on it for a quick nap, but he forces himself out the door again. Ideally, he can finish all his shopping within a few hours and avoid the afternoon crowd.

Backtracking down the stairs, Harry waves at Tom and then goes out back to tap the bricks. As the archway into Diagon Alley opens up, Harry knows he was right to get here this early. Although most shops are open, it's still too early for most customers. Harry hurries down the crooked street, scanning storefronts and noting where he'll need to visit once he's retrieved his money. Despite his familiarity with Diagon, earned through hours of exploring before his third year, Harry hadn't been able to visit last year at all, and he wanted to make sure he knew exactly where he was going to avoid wasting any time wandering around.

Finally, he reaches the end of Diagon, where Gringotts splits the road and diverts into Horizont Alley and Paral Alley. Climbing the marble stairs, Harry nods to the goblins standing guard outside the door and receives the usual suspicious looks in return.

Inside, Harry approaches the closest teller, who looks unoccupied. "Good morning." He says quietly and waits until the goblin deigns to meet his eyes. "I'd like to make a withdrawal from my vault."

"And do you have your key?"

Fuck. How could he have forgotten about his key? First year, Hagrid produced it, and before second and fourth year Mrs.Weasley had it. He hadn't withdrawn anything the summer before his third year.

"Er. No, I don't. It's been lost."

"Hmpf." The goblin glowered at him and then told him in his scratchy voice, "Before a new key can be made, you must submit to an identification verification test. Do you permit this?"

"Yes, of course." Harry's just relieved he's not being shown the door.

The goblin shuffles things on his desk for a moment, then pulls out a light blue roll of parchment and a black knife.

"The test will require blood from both hands." As the goblin speaks, he unrolls the parchment, weighing it down on his desk with some spare jewels and hunks of gold he dug out from another drawer. Indicating two squares at the top of the parchment, he continued, "Smear a bit of blood in each box."

Harry uses the knife to cut the skin on his pointer fingers just enough to draw blood. The blade is so sharp it barely takes any pressure; just running the tip over his fingers is enough to cause blood to flow.

Harry returns the knife to the goblin and drags both pointer fingers across the parchment in the designated boxes, leaving behind a rust-colored stain. As his fingers leave the parchment, he feels a slight tingle in his fingertips, and when he rubs the remaining blood off with his thumb, he sees the cuts have healed entirely.

The goblin has picked up the parchment and is silently reading whatever it indicates before rolling it back up and handing it to him. The teller provides no explanation to Harry, just picked up the end of an old-fashioned rotary phone - one unconnected by any cords, Harry notes - and speaks into the mouthpiece in gobbledygook. There's a bit of back and forth, and then, finally, the goblin hangs up.

"It'll be just a moment, Mr. Potter. Your account manager will be up shortly to meet with you."

Account Manager? What?

"Er, "account manager"? I have one of those?" The goblin gives Harry the most pitying, "Are you stupid" look Harry has ever seen and then seems to dismiss Harry entirely with a quick wave of his hand.

Harry's glare at the goblin goes unnoticed. He's bloody well tired of being looked down on for not knowing things about the Wizarding world when no one takes the time to explain anything to him. He's been to the bank multiple times - albeit never requiring an identification verification - but the tellers knew who he was. They could have said something.

Or this "account manager" could have sent him communications.

Turning his back sharply on the teller, Harry walks to a marble pillar not far away and leans against it. He'd been dead tired earlier but was feeling more energized already. Maybe the caffeine in the tea had finally kicked in.

His original plan was to purchase the bare necessities and then return to the Leaky for lunch and a nap. If he could make it a few more hours, though, he might be able to pick up a few extras - observing the toe of his sock that was visible through a worn spot on his sneaker, his "bare essentials" should probably be a longer list than initially planned.

Harry is pondering how many new pairs of pants he needs when there's a quiet cough behind him, and -

"Mr. Potter?"

He turns and sees a goblin standing behind him. She's wearing a uniform different from the tellers, cream with burgundy instead of the burgundy with cream accents tellers wear.

"Hello, Mr. Potter. I am the Potter Account Manager Alurus. If you'd follow me, please, we can discuss your accounts in my office."

Accounts? He decides not to question it this time. If he will have repeated interactions with this Alurus, he'd like to at least pretend he knows what's going on.

Harry nods instead and follows her through twisted hallways until they reach a comfortable office. She gestures him towards one of the chairs facing the desk and then offers him tea or coffee for their discussion.

"Tea would be great, thanks." At the very least, holding a warm cup would feel good. It got progressively colder the further into the maze-like bank.

Once they're settled with their refreshments, she stares at him. It's unsettling.

"Well, Mr. Potter. Our meeting is a few years overdue, but you've finally made it here. We'll have to discuss ignoring official Gringotts correspondence before you leave."

Harry frowns. "Er, sorry, but I've never ignored official correspondence from Gringotts." Her brows lower, and he hurries to say, "I've never even gotten correspondence from Gringotts to ignore."

"Mr. Potter, I have had excellent working relationships with your father, his father, and his father before him. I do not want to break that streak. I have sent you at least two missives annually since you turned ten. And then, there are the monthly statements and annual disclosure notices. You have been sent a bevy of communications from this bank."

"Well, I never received them!" He huffs, "I never get any mail except from my friends and my school." Although not much of the former in the last few months.

Her expression clears, and she sits back in her chair.

"Is that so, Mr. Potter? That is not as it should be. At the very least, one could assume you'd receive notices from your family solicitors. And that's nothing to say about the fan mail, which I'm sure you've been sent. You've truly never seen any of it?"

Harry blinks. As uncomfortable as he is to consider getting fan mail, it is strange that he's never received any. Even Hermione got inundated with mail, nasty as it was, after that article last year about their supposed relationship.

He shakes his head slowly, "No. No, I've never received anything."

She taps a claw on the armrest of her chair and considers him, "Hm. Something to look into another day, perhaps. For now, we have much to discuss."

She opens a drawer and pulls out several rolls of parchment. "Your most recent account statements, updated as of this morning. They would have been mailed out this evening, but this way, we know you received them, yes?"

"Now, as I understand it, you don't have keys to your vaults? I have taken the liberty of creating new ones." She hands him a ring with multiple vault keys on it. "All existing keys will no longer work, so I advise you to not lose those ones."

"Vaults? As in plural?" He asks. As far as Harry knows, he's only ever visited the one.

Alurus sighed and glanced up as if asking for patience.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. Your multiple vaults. You have the Potter Family vault, your mother's personal vault, and your Potter Trust vault. You also have a Black Trust vault, as well as a vault that Gringotts opened in November of 1981 as a courtesy for any donations or bequeaths made out to "The Boy Who Lived" or similar pseudonyms. And then, of course, there's the Slytherin Family vault."

He blinks at her in silence for a moment. "Sorry, I'm going to need a bit more detail here. I thought I only had one vault?"

As she begins to explain, she pulls out more parchment scrolls, "Yes, as I understand it, you've only ever made withdrawals from the Potter trust vault. This was opened for you at birth, with instructions given to Gringotts on how much should be deposited annually on your day of birth. You are also capped at withdrawing 1,000 galleons a year."

Setting aside the parchment she had been viewing, she moved on to the next one. "The Potter Family vault contains, in addition to funds, a bit of household furnishings, portraits, and other miscellaneous goods. There is no limit to the amount of galleons you may withdraw."

Harry unrolls his own parchment and tries to follow along. At the top of the scroll, in fancy calligraphy, it read "Vault No. 247 - Potter Family Vault (Primary)." Below the header, it lists his name as the sole account holder, and then there is an accounting of the galleons, sickles, and knuts within. Harry skips over the numbers - much more significant than what's in his trust vault, but nothing too outrageous. Below is a list of other items in the vault, and his hands are practically itching to get ahold of the items his ancestors thought were important enough to tuck away in the bank.

Alurus is already moving on to the following account statement, so he carefully rolls the parchment back up and sets it aside.

The Black Trust vault is next, and his brows raise as he sees the numbers. "Er - this is just the trust vault? Seems a bit...excessive."

Alurus, pursuing the scroll half-heartedly, agrees, "Yes, it is a bit. It's my understanding that as the various other members of the family were either killed or incarcerated, the funds in their trust vaults were migrated to the other heirs instead of returning to the main account. A long-standing tradition of theirs. You are one of the very few remaining who can claim to be an heir to the House of Black, and as such, your account has benefited substantially. And the family has always been quite generous - at least financially - with the sons and daughters of their House. The account was nothing to scoff at even before the deposits."

"I see. Thank you for the explanation." She nods imperiously at him, then sets the Black account statement aside.

"Ah, and now we come to your most substantial account." Harry has to hide his choke by coughing - his most substantial. As if the others weren't small - or, in the case of the Black account, not so small - fortunes.

"Since your defeat of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in 1981, numerous donations and bequeaths have been made to you. These were most commonly made out to "The Boy Who Lived," and as no such account holder was registered at Gringotts, we opened a new account. Once several distasteful gifts were discovered, we continued to place them in this vault, even when they mentioned you by name."
Harry eyes the goblin, "When you say 'distasteful." He's unsure how to word the question, but she answers anyway.

"Cursed, Mr. Potter. While we took the liberty of taking care of anything that was outright dangerous or that which caused harm to the goblins responsible for sorting the gifts and maintaining the vault, but there are likely others we have missed over the years with more subtle enchantments and curses. I encourage you to hire the services of curse-breakers to clean out the vault before you remove anything from it."

He frowns - he knows Bill Weasley is a curse-breaker, but that's about it, and as he's over in Egypt, Bill is no help to Harry. "I see. Would Gringotts be able to recommend any curse breakers?"

"Of course, Mr. Potter. We'd happily dispatch a team of our curse-breakers to sort through your vault. For a fee, of course."

He nods, and although he's sure they'll charge him more because of it, he says, "I suppose you can take the appropriate fee out of the vault then." It's not like he knows what the going rate for a team of curse breakers is anyway; he wouldn't have any idea how to negotiate a fair price.

She nods, and although her face remains neutral, he can practically read the glee over what is sure to be a considerable commission coming her way.

"Now, last but not least - the Slytherin Family vault." She says, unscrolling the last parchment on her desk.

Oh shit, he thinks. He had been so surprised at the multiple accounts he hadn't even registered that bloody Slytherin was one of them. He can't possibly be related to Slytherin. Can he?

He doesn't open his own scroll, and instead asks, "Do you know why I have access to this account? I wasn't aware I had any relation to the Slytherin family."

She eyes him and seems to weigh her words when she says, "Yes, Mr. Potter, I believe I do know why you - and solely you - have access to this account." He focuses on her emphasis on "solely you."

" No one else has access to this account - no other claimants to the House of Slytherin?" That's impossible. Voldemort should have access.

"Mr. Potter, the Goblins of Gringotts keep very close watch over our largest and oldest accounts. When there are sudden and unexpected changes in who can access them, without any visit by the account holders themselves - changes caused by and registered by magic- we tend to investigate."

You'll find that the Goblins believe you that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named has returned - for you see, we never thought him truly dead. He was still listed as an active account holder, and our records would have registered his true death. So two months ago, when you claimed his return to life - his return to a body. We believed you."

Fourteen years ago, you gained access to the Slytherin account due to defeating the family's Lord. Not many vaults allow for such a transfer, but the oldest typically do. However, as you did not wholly defeat He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named - not to the death- he also retained his access. You both had an equal share of the vault. So, two months ago, it was much to our surprise to find that he was no longer listed as a Slytherin family vault account holder when he had been such since his first blood test at this bank many years ago."

"I must ask you, Mr. Potter, when He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named returned to a body, was it a new body created for him, or did he somehow return to the body he lost fourteen years ago?"

Harry thinks of pale, hairless skin, red eyes, and a noseless face and shudders. Voldemort looked nothing like the charismatic and handsome boy he had once been. Maybe Voldemort had metaphorically shed the skin of Tom Riddle long ago, but now he finally looked it.

" It was a new body. I - I guess I don't know what he looked like in 1981, but well, I've seen what he looked like when he was a lot younger, my age, and he looks nothing like that now. He doesn't even look human."

She looks smug for a moment before returning her expression to neutrality, "It is as we theorized then. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was heir to Slytherin because he is a descendant - his blood and bones make him such. When he created himself a new body, he no longer had that connection to his ancestor. As such, he is no longer an heir to the family."

She's right, Harry thinks. Voldemort had said himself that his dad was a muggle - said it quite carelessly considering his apparent stance on muggleborns and half-bloods - so his mum must have been the descendant of Slytherin. But he hadn't used anything with a connection to her in his disgusting potion. His dad's bones, Pettigrew's hand - eugh -, and Harry's blood. But wait -

"Alurus, part of his return to a body involved taking my blood. Wouldn't that grant him the same access as me?"

"No, as your access - your claim as Heir or Lord of the family, was never due to your ancestry."

"But then, would he get access to all my other vaults?"

He thinks she's a bit annoyed he's asking, but apparently decides she'll tolerate it, and she explains, "No, Mr. Potter. As I said, the older vaults tend to have more traditional clauses. None of your other vaults are as lenient regarding blood relations. You must be recognized as part of the family before accessing the account. As such, the other accounts remain your own, as does the Slytherin Family Vault."

He opens the parchment and knows his eyes are wide at the amounts listed. Between the Slytherin and the Black Trust vault, he's apparently got more money than he could likely ever spend in his entire life. Maybe even more than his children and grandchildren could spend.

He thinks back to his Potter Trust account, "And is there a limit to how much I can withdraw from this account?"

She smiles at him from across her desk, sharp teeth glinting out at him, "No, Mr. Potter. There's no withdrawal limit to this account. You'll find only the Potter vaults are restricted in any way - the trust vault with an annual withdrawal limit, and while you can visit the Family Vault, you cannot remove anything until you are recognized as a legal adult."

He slumps back in his chair, disappointed. It's not that he really needs anything from the vault - not when he can apparently buy anything he'd ever want with funds from the other vaults - but it would have been nice to take some items out that his family members had chosen and treasured. He had so few family belongings, after all - really just his dad's cloak. "Just two more years," he murmurs to himself.

"Not necessarily, Mr. Potter," Alurus says, nearly just as quiet.

Confused, he looks back to her - "You said I had to be recognized as a legal adult. I turn seventeen in two years."

"And so you do, Mr. Potter. But luckily for you, there are stipulations in place for families with a sole remaining heir. You happen to fit the bill for two separate houses - Potter and Slytherin. In the instance of all other family members deceased or disowned, the heir must just pass at least one NEWT, and they will be considered a legal adult."

"But I haven't even taken my OWLs yet." Harry reminds the goblin.

She shrugs, "That is an obstacle for you to manage, Mr. Potter. But I will tell you that the Ministry provides OWL and NEWT testing opportunities every February and August, outside of the proctored exams provided at Hogwarts."

That's right - Harry thinks he vaguely remembers seeing a sign about testing while Tonks was hustling him out of the Ministry after his trial.

If he could somehow sneak out of Hogwarts and make it to the Ministry in February to take the OWL in February, and then the NEWT in August, that would make him a "legal adult" almost a whole year ahead of schedule. Still not great, but it's better than waiting another two years. He could probably only manage it with Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he's always excelled in that course. The practical exams should be easy, but learning the theory two years ahead would be the hardest part.

Lost in thought, he thanks Alurus for the information she's told him.

They finish their discussion quickly after that. Harry promises to send Hedwig to the bank every month to collect documents - at least until they can figure out why he's not been getting mail from them - and allows Alurus to begin making investments on his behalf with fifteen percent of the galleons in the vaults he has full access to.

He also withdraws more money in one transaction than he's probably had the rest of his life combined. Now that he knows just how much money is hidden away far underneath London at his disposal, he's done "making due" with hand-me-downs and secondhand items.

Harry is stepping outside Gringotts by half past nine, blinking against the bright sunlight after so long inside. He's got an enchanted bag that - despite the spells making it impossible - feels like it's weighing down his pocket and a long list of items he wants to purchase before taking the Hogwarts Express the following day.

Chapter Text

August 31
Harry's first stop is the Apothecary. Not only does he need to restock his potion supplies, but the Apothecary on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alley sells a variety of ready-made potions brewed by masters. They're expensive, and the one he's after will likely be exorbitantly so. But a necessity to ensure he keeps a low profile while wandering around the Alley.

When he pushes open the door, he's greeted with a musical chime and an earthy, sweet smell from the herbs drying in the window.

The shopkeeper is talking to someone at the counter, but she waves a hand at him to acknowledge his entry. Harry bustles around, picking up the supplies he'll need until she's free. The fifth-year supplies are available as a bundle, but after reviewing the list of what's included, he also takes the opportunity to stock up on some items that are useful but not included in the standard kit.

He spares a thought for the unopened supplies list he received from Hogwarts and shrugs. Probably every store will market Hogwarts supplies as packages available by year and course. Even without the list, he should be able to track down everything he'll need, and if something is missed, he'll just place an owl order.

Now that the Triwizard Tournament is over - disastrous as it was - Harry assumes quidditch will be back at Hogwarts, and he'll need to get back in the practice of making the bruise paste and muscle tension relief salve that Oliver taught him the recipes for years ago. Grabbing the ingredients for those and what he'll need for class occupies him until the other patron wanders out, and he approaches the counter.

"Hi love, got all ya need?" The shopkeeper smiles at him, scanning the items piled into the basket. "Hogwarts, then? Fifth year? That should be all ya need unless you plan to experiment on your own."

"Yes, I think I've got all the raw ingredients I need, but I was hoping to pick up some ready-made potions for my own use."

She reaches under the counter and withdraws a small booklet, dropping it open in front of him.

"Here's my latest catalog. The potions listed in black are available now, I've got em in stock in the back. Anything listed in blue would need to be ordered, either because I'm out or because they've gotta be made to order. Wait time for those is listed."

"Great, thank you!"

Harry starts flipping through the catalog, searching for his intended purchase. Unfortunately, when he comes to the section about Polyjuice Potion, it's listed in blue, with a wait time of six weeks. There's also a small note that any polyjuice orders are tracked by the Ministry.

Damn. He hoped to grab a couple doses of polyjuice potion, enough to get through his shopping today and the trip to Kings Cross in the morning without attracting any attention.

Scanning the rest of the page, his eyes pause on an entry just a few spots above the polyjuice -

Notice Me Not Draught - Good for five hours of unobtrusiveness. Will not work if user is behaving in attraction-grabbing behavior. Will not work on anyone with training to look past or in possession of standard wards against such potions (Aurors, Hit Wizards, etc.).

Five galleons per dose.

Harry had never heard of this potion, but figures it must be somehow based on the Notice Me Not spell, which would have been his initial plan if he could use magic over the summer. He never realized there was a potion based on the spell, too, that would have been useful for past summers if he had ever needed a few hours to escape the notice of the Dursleys.

The potions they learn in classes tend to be…not nearly as helpful as this. Shrinking solutions, strengthening solutions…things that would maybe be useful, but there are spell equivalents that take way less time for the same effect. Maybe potions will get more interesting in later years - after the OWL, which Snape uses to pair down students to only the top performers.

Flipping to the start of the catalog, Harry starts scanning the options more closely.

A few minutes later, he's spent a small fortune on ready-made potions and a stasis case that can fit a much larger number of potions than the outside indicates and will prolong the efficacy of everything within it. The shopkeeper, clearly pleased with the pile of galleons he's handing over, recommends he pick up a trunk with a compartment specifically for potions. She seems to think he's a budding potioneer who's buying the potions to study and would appreciate the potion-specific equipment.

Harry can't be bothered with potions, but he does think it's probably time to replace his old secondhand trunk. The runes Hermione added are useful, but they're in no way professional, and at some point, they'll fade and fail. Plus, the trunk is looking a bit dingy.

If he was honest, it had looked dingy the day he picked it out.

Thanking the apothecary owner, Harry tucks his wrapped stasis case - neatly fitting all of his purchases with room to spare - under his arm. Before exiting the Apothecary, glancing back to ensure the shopkeeper wasn't paying attention, he downs the one potion he left out - the Notice Me Not Draught. Five hours should be more than enough time to make all of his purchases and get back to the Leaky.

He doesn't feel any different after swallowing down the foul-tasting potion - somehow tasting like both rotten meat and overly sweet candy floss - but when he steps outside and begins walking down Diagon to the luggage store, he notes people's eyes skimming over him despite avoiding him when walking past, so he reckons it must be working exactly as advertised.

A luggage store is just a few doors down - Carriages & Containers, Inc. and within a few minutes, he's picked out a wood and leather steamer trunk with six compartments with built-in protections against spell, potion, fire, and water damage. It's also got an advanced locking system based on both a spoken password and blood wards - although the latter is only on the two innermost compartments. Harry already knows his most valuable items will be placed there - his firebolt, the Marauder's Map, his invisibility cloak, and the photo album Hagrid gave him years ago.

Other trunks were similarly protected, but what really sold him on this one - despite the high price point - was the clever spellwork placed on the innermost compartment (one of the blood-warded ones) that had an array of runes that somehow amounted to a combination of a locator spell and something like a time-delayed accio charm - or maybe a conjuring charm. If an item was removed from the compartment and not returned within a certain number of hours (Harry asked the shopkeeper to set it for twenty-four), it would automatically be pulled back into the trunk as long as it wasn't completely destroyed.

After seeing exactly how protected his most precious items could have been all this time, Harry was a bit ashamed he'd been leaving them just tossed into the one unprotected compartment his previous trunk had. Harry also picks up a new enchanted school bag and pays extra for his initials to be added to the shiny brown leather. When he leaves the luggage store - potions case stored in his new trunk, which was then shrunk down to just barely bigger than his hand and tucked away in his new bag, Harry realizes he's spent more money between the first two shops he's visited today than he spent total on back to school shopping any other year - even his first year when he had to buy a wand and other items that have lasted him this whole time.

Harry aims for Flourish and Botts, but Madame Malkins across the Alley catches his eye. Glancing down at the ripped jeans and grubby t-shirt, all of which had been passed down by Dudley and so are hanging off of him, Harry decides to continue the trend of spending a truly outrageous amount of money. A new wardrobe sounds like just the thing he needs.

Crossing the street, he opens the stained glass door and wanders in. He has a few moments to trail his fingers across the bolts of fabric on the shelves along the wall before Madame Malkin herself comes bustling out from the back room, alerted to his presence by the bell above the door he set off upon entering.

He can tell her eyes are about to wander off from him, thanks to the notice me not draught, so he hurries to keep her attention.

"Hello, Madame, I'd like to purchase a new set of Hogwarts robes, but I'm also in need of an updated wardrobe."

She blinks at him momentarily and then scans him up and down. Madame Malkin must be skilled at controlling her face as he picks up on only the tiniest sneer of disapproval at his clothing before it blanks out into a pleasant, neutral expression again.

"Of course, young sir. I'd be happy to design clothing for you. Let's get you fitted, and then we can discuss the specifics." She gestures towards one of the raised circular disks. Harry climbs it, faces the mirror opposite, and has to refrain from a wince. In the bright sunlight beaming in the many windows, his jeans look dirtier and his shirt more threadbare than he thought. He looks away from his outfit, but then his gaunt face catches his attention.

Honestly, he looks like he's been living on the streets for months - dirty, hungry, and exhausted.

Madame Malkin's tape measure begins flying around him, measuring everything from his waist to foot length to the length of his nose. Behind him, the seamstress is methodically floating various bolts of fabric from the shelves into neat piles.

Eventually, the tape measure snaps itself back up into a neat roll, and Madame Malkin makes her way over to him, bolts of black fabric floating behind her.

"Now, you asked for a wardrobe, but how extensive of a wardrobe were you thinking? And did you just need robes, or would you like trousers and shirts too?"

"Yes, to all of it, please." He tells her. "In fact, assume I don't own any clothing at all and will need to purchase everything brand new."

She smiles, a gleam of excitement in her eyes, and with another wave of her wand, the additional piles of fabric fly toward them.

"Excellent, sir. Let's begin."

The next hour is spent discussing clothing in a multitude of ways that Harry had never really considered before - not just the color, but the weight and texture of the fabric, the fit, and how it would be impacted by what else he was wearing. He even gets caught up listening to Madame Malkin's opinions on what jewelry and other accessories should go with each outfit. In short, it was about 59 minutes more than Harry had ever spent considering his clothing all in one go. It did provide him with a crash course in Wizarding fashion, however, and as the seamstress wraps up the few items ready now in brown packaging, Harry ponders the fact that until now, he's never really had the opportunity to develop his own style. Or even just his own preferences.

While making selections with Madame Malkin, he tended towards muted colors (although she had talked him into a few jewel tones that she said would set off his eyes quite nicely). But where he really was extravagant was the fabric choices. He leaned towards silks and cashmere, and there were even a few velvet pieces. Apparently, when Harry had a choice about it, he wanted to wear clothing that wasn't just comfortable but was damn near luxurious in the way it felt on his skin.

He purchased enough in standard linen and cotton that he wouldn't look like a tosser at Hogwarts, but he thought once he received all of it, he could mix and match and ensure that at least one or two soft items were worn with each outfit. As he ran his fingers across the silk shirt Madame Malkin had him change into immediately, he found it soothing.

Looking back into the mirror at his appearance, the raggedy boy he was just an hour ago had disappeared. With disheveled clothing, his unhealthy appearance stuck out all the more. In pressed slacks and a polished silk button down, his prominent cheekbones and strong jaw looked…

He looked like…someone. Harry watches in the mirror as a line appears between his brows, and a frown grows. He knows he looks like someone, but who?

His thoughts are interrupted by Madame Malkin stepping towards him and aiming a smile at him through the mirror. "Here you are, love." She says as she hands over the package. "This has your Hogwarts robes and a few pieces that will get you through the next week. Everything else, I'll have delivered by next Saturday."

"Thank you, Madame Malkin. I appreciate the quick service and your assistance today."

"It was my pleasure. I've kept your measurements and notes on what you purchased today. Should you need anything more, feel free to owl me. You make sure to visit the cobbler like we discussed; he's just five doors down from me."

Tucking his new clothes away in his bag, Harry promises to pick up new shoes without any holes in them. As the seamstress steps away, back behind her counter to make a note of something - probably his purchases, the light outside changes. A cloud covers the sun, and the bright light that had been filtering into the shop dims and turns everything into tones of sepia. Blinking as his eyes try to adjust to the sudden change, Harry catches sight of himself again in the mirror.

He looks like Tom Riddle, he suddenly realizes. Tom Riddle from the diary memory.

It's not just the new and upscale clothing or even his neater hairstyle that, upon reflection, is very similar to Riddle's.

It's something in his expression, he thinks. Even with a pleasant smile on his face after dealing with Madame Malkin - the same expression he's been adopting all morning when talking to shopkeepers - there's something tucked away in the corner of his mouth, in his clenched jaw, in his eyes, that Harry saw in Tom Riddle's expression as well.

Anger.

Well, Harry thinks, he did say we were similar.

Turning his back on the mirror, Harry heads towards the exit and steps back out onto the main street of Diagon Alley. Business had picked up while he was occupied with the seamstress, and the street was packed. Glancing at his watch, he's already halfway through the dose of Notice Me Not Draught he took. He has more, but he'd like to ration it out. Vowing not to spend nearly as long at the rest of the shops as he did at Madame Malkins, Harry shuffles through the crowd and goes next door into Amanuensis Quills to stock up on his writing supplies. Hopefully, he can finish the rest of his purchases in time for a late lunch at the Leaky and then an early retreat to the privacy and quiet of his rented room.

Luckily, the rest of his shopping goes quickly, and he's able to collect everything he needs for the new year, as well as replace some old equipment and supplies that need to be tossed out. He spent most of his time looking at books, both at Flourish and Botts and in a secondhand bookshop.

If he was going to take his OWLs and NEWTs early, he'd need all the extra study material he could get his hands on. Through some wandering in Flourish and Botts, he had found what he thought might become his holy grail - official study guides from the Ministry for every testing subject they offered. Self-updating to reflect any curriculum added or removed from the tests, including flip-out practice test sections.

He purchased the OWL and NEWT options for every class he took and, on a whim, even threw in the books for Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Muggle Studies. Although Hogwarts didn't offer courses on the subjects, he also saw OWL and NEWT guides on Healing and Dueling that he picked up. He might only be aiming for the DADA tests to take early, but he assumed he'd probably want to go back and take more eventually.

Finally, he rounded out his errands by returning to several stores that had needed a few hours to finish his purchases.

As suggested (more like demanded) by Madame Malkin, the cobbler handed over four pairs of new shoes. Two pairs of day-to-day dress shoes, in black and brown, to wear with his uniform. One pair of the wizarding equivalent of sneakers to wear on the weekends. And finally, one pair of dragon hide boots enchanted to withstand everything short of an unforgivable.

The occumage, who gave him two new pairs of glasses - the same shape as his current rounded ones, but in gold instead of cheap black plastic. He also picked up several doses of a potion that would improve his eyesight. It took weekly applications for about six months, so it would be a while before he could ditch the glasses entirely. Unfortunately, while the effects would be permanent, the potion itself was only good for around six weeks, so he'd have to make regular owl orders. It'd give Hedwig something to do, he figured.

It's not like he'd have many others he'd be writing to in the future. Not after the way each and every person he cared about this summer turned their backs on him.

And his last stop of the day, a return to Quality Quidditch Supplies to pick up his new protective quidditch gear. Earlier, he had splurged, and in addition to the new quidditch gloves and a few practice snitches, he'd ordered professional quidditch armor, specially designed for seekers, to be worn underneath a regular Quidditch uniform. It'd give him some extra padding without weighing him down too much, and the built-in enchantments and spells - while totally legal within quidditch rules, might give him a bit of an edge on the pitch.

Although granted, seeing as the other Hogwarts seekers were all from pure-blooded families, they probably already owned a set.

Or at least - the seekers from Slytherin and Ravenclaw were pure-bloods. Harry remembers with a wince.

They'll have to replace Diggory this year.

Shuddering at the reminder, Harry exits Quality Quidditch Supplies. Running through his mental list of things he needs to buy, he thinks he's done for today and is just turning towards the Leaky Cauldron when something catches his eye, and he comes to a sudden stop.

Sidestepping out of the main walkway, Harry sinks back into the shadow of the Quality Quidditch sign and watches across the street as Molly Weasley and Remus Lupin exit the Apothecary. They're both looking at a piece of parchment Mrs. Weasley is holding open and speaking quietly to each other.

When Mrs. Weasley begins to roll the parchment up, and they both raise their heads, Harry quickly turns his face away from him. The Notice Me Not Draught has done an excellent job of letting him slip beneath the radar. There have been a few times when someone's eyes caught on him for just a moment too long, and whenever he noticed it, he'd just slip away - into another shop, into a different aisle, anything to get out of sight of whoever might have recognized him. Since he hadn't heard anyone calling after him or any whispers of "Harry Potter visiting Diagon Alley," he assumed he'd managed to get away from people before they worked through whatever fog of unrecognizability the potion gave him.

He didn't know how well it would work on two people who knew him, and today has gone too well to be ruined now by either of these people recognizing him.

Harry's not sure which would be worse - a confrontation if they felt the need to speak to him or if they recognized him and then just…turned away. Ignored him like they had been all summer.

Tilting his head so he could still see them out of his peripheral vision, but they wouldn't be able to see his entire face, Harry watches as they move down the street. Lupin carries several packages, and Harry can tell by the wrapping that they're from several different stores.

Are they doing school shopping for the others? He wonders. He can't imagine Mrs. Weasley and Lupin knew each other well enough to do their shopping together, but he's also not sure why Lupin would be helping Mrs. Weasley with her kids' shopping. Or why they'd be doing it this late.

As they continue further down the Alley, Harry shrugs off the almost-encounter. He doesn't know why they're here or why they're here together. And after a moment of thought, he decides he doesn't care.

The Weasleys, Sirius, Hermione…they all made it clear how they viewed Harry this summer. Not important.

Not important enough to bother speaking to, or check in with, despite everything that had happened in June. Not important enough to try and support him when he was on trial for underage magic. Not even important enough to bother asking why he had used underage magic.

Hell, Lupin had made his view of Harry's importance in the older man's life known years ago. Not just when he disappeared after his third year, but, in truth - years prior. The last true friend of his parents who wasn't in Azkaban, and the man had never bothered to look in on Harry after the murder of Lily and James Potter.

Standing there in the shadows of Diagon Alley, the crowd bustling around him, Harry reminded himself of the fact that he had always known. A fact that became clear to him when he was still a child, sleeping in a cupboard. A fact that Harry had forgotten the last few years when he was distracted with new friends and a giant castle with hidden passageways and talking portraits. That he'd forgotten because he was too dazzled by magic to remember a foundational truth to his life.

Harry Potter was alone.

He had been since October 31, 1981, when his only chance at a true childhood died in a flash under a madman's wand.

Harry Potter was alone in life, and at least by recognizing this truth and accepting it, he thought maybe it could stop hurting so damn much when this fact proved true over and over and over again.

*

The morning of September 1 dawned bright and early for Harry. He had retreated to the Leaky Cauldron the afternoon before and spent the afternoon and early evening repacking his new trunk and sorting through his old belongings to determine what should be kept.

Every piece of clothing from the Dursleys was tossed in the small fireplace in his room, along with the rest of the trash and random detritus the bottom of his trunk had accumulated. Although it was too hot for a fire, the magic Harry had discovered and come to control this summer was an easy solution. Holding his hand above the small pile of clothing, Harry allowed a few bolts of electricity to jump from his hand to the cloth, and within minutes, it had caught flame. Harry spent a few moments watching the threadbare and worn-down clothing burn to nothing by ash and then firmly turned his back on them.

He spent some time focused on enabling the protections around the innermost compartments of his trunk. Using one of his new knives for potions class, Harry carefully draws blood from his index finger, smears it on the lock, and whispers his carefully chosen password to set everything. As the shop worker had promised, the trunk glows with a soft white light to indicate that the protections have taken effect.

His password had been chosen entirely at random. He had weighed the choices of using things like Lily, Nimbus, Hedwig, or other things that had some significance to him. But, on additional thought, all of those could be guessed. Instead, he'd pulled out his History of Magic book, flipped to a random page, and chosen the first name that had stuck out to him.

He didn't know who Ignotus Peverell was - he hadn't bothered reading the section where he was mentioned - but Harry figured his first name would work as a password just fine.

With the protections enabled, Harry gently laid his most precious belongings safely within. The map, the cloak, the photo album, and his broom. While not anywhere close to the same level of sentimental care, out of an abundance of caution, Harry also placed his Gringotts keys and leftover money inside. He doesn't think Ron or his dorm mates would go so far as to steal money from him, but Ron has helped himself to some chocolate frogs and class notes before, and he'd rather no one see just how much money he's got stashed away in the trunk.

Following an early dinner, Harry asked Tom if he'd be willing to bring a few of his old things to a secondhand store after Harry left, with the benefit of being able to keep whatever small amount they were worth.

After the barkeeper glanced over the small pile of things Harry wasn't bringing to Hogwarts with him - his old trunk, the scratched and scuffed old pewter cauldron, the telescope he had to fiddle with the parts each time he wanted to use, and the tall stack of Lockhart books - Tom had said he wouldn't keep the money outright, but as the shop would be closed by now, Tom had given him five galleons for the lot of it and said the secondhand shop wouldn't pay much more for it. With a wave of his wand, everything flew into the trunk, which then followed Tom downstairs.

Relieved to be free of it all, Harry then made a short list on some parchment of a few items he wanted to pick up in Muggle London on his way to Kings Cross. He wouldn't have a ton of time before the train, but he figured if he could be at the shops when they opened around 8 o'clock, that'd give him a couple hours to do some more shopping before heading to Kings Cross for the Hogwarts Express. Before leaving Gringotts in the morning, he'd thought to ask Alurus to convert some galleons into pounds, and while he wanted to save most of it - just in case - he still had several hundred pounds he could spend without making much of a dent in the small pile of bills.

When Harry wakes with the sunrise, he spends a few extra moments in the en suite bathroom. There's not much he can do about the hollows of his cheeks or the dark circles under his eye - prominent even after sleeping for nearly eleven hours - but by the time he exits, his hair is perfectly in place, and he's dressed in neat slacks and a gray button down. His Hogwarts robes are tucked away in the very top of his trunk. He'll pull them out once he's reached the Express, but for now - despite it all being purchased in Diagon Alley, his outfit will pass in Muggle London without any second looks.

Harry packs his last few things and then presses the subtle button near the lock on his trunk, causing it to shrink small enough to fit in his bag. Softly closing the door to his rented room behind him, Harry proceeds downstairs where he greets Tom - the other Tom the Barkeep, bald and humpbacked, who covers the night shift at the Leaky - and asks for tea and toast for breakfast. Tom answers with a smile, and within 40 minutes of waking, Harry is checked out of the Leaky and returns to Muggle London. With three hours before the Hogwarts Express departs there's more than enough time for a bit more shopping and to still arrive at Platform 9/4 before it gets crowded.

Harry slips confidently in and out of Muggle shops, picking up things like pencils and spiral-bound notebooks, denim jeans, snacks and sweets he's watched Dudley eat, and a few Muggle fiction books. Nothing so crucial that he couldn't live without it, but little things that will make school a bit easier or more enjoyable, or even just things that he's never gotten to purchase before, so he buys them for himself simply to try. Harry's past the point of denying himself small comforts now.

Once it approaches ten o'clock, he finds an empty alley where he can stand behind a few bins and be blocked from sight of any passersby. He quickly unshrinks his trunk again to tuck away all his shopping bags. He'll have to sort it out and put it in the appropriate compartment once he reaches the Gryffindor dorm room tonight, but it'll be fine for now.

Shopping packed away, Harry glances around again before withdrawing his invisibility cloak. Within a few moments, the alley is deserted again.

*

By the time Harry passes through the barrier, Platform 9 ¾ isn't empty, but it's nowhere near as crowded as it'll be closer to eleven. Most of his schoolmates with at least one Wizarding parent will apparate or floo in, usually arriving within just a few minutes of the train departing. The Express never seems to run out of seats after all, so there's no need to arrive overly early.

Those standing around the Platform now - just past ten-fifteen, are mostly overly excited first years or muggleborns whose travel schedule would be impacted by traffic or public transportation delays, and so they've arrived extra early to ensure they don't miss the train. It always irritated him that, for some reason, the Weasleys insisted on arriving via the muggle side of the barrier but still didn't leave early enough to make it through various delays on the way. When Harry arrived with them, they had never arrived at the Platform before a few minutes before the train left, and the morning was always full of chaos and stress.

So it's a relief to Harry now, as he can make his way easily through the uncrowded Platform and find an empty compartment. He draws the curtains facing the train walkway closed, hoping people will take that as the usual sign of "Do not disturb," but sits under the invisibility cloak and watches the Platform outside as it slowly fills up over the next forty-five minutes.

The train is rumbling beneath him, and voices in the hallways outside are nearly constant before he sees a crowd of redheads come through the barrier. And…yes, there's Hermione, a solitary brown head mixed in with all the red. As the whole group comes onto the Platform, Harry sees Tonks, Lupin, and even Professor Moody - assumingly the real one - and a few others that Harry doesn't recognize are all grouped around the younger Weasleys, almost like they're guarding them.

Guarding from who or what, Harry has no idea. He'd certainly managed to wander through Diagon Alley and Muggle London unobtrusively and without issue all by himself. No guards needed. And besides, a spiteful voice in the corner of his mind says, why the hell do they deserve protection when I was left to fend for myself? I'm the one that Voldemort actually has a problem with - he'd probably kill the Weasleys and Hermione if given the chance, but it's doubtful he gives a single fuck about them.

Harry tries to ignore the voice and the slowly igniting fire in his belly, but then…then he sees something that causes the rage to climb, overtaking his stomach and flooding into his throat until he feels like he'll choke on his anger.

It's Sirius, in his grim form, coming through the barrier at the very end of the group, and he's jumping and dancing around the whole clump of people joyfully. Padfoot jumps up, front legs balancing on Ron's shoulders as he licks Ron's cheek until Ron laughingly shoves him off.

Harry's hands are shaking, he realizes. And there's a weight on his chest slowly crushing him.

Incensed, Harry watches as Sirius seemingly says goodbye to all of the younger set, everyone heading off for Hogwarts. Everyone, that is, except for his godson. The adults are trying to control him, and Lupin and Moody are pulling Padfoot away from the kids so the rest of the guard can make their own goodbyes. Moody looks irritated, and Lupin is fondly exasperated.

Harry watches it all and observes the hugs that Molly Weasley disperses, the quiet words and grips on shoulders from Arthur Weasley. Even Lupin, Tonks, and the others all take a few moments to say goodbye to the Hogwarts students. At no point do any of them - not Hermione, not Ron, not Padfoot, or Moony look around to try and spot Harry. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley aren't scanning the Platform to see if they can spot him. The aurors - Moody and Tonks, and maybe the other strangers, aren't canvassing the area for anyone in particular. Padfoot might be looking towards the train, but Harry can't really tell, and it's only for a few seconds before he's up again, weaving between the legs of the group, accepting pats and scratches from the group.

Abruptly, Harry smells smoke and looks away from the window, then forces himself to release his hands from where he is gripping the seat. There are small burn marks in the shape of his fingers, and he pats the black marks quickly to put out any lingering sparks.

Harry wonders what they've been told about Harry this summer. Do they think the Dursleys would bring him to King's Cross? Do they think they all need guards to make it here, but he'd be fine taking the train alone? Or maybe they were told that someone else was picking him up - maybe Dumbledore or a contingent of aurors?

Turning back to look out the window, Harry sees that the younger group has made it on the train, just in time it seems, as he feels the rumble beneath his feet from the engine begin to increase. Based on where the adults are all staring, they must be a few compartments up from where Harry himself is.

He's glad they haven't found him. Harry doesn't think he could have controlled his temper if they had wandered into his compartment and tried to greet him like everything was fine or given any reasons as to why he'd been abandoned all summer.

Well, he figures, supposed I'll hear all of that tonight. Either at the feast or in the dorm. Settling back in his seat, Harry tells himself to enjoy the hours on the train. They'll be solitary and quiet, but that's precisely what he needs right now.

Chapter Text

September 1

His train ride to Hogwarts goes mostly undisturbed. Generally, students understand that drawn curtains signify "this compartment is taken, and its occupants aren't open to visitors." The only interruptions are the woman pushing the trolley cart, who knocks cheerily and then pops open the door despite a lack of response.

As Harry dropped about 50 quid that morning on snacks and a couple of sandwiches, he doesn't say anything from underneath his invisibility cloak to give away that the room is occupied. She shuts the door and continues on her way shortly.

A little after that - later than Harry would have assumed - the door slides open again, and Hermione pops her head in. Harry holds still and quiets his breathing, and after a quick scan of the room, Hermione moves on. Not fast enough for Harry to miss the prefect's badge on her robes.

Wonder who got it for the boys, Harry ponders, probably Dean, or maybe Neville. Both would do well as prefects and would be good counterpoints to Hermione.

Besides those two interruptions, the trip to Scotland was quiet and peaceful. Eventually, when he tires of the views outside the window, Harry digs out one of the muggle fiction books he purchased that morning and contented himself with reading it, the book and snacks all hidden under the invisibility cloak with him.

When he notices the sun has started its descent, he stands and pulls out his trunk again. He packs the book and the leftover sweets away and then throws on his robes. Reluctantly, he returns the invisibility cloak to the protected compartment.

Within thirty minutes, the train is slowing to a stop at the Hogsmeade station, and the volume of voices outside his compartment rises again with excited chatter. He waits a few minutes, hoping to let the majority go ahead of him, but eventually, he knows he has to exit the train, or he'll end up back in London. Harry forces himself to stand and step out into the train corridor, bracing for whatever reaction he'll get this year. He sees a few people walking ahead of him, but he's timed it well, and there's no one too close to his carriage.

He heads towards the nearest exit, eyes scanning the students moving in a mass exodus from the train station. As he steps down onto the outdoor platform, he thinks he hears someone calling his name—not in recognition after spotting him, but more to try and locate him in a crowd.

Ducking his head, Harry lets himself be swept into the group until he reaches the carriages. He jolts upon recognizing the horseless carriages are no longer horseless at all and instead are drawn by some kind of terrifying bat-horse hybrid.  No one else seems to be reacting to them, however, so Harry shrugs it off as something he'll have to look into later and climbs into a carriage with two third years who stare at him wide-eyed and huddle together in the corner farthest away from him.

Harry ignores their whispering and just stares out the window, waiting for the first view of Hogwarts. They round a corner, and there - through the trees - Harry can finally see the castle. Rising up from the Black Lake the castle shines in the sunset.

Harry feels a tension in his shoulders - three months old and mostly ignored - release.

He's finally home.

*

Harry is crossing the threshold into the entry way, ignoring the sideways glances thrown his direction from the students around him and dodging floating ghosts when he hears another voice calling out for him.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter, wait there, please."

Scanning the space, he makes eye contact with Professor McGonagall, who's making her way towards him.

When she reaches him, she blinks at him, expression a bit taken aback, before seeming to shake herself and focus back on why she was seeking him out.

"Mr. Potter, you'll need to come this way to wait for the first years."

What?

"Er. What do you mean, Professor?"

"For the sorting, Mr. Potter."

She frowns at his continued confused expression, "Did you not read the letter that was sent to you, Mr. Potter?"

"No, I opened it enough to see it was just the standard letter from Hogwarts and then…" crumpled it up and threw it away in a fit of anger, "got distracted by something else. I never returned to it, reckoned I could track down the fifth-year supplies without it." He says with a shrug.

McGonagall's eyes widen and she seems unsure of what to say. "Ah. I suppose…I suppose that explains why I didn't get a reply then, Mr. Potter. I did include a personal note asking you to follow up with me if you had any questions about the contents."

An expression of unsureness passes her face - an expression rarely worn by Professor McGonagall. She quickly looks around, and seems to register the many heads turned in their direction (and likely ears trying to tune in), and sighs.

"Follow me, Mr. Potter. I'll explain in private."

Glancing once at the open doors to the Great Hall, already beckoning him in with the soft candlelight and smells from the kitchen underneath, Harry follows his head of house down a side hallway into a small room that might have once been an office but now is empty save a few crates along the back wall.

"Well then, Mr. Potter. I suppose it's up to me to tell you this. Although I do hope you know we had intended to explain it to you earlier in the summer and not surprise you with it tonight. I recommend you pay more attention to your post in the future." She says sternly.

Harry has no freaking clue what she's getting at, but he can already tell it's bad news. Surprises never work out for him.

"Right, sorry, Professor. I'll do that."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. Now, earlier this summer it's my understanding you had a…run in, with the Ministry and were tried for underage magic."

He interrupts, "Yes, but it was for a valid reason Professor - self defense. And I was cleared of all charges."

"I'm aware of those facts as well." And she does look sympathetic to his plight as she continues, "Unfortunately, the Ministry, in their…eagerness to uphold the law, expelled you prematurely from Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore had it reversed almost immediately, of course, and following your trial and lack of conviction, there was no question as to your place at Hogwarts. However, when a student is enrolled, or in your case re-enrolled, they…well, they must be sorted."

He stares at her blankly. "But I've already been sorted, Professor. I'm a Gryffindor."

"Yes, Mr. Potter. As you've been in my house for the last four years, I'm quite aware of the results of your initial sorting," she says with a sniff, "but technically, as you have been re-enrolled, you are an unsorted student and, therefore must go once more under the hat."

When it looks like he's going to continue arguing, the Professor is quick to reassure him, "It's nothing more than a formality, Potter. You'll be resorted to Gryffindor and be back in the tower this evening. It does mean, however, that you'll need to wait with the first years before joining your housemates."

Glancing at her watch, her lips purse. "Speaking of the first years, I'm running behind to meet Hagrid with his lot. Please make your way to the entrance of the Great Hall, I'll fetch you once I'm back with the younger students, and we will enter as a group."

And with that, she turns and exits, leaving him in the empty room.

"You'll be resorted to Gryffindor," she told him, but Harry wasn't so sure. He had barely managed to convince the Hat to place him in the house of Lions the first time around, and based on the conversation Harry had with the Hat in his second year, it still thought Slytherin was the better house for him.

What if the Hat won't listen to reason this time? What if the Hat insists on Slytherin and my new dorm mate is Draco-bloody-Malfoy? And, with even more horror, Oh hell, what if Snape becomes my new head of house?

The more he considers it, the more absolutely sure he is that it's what will happen.

Harry doesn't think he's become any more "Gryffindor-ish" or less "Slytherin-like" since the last time he wore the Hat. So he doubts the Hat's opinion will change.

He also isn't nearly as desperate to be in Gryffindor as he was in his first year. Slytherin still doesn't appeal to him, of course, any more than it did four years ago, but if the only options are Gryffindor and Slytherin, Harry is so angry with enough current students or alumni of Gryffindor House that he's not sure he could work up the same level of conviction that managed to convince the Hat the first time around.

And the largest reason why Harry is absolutely positive he'll be wearing a silver and green tie tonight...when has anything gone well for him? Of course, if given the chance, the Universe, or God, or Merlin, or whatever is controlling Harry's life will see fit to throw him in the House full of people (and professors) who despise him and would cheerfully see him dead. Or at least crucioed until he was on the floor drooling.

Once again, it's Harry who will get the short end of the stick. Once again, he'll be the one to have to grin and bear it and shoulder the weight of whatever new indignity Wizarding Britain shoveled over him.

Fuck them. Fuck the sorting hat. Fuck the Slytherins and the Gryffindors and everyone else who only see people in four shades. Fuck Dumbledore, and Snape, and even McGonagall for just dropping this on me and not trying to fix it. For thinking a letter would be sufficient and never following up when I didn't reply. And fuck them for assuming I could only ever be a Gryffindor, for that matter.

Fuck all of them.

Harry does some quick calculations and figures it'll take about ten minutes for McGonagall to walk to the meeting point for the firsties, give her usual sorting night speech - and Merlin is Harry glad she didn't make him listen to that again. It's debatable whether he'd just start cursing everyone in sight or if he'd burst out in hysterical laughter if he had to listen to a lecture about how "Your house is your family." Ten minutes to give the speech and make her way back to the Great Hall.

Harry gives himself precisely four minutes and thirty seconds to freak the fuck out about his inevitable move to Slytherin.

He has just under five minutes to let out the anger that's been creeping up on him all day. He cracks his neck and then whirls around, lightning already sparking from his left hand. As he aims at the boxes across the room, he draws his wand and begins casting in rapid succession.

Lightning - Bombarda - Confringo - Lightning - Lightning - Expulso - Bombarda - Diffindo - Depulso - Lightning

Over and over, cycling through as many offensive and destructive spells as he knew alternated with crackling energy stretching from him across the room.

Four minutes later, Harry is leaning over his knees, panting.

The room is - well, not destroyed. The old stone of Hogwarts holds up much too well to be ruined by his spells, but the crates that were along the wall are reduced to smoldering pieces of wood, the window is shattered, and the tapestries on either side of the door have been sliced into multiple pieces, which were then either frozen and shattered on the stone floor or blown up. There's ash floating through the air and a few scorch marks along the walls, but that'll all be handled with a good cleaning.

"Dobby," Harry pants, trying to catch his breath

A moment of silence, and then - POP "Harry Potter calls for Dobby? Dobby is being so happy to see Harry Potter again!"

Harry smiles at the elf. Despite Dobby's overzealous attempts at "protecting" Harry back in second year, it couldn't be denied that Dobby was loyal to Harry.

"Hey Dobby, I'm sorry to ask this, but any chance you could help me with cleaning this room up? I've got to run to the sorting."

Dobby nods confidently and is already focusing on different areas of the room, mess disappearing with snaps of his fingers as Harry heads towards the door.

"Thanks, Dobby, I owe you majorly. Come find me later this week so we can catch up, yeah?"

Harry closes the door softly behind him, blocking out Dobby's joyful acceptance. His hands are still shaking slightly, but he's caught his breath again.

Harry walks back to the Great Hall. As he goes, he focuses on his breathing, making it as steady as possible.

In. Hold. Out. Hold.

Repeat.

He can survive this.

What is Severus Snape when he's faced down Voldemort - in some form - three separate times?

What is 100 Slytherin dorm mates ready to curse him in the back when he faced down 100 dementors hungry for his soul?

What is the inevitable disgust and vitriol of the Gryffindors when, over the last three months, he felt the much more devastating indifference of his loved ones?

He can survive this. He can survive being a Slytherin. If it all goes to plan, he'll take a NEWT in a year and be considered a full legal adult. He could leave Hogwarts behind then. Just leave and set out on his own. Find somewhere that your school house doesn't matter.

With his breathing regulated, he starts repeating a mantra from the book he read on the train earlier. He can't remember all of it, but what he does remember is soothing. As he repeats it over and over to himself, it gets even more jumbled and simplified in his mind. Distilled down to a short, repeatable phrase.

I must not fear. Fear is the little death. I will face my fear and let it pass over me. When the fear is gone, only I will remain.

I must not fear. Fear is the little death. I will face my fear, and when it is gone, only I will remain.

Fear is the little death, and when it is gone, only I will remain.

Fear is death. I will remain.

Fear is death. I will remain.

Harry turns the corner of the hallway that intersects the entrance to the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall will be coming from the opposite direction, and he thinks he can barely hear the first years' excited whispers coming down the corridor.

He pulls his shoulders back, posture straight enough even Aunt Petunia wouldn't find a complaint.

Fear is death. I will remain.

Soft footfalls drawing nearer, none louder than the click click of McGonagall's boots at the front of the pack.

His chin goes up, expression neutral, and gaze purposefully distant. He won't let a single person in Hogwarts know he's upset about this. They wouldn't honestly give a damn anyway, except for the opportunity to mock him about it.

Fear is death. I will remain.

By the time the clump of wide-eyed first years round the corner, Harry is, by all appearances, waiting unbothered just a few steps away from the entrance to the Great Hall. He's out of sight of anyone within but can hear their voices, impatient and hungry.

McGongall scans him head to toe, and nods at him once satisfied with whatever she sees in his expression, then guides the first years into the Great Hall. Harry trails behind, his hands tucked into his robe pockets nonchalantly. He's half-heartedly hoping people will be distracted by the first years and won't notice him walking a few paces behind.

Alas, he's spotted quickly. An increase of whispers and familiar laughter from the Slytherin table herald his recognition among the other students.

Harry glances at the table of green and silver and sees Malfoy grinning with delight as he leans over to Crabbe next to him. Harry can't hear what he's saying, but thanks to Malfoy's gestures, it's clearly about him.

Another glance, this time aimed towards the Gryffindor table, and Harry's able to spot Ron and Hermione sitting together. Both are watching him with confused expressions, but when he makes eye contact, Ron grins and waves at him. Hermione begins to pantomime something with gestures and mouthed words, but Harry's too far away to have any hope of guessing what she's saying.

He looks away from them and scans the staff table instead. Hagrid's missing, he notes. Snape is scowling at him, per usual. And - oh. The nasty woman from his trial is here. The one who was buddied up to the Minister is apparently obsessed with pink. A quick scan of the table proves she's the only unfamiliar face.

She must be the new DADA teacher. Damn.

McGonagall has reached the front of the room and pauses before scrolling the list of first-year names.

"Due to a clerical issue, Mr. Potter must be resorted. He will follow the first years."

Harry feels the eyes of the entire great hall focus on him and allows his fingers to clench where they're hidden in his pockets. He's grateful McGonagall got it over with without going into detail - he'd have hated to have to stand up here under the eyes of all while she goes on about his circumstances - but the limited information probably just made the other students more intrigued.

"Euan, Abercrombie," McGonagall calls, and a small boy stumbles to the front of the first years, his hands visibly trembling but chin raised.

Gryffindor, Harry thinks, just a few moments before the Hat calls out the same.

Harry spends the next few minutes distracting himself from what's coming by guessing where each student will end up. Despite most of them being blind guesses, he does surprisingly well, guessing about three-quarters of them correctly.

Eventually, however, he's the last student standing at the front of the Great Hall. McGonagall doesn't read his name; she just jerks her head towards the stool as she rolls up the list of names.

Harry takes the few remaining steps forward. Which are basically his last steps as a Griffyndor. He looks past the stool to look at the professor's table again. Dumbledore is staring at his hands, fingertips pressed together in front of him. The rest of them - barring Snape and the pink woman - look cheerfully intrigued by his resorting. Flitwick, when Harry makes eye contact with him, even waves.

The friendly looks end, however, when Harry sits himself on the stool and faces out into the Great Hall. There, the expressions range from outright scowls to confusion. The Sorting Hat lowers on his head, and this time, it finally fits, leaving his view of the Great Hall unblocked.

Well, well. What have we here? I so rarely get to speak with a student more than once, Mr. Potter and you're the first one I've had the chance to actually resort in centuries. The Hat sounds delighted at the situation.

Yes, I'm sure it's all fascinating for you, Harry thinks sullenly, even in his own head - somehow, the Hat makes him feel like he's some kind of experiment that the Hat is observing.

I see you've already made up your mind on where you believe I will sort you this time, Mr. Potter. No attempts to talk me around?

Would it do any good? Harry thinks at the Hat.

Hmm. You are still quite brave, Mr. Potter. And very loyal to those you consider deserving of it. With the right circumstances you might even do well amongst Rowena's lot. That curiosity has only grown since we last met, although you're selective in what it applies to.

Harry stays silent - or rather, keeps his mind as empty as possible. The Hat may be mentioning all the houses, but it doesn't sound sold on any of them.

No, Mr. Potter. I do think I had it right the first time. Perhaps you could suit any house, but with your remaining time in Hogwarts, I shall endeavor to place you in a House that will best suit you. Somewhere that will challenge you. You have learned all you can from Gryffindor.

Harry sighs quietly. He knew it was coming, but it's still a blow.

A word of advice, Mr. Potter. I would encourage you to look to your new house mascot as you adjust to the changes in your life. It's not a comfortable process, but sometimes, we must shed our skin to grow. Best of luck to you, in ”SLYTHERIN!”

The last word is shouted out for the hall to hear, leaving a shocked silence in its wake. 

Chapter Text

Theodore noticed he still had a bit of blue paint under his thumbnail.

He halfheartedly scratches it off, despite knowing that there were probably more paint splotches somewhere on his person. The lighting in his studio at home surpasses anything he can find at Hogwarts, so he had spent all morning painting as much as he could, before having to pack it all away frantically for the Hogwarts Express. He had barely bothered (or had time) to look himself over in the mirror for any stains before saying goodbye to Amalie.

He had woken up early to fit in as much painting time as possible, and the long day was wearing on him. He was already wishing the Sorting and Welcome Feast were over, along with the usual posturing in the Slytherin common room that usually follows, so he could head to bed. Glancing across the table at Blaise, his friend’s eyes move up from Theodore’s hands to meet his eyes.

“What were you working on today?” Blaise asks.

Theodore smiles, especially proud of his current work. “It’s a beach scene during a storm. You’d like it.”

In truth, it’s one of Theodore’s better pieces. He’d painted forked lightning streaking across a dark sky, above heaving and angry waves. The sand on the beach was a stark black, although if that was the natural color or if the heavy rain and clouds darkened, he wasn’t sure. Theodore never quite knew what he was painting until the image was already taking shape on his canvas.

“Did you bring it with you, mio amico, or will I have to wait until term ends to see it in person?”

“I packed it. It doesn’t quite feel finished yet. And I still have to do the rune work to give it anima.”

Blaise is just opening his mouth again to respond when the doors to the Great Hall swing open, and McGonagall, followed by a crowd of nervous looking first years, enter the room. Theodore is surveying them, doing his annual habit of trying to pick out the soon-to-be-Slytherin students, when he spots -

“What’s Potter doing with the first years?” Malfoy sneers from further down the table.

Parkinson laughs, “Do you think he’s flunked all the way back to Year One? They’re just kicking him back to the start because he’s too much of a moron to take OWLs this year!”

Theodore thinks that’s quite an attitude to take for someone who’s sitting not-so-comfortably in the bottom 10 of their class. Parkinson, for all her pride, is terribly unacademic, although she tries to say it’s just down to “test anxiety.” Actually cracking open her texts books for revision now and then would probably help calm that anxiety, but no one ever seems to call her out on it.

Although, to be fair to her, Theodore doesn’t have any better ideas on why Harry Potter is walking behind the first years, sticking out like a unicorn in a thestral herd. Theodore knows Potter isn’t an idiot, though. Potions grades aside, Potter has always been towards the top of the class - particularly in Defense - and Theodore supposes that if Potter would stop having death defying adventures every year, he might even climb to the top 10 in class rankings.

Theodore watches Potter follow the small crowd to the front of the Great Hall. He glances to either side of him once, but otherwise keeps his gaze towards the front of the room. He looks - ill, Theodore suddenly realizes. The hollows of his cheeks shadowed, the circles under his eyes heavy with bruises.

Theodore wonders if this results from some sickness he picked up over summer break, or if it’s the lasting impact of what Potter experienced at the end of last term. Despite The Prophet and the Ministry’s refusal to accept the Dark Lord’s return, Theodore heard it straight from his uncle’s mouth, a recounting of what occurred the night Potter disappeared from under Dumbledore’s nose and returned with a dead classmate clutched to his side.

Potter’s countenance reminds Theodore of those last few weeks his father spent in St Mungo’s, when the healers had carefully broached the subject of changing their focus to “pain mitigation and comfort” instead of actually healing him of the slow acting illness he had died from.

This couldn’t have just been the lingering effects of the TriWizard Tournament and the tragedy the Third Task had resulted in. Although Potter had been reclusive in those couple weeks between the third task and the end of term, he had been seen around the castle, and he’d mostly just looked like an unfortunate mixture of grieving and terrified.

Just a few months later, and Potter looked inches from a sick bed. Theodore wondered what had happened over the summer to cause it.

McGonagall, now at the front of the room, finally provides a vague explanation for Potter’s presence.

A clerical issue? Theodore wonders, What kind of clerical issue requires a bloody re-sort? Had Potter been expelled?

Ignoring the fevered whispers ringing throughout the room, Theodore focuses on Potter. He would have assumed the Boy-Who-Lived would have been fuming at the indignity, or laughing at everyone - even the Hogwarts staff - questioning his utter Gryffindor-ness.

Malfoy seems to feel similarly. “Honestly, we all know where Scar Head is going. Why don’t they just chuck him back to the Gryffindorks and save us all the time?”

Potter’s head turns just slightly to watch the first boy go under the hat, and Theodore is surprised to find his face isn’t showing irritation or humor or…much of anything, really. His face is startlingly blank, and for once there’s no slump in his shoulders. Potter’s chin is up, his shoulders straight, and back tall. The only break in the perfect posture is his hands. They’re tucked into his robe pockets instead of loose at his sides or clasped behind his back.

It’s another dramatic change, considering every other time Theodore has seen Potter, he’s been slumped over into himself, usually with his chin tucked down. Really, the only times Potter has approached this demeanor is when he’s facing down Snape in the dungeons and is filled with a righteous hatred.

The crowd of first years dwindles as they join their houses, but Theodore can’t pay them any attention, barely even recognizing when his own house gains students. He claps when those around him applaud, but otherwise spends the entire sorting focused on Potter.

There’s something…off about him. Not just that he’s apparently learned a solid poker face in the last two months, or fixed his truly abhorrent posture, or even finally purchased some robes that don’t look like they’ve come from a bargain bin.

No, there’s something else that’s changed. Something about Potter reminds Theodore of his blank canvases. They’re never really blank - the painting that is meant to be painted on them already exists. Theodore just hasn’t brought it to life yet. The painting is hidden, obscured from his eyes, but not his senses or his magic.

Potter reminds him of that.

Eventually, the crowd dwindles, until it’s just Potter standing alone in front of the staff table. He waits until the last first year is seated and then walks up the few steps to the stool. Potter puts the sorting hat on with little fanfare, aiming his blank face out towards the rest of the students.

Theodore is expecting the hat to scream “Gryffindor” immediately, or at least within a few seconds of being placed on Potter’s head. But the seconds drag on.

Maybe the Hat wanted a chat? Must get boring if your only conversation partners are a senile geriatric and a bunch of eleven year olds.

Ignoring Malfoy’s frenzied whispers of Potter not getting resorted at all and just getting the boot, Theodore keeps his attention on Potter.

And so he notices when Potter’s expression cracks - just barely. Just a moment before the wide brim of the Hat opens, Theodore thinks he picks up something from Potter’s face - resignation or weariness maybe, as evidenced by the slight downturn of Potter’s lips and a minute slump in his soldiers. It’s gone just as quickly, and Potter is back to his marble statue impression by the time the Hat shouts out, “SLYTHERIN!”

Theodore blinks. And then blinks again. That’s unexpected.

The hall is dead silent for what feels like a lifetime, but Theodore knows it is more like ten seconds at most, as everyone seems to draw in a deep breath and then freeze in shock.

Harry Potter, a Slytherin? The very idea of it seems preposterous - Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, the Savior, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-The-Antithesis-of-Everything-Dark being sent down to the dungeons with the other evil snakes? If the hall hadn’t been so resoundingly silent, Theodore would have burst out laughing at the very idea of it.

Glancing down the length of his table, he has to bite his lip to keep his expression neutral. Malfoy looks like someone slapped him across the face. Theodore, not for the first time, imagines it’s what he looked like two years ago when Granger punched him.

Gods, I still wish I could have seen that.

Truly, seeing Malfoy with a bloody nose - courtesy of a muggleborn - has to be second only to witnessing him hear his hated rival would soon join him in Slytherin House. Looking away from Malfoy’s dumbfounded expression, Theodore tries to judge the rest of Slytherin House’s reaction. Most of the fourth years and up have better control of their expressions than Draco, although it’s clear some are struggling to adopt the usual polite expression that purebloods are taught as soon as they’re weaned.

He sees plenty of widened eyes, or barely parted lips betraying surprise. Across from him, Blaise isn’t even attempting to control his expression, and is watching Potter as if he’s an especially comedic play.

The rest of the Great Hall isn’t much better. The Gryffindors just starting to react with confused exclamations. The Hufflepuffs are staring at Potter with suspicion and fear - likely still angry over the events of last year - and the Ravenclaw table is watching Potter with fascination.

Focusing back on the boy himself, Theodore looks to Potter, as he stands from the stool and returns it to a taken-aback McGonagall. Theodore would have expected him to rage against this resort, or at least demand more time under the hat to try to convince it against this decision, but Potter says nothing. Turning smoothly on his heel, the newest Slytherin begins the walk to his new table, his red and gold-trimmed robe already fading to emerald and silver.

Potter seems - entirely unsurprised or upset. The slowly growing murmurs and glares aimed at Potter went unregistered, or at least intentionally ignored, as Potter continued on his way to the Slytherin table.

Glancing now towards the staff table, Theodore saw many of the same reactions as the students. Surprise, dismay, etc.

The outliers were Dumbledore, who was staring hard at his own hands, steepled in front of him, Snape glaring at Potter as if the boy had slaughtered Snape’s mother, and the Ministry plant who looked like she’d sucked on lemons.

In other words, everyone was reacting exactly how Theodore would have guessed if he had ever imagined Potter becoming a Slytherin - not that the idea had ever even crossed Theodore’s mind before. Really, the only person whose reaction was a surprise was Potter himself.

Looking again at Blaise, Theodore tilts his head just slightly and raises a brow, glancing at the spot next to Blaise. Without needing to say anything, Blaise slides down just enough that there is an open seat, the only available spot near the rest of the fifth year Slytherins. Potter, just reaching them, tracks Blaise’s movements and takes the seat naturally, as if he’d always been aiming for this seat.

Once Potter sits, he looks up and makes eye contact with Theodore, now directly across the table from him.

Theodore realizes this is, without a doubt, the closest he has ever been to Potter, and certainly the first (and probably only) time the other boy has bothered with giving him much attention. Usually, in any Slytherin/Gryffindor interaction, Malfoy is quick to get Potter’s focus, and his ire.

Theodore can practically feel Malfoy gearing up to say something to Potter. Something nasty, no doubt, and for some reason, Theodore doesn’t want the first words from Potter’s new house to be spoken out of spite.

Without stopping to think on his reasoning further, Theodore says, “Welcome to Slytherin, Potter. I don’t think anyone imagined this would be the result of you going back under the Hat, but I suppose there’s been odder sortings.”

Not that Theodore could think of one at the moment, but surely in Hogwarts’ thousand years of existence, there had been other surprises during The Sorting.

Potter seems to weigh Theodore’s words for a moment, judging if there was an insult intended, before nodding at him, “Thank you. It’s not how I expected my night to go either, but I suppose there’s no going back now.”

“I’m Theodore Nott. I don’t think we’ve spoken much before.”

Theodore extends his hand across the table, and can practically hear the Slytherin’s around him stop breathing. For a split second, he had forgotten, until after already starting the movement to put his hand out, that Potter resoundingly rejected Malfoy’s hand back in first year. Their year (and several cohorts above) had heard Malfoy complain about it for weeks. It was so ingrained in him to shake someone’s hand upon introducing himself, that he hadn’t considered if Potter would spurn him the same way he had Malfoy.

But his concern seems for nothing, as without hesitation Potter reaches across the table and grasps his hand. “Harry Potter.” He says his name with a small quirk of his lips, a tiny crack in his statue impression to show the humour in introducing himself, when every witch or wizard has known his name since he was a baby.

Theodore is about to say something - what he doesn’t know, despite his mouth already opening - when Dumbledore stands at the front of the hall.

Theodore expects him to say something about Potter’s sorting, but the headmaster just rolls right into his usual welcome speech.

“Potter” Malfoy hisses from down the table. Theodore watches as green eyes flick in Malfoy’s direction, Potter’s expression otherwise remaining unchanged.

“Wonder what your friends think about this move to Slytherin,” Malfoy continues, “Bet the Weasel and your little mudblood aren’t too happy about it.”

It’s a good hit. Malfoy, for all of his brashness and general dramatics, has always been good at centering in on the one thing that is sure to hurt the most, and just digging his nails in until you flinch.

Theodore looks to the Gryffindor table, behind Potter and across the Great Hall, and sees Weasley and Granger both staring in their direction. Weasley is bright red - always had a temper, that one - and Granger is staring at Potter’s back with an expression that wouldn’t look out of place at a funeral.

Theodore looks back at Potter just in time to see him shrug. “Probably not Malfoy. But I’m sure they’re not the only ones unhappy about my new house.”

Malfoy snorts, “That’s for sure. I’m surprised you didn’t pitch a fit and demand to go back to your ivory tower. We all know you don’t fit in here. The Hat must be going as senile as Dumbledore to think you could ever be a Slytherin.”

Tilting his chin to look Malfoy dead on, Potter pauses and lets the silence hold as he considers Malfoy’s words. A long moment and then - Potter’s expression breaks again as a slight smirk makes its way onto his face. He opens his mouth and - hisses.

Every Slytherin in earshot - which is most of the table since it’s clear they’re all straining to hear Potter’s conversation - stiffens and many trade wide-eyed looks. Malfoy goes pale.

It’s a brutal reminder that Potter - Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, the Savior, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-The-Antithesis-of-Everything-Dark, is a parselmouth.

The only known parselmouth in Britain other than the Dark Lord, and even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was the first in a century to speak parseltongue publicly.

Theodore doesn’t know what Potter said in the snake tongue, whether it be a curse or an insult, or even just Potter telling Draco to fuck off, but by the nature of the drawn-out sibilant noises, it sounds menacing and sinister. It’s enough to silence Malfoy, who looks taken aback and uncomfortable. By showing off what is arguably the most coveted Slytherin talent, Potter also issues a sharp rebuttal to the argument he doesn’t belong there. Theodore remembers the whispers from the upper years back in their second year that Potter should have come to them, that a parselmouth belongs in Slytherin House.

Guess they got their wish. Just a few years late.

Theodore feels the general mood in the Great Hall shift again, and glances to the front to see what in Merlin’s name is happening now. He’s dismayed to see that the Ministry woman who that Fudge shoehorned into the DADA position has decided to give a speech.

Although he listens at first, mostly because Theodore hasn’t had someone talk down to him like this since he was seven and he’s vaguely interested in just how stupid this woman thinks they all are, the content of the woman’s speech doesn’t hold any surprises. It was clear as soon as he saw the article in The Prophet the other week that the Senior Undersecretary’s appointment to a position at Hogwarts was another attempt by Fudge and his cronies to undermine Dumbledore.

Once he realizes the woman’s speech is both expected and boring, Theodore turns his attention back to Potter and tries to subtly observe him. Although Potter looks like he could use a few good meals and approximately a week of sleep, there was something in his demeanor that Potter had never managed before. A confidence maybe, or perhaps a genuine lack of concern over what the people around him thought. Potter certainly didn’t seem to care or even notice the whispers and stares that were still being aimed his way.

His eyes really are startlingly green, Theodore thinks to himself. A shade so vibrant that it has to be influenced by Potter’s inherent magic, like the famous Malfoy white blonde hair, or the way Abbots always have a star-shaped cluster of freckles on their left cheek. In the past, even Daphne had grudgingly appreciated Potter’s eyes, although she immediately followed it up by disparaging his untameable hair.

Theodore wants to try to paint those eyes.

He looks away before Potter can catch him staring, just in time for Umbridge to take her seat, and Dumbledore to finish up his start of term reminders. As the Headmaster sits down, food and drink appear on the table, and Theodore serves himself, keeping an eye on Potter out of the corner of his eye as the other boy does the same.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, as people busy themselves with their food in an attempt to avoid speaking into the uncomfortable atmosphere.

Of course, it’s Blaise who breaks the silence. He’s never one to feel uncomfortable in any situation. “So, OWLS this year. Anyone want to place bets on who from our year has the first mental breakdown? My bet’s on Corner. He’s always been a bit high-strung.”

Theodore huffs a quiet laugh, “Nah, it’ll definitely be a Puff that cracks first. Abbot or Hopkins for sure.”

Parkinson interjects, “I’m betting on Granger. She always goes into hysterics during exam time.”

Theodore checks across the table, but Potter says nothing, just continues eating his potatoes.

“Well, if we’re taking guesses on who’s going mental this year, obviously it’ll have to be Potty.” Malfoy says from down the table, pitched high enough that his voice carries, “According to The Prophet, he’s already halfway there.”

Once again, Potter doesn’t respond, although Theodore thinks he catches a slight tightening of his fingers on his fork as the other boy continues to eat.

Parkinson giggles, “I’d say he’s more than halfway, Draco.”

This exchange, and that Potter fails to react, seems to set the tone for the rest of dinner. Sly looks and acerbic comments are aimed in Potter’s direction every few minutes, and though they would be impossible for him to miss, he doesn’t respond to any of them. It’s like they just roll right off of him. Slytherin House is testing its newest member, wanting to see just how far they can push before Potter strikes back.

By the time the last bit of pudding disappears from plates, Theodore has mostly lost interest in the Slytherin-Potter debacle, as it seems like it’s going to be a much more boring affair than he originally assumed. Theodore has already shifted his attention, and is already considering if he’ll want to keep working on the beach scene, or start a new project in the morning, and so he misses whatever is said that finally sparks a reaction out of Potter.

Theodore watches as Potter turns his attention down the table to look at someone sitting amongst the upper years, although he can’t tell who. Potter’s eyes narrow, and the air around Theodore suddenly feels heavy. When he breathes in, it burns his nostrils the same way it does when Theodore stands a little too close to a fire.

Potter’s voice is cool, although, for the first time tonight, anger is clear on his face. “You’re a Carrow, aren’t you.” It’s phrased like a question, but clear from the tone that Potter knows exactly who he’s speaking to.

Looking in the same direction, Theodore sees Hestia watching Potter with a challenge in her eyes. Flora, her twin sister, is avoiding his gaze.

Potter continues, “It surprises me, that you of all people, would doubt what happened after the third task. I would have thought you heard about it from your family members…Alecto and Amycus Carrow, I believe, were their names. They were there, after all.”

Hestia looks confused now. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you? About how they came when Voldemort called.” Flinches go around the table at the Dark Lord’s name.

“They didn’t tell you how they helped Voldemort, a grown man - or something close to a man that is, god knows he’s lost all humanity by now - but a grown adult torture and mock a teenager. They didn’t share all the details of the way they bowed and kissed the robes of a monster. All in the name of pureblood supremacy, of course. Which is ironic considering he’s at best a half-blood, at worst muggle born.”

Gasps up and down the table, and even from those closest to them at the Ravenclaw table, who had clearly been eavesdropping.

“The Dark Lord is a pureblood, Potter. Don’t besmirch his name just because you disagree with him.” Flint spits out at Potter.

“Disagree with?” Potter raises one brow, “That’s an interesting way to phrase my history with your ‘Dark Lord.’ But as for his blood status…well you didn’t actually think his mother named him ‘Lord Voldemort’ did you?” Potter leans forward with a knowing smirk, and Theodore just knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to be an earth shattering revelation.

“Voldemort was born Tom Riddle. He told me so himself. He went to school here some fifty years ago. Was Head Boy, even got an award for Special Services to the School. It was for a bullshit reason, of course, he lied. But that’s a whole other story. But regarding his blood status…well I don’t know of any other wizards named Riddle, do you? So, he’s either a half-blood, or a muggleborn.”

Theodore swallows hard. He doesn’t even want to follow the Dark Lord. Doesn’t agree with his hard line on muggles and definitely doesn’t appreciate his indiscriminate killing and torture of witches and wizards.

All that to say, Theodore doesn’t hold a lot of deference to the Dark Lord, and yet hearing Potter speak of him so casually, it sends a shiver down his back. It feels like Potter has told them something - the Dark Lord’s true name - that they were never meant to know. Something that should have remained unspoken and forgotten.

If the Dark Lord once put a taboo spell on the name he chose for himself, Theodore wonders just how angry he’d be to know that his true name is being bandied about and spread amongst Hogwarts students.

Because this will absolutely make its way to all Hogwarts students. Theodore can already see Ravenclaws whispering about it. Whether one believed Harry Potter about the Dark Lord’s return or not, whether one’s family followed the Dark Lord or not…this information would spread throughout the school - and likely beyond, to parents and friends, like fiendfyre.

It’s Pucey who counters Potter this time, although his face is pale and expression strained, “Of course he’s not a muggleborn, Potter. He’s the heir of Slytherin, he speaks Parseltongue. That had to come from Wixen ancestors.”

But Potter just smiles, a secretive, knowing thing, and says, “I have parseltongue. Does that make me a descendant of Salazar Slytherin?”

When no one answers him, he continues, “Maybe it’s just a magical trait like any other. Maybe it popped up unexpectedly in a muggleborn Tom Riddle. Or maybe he’s a half-blood. Either way, he’s not your pureblooded ideal, now is he. Which means that all of your families who have followed him - have killed for him, have provided gold and magic and resources for him. The followers who have died for him, were tortured by him…all in the name of pureblood supremacy, and yet it was for a man who isn’t even a pureblood.”

Potter looks at them all, making hard eye contact with a few - those whose families have always been under suspicion of supporting the Dark Lord, and says “Sure seems like Tom Riddle manipulated you all. Like he got an entire segment of our community, blinded by their own hatred and bigotry, to give him everything he wanted, while you all got little to nothing in return. Guess you got played, huh?”

Potter ends with a small shrug, like this all means nothing to him and then stands, joining the rest of the hall - Theodore didn’t even realize the other houses were beginning to stand - and makes his way to the exit, quickly getting lost amongst the crowd of students.

The rest of Slytherin hurried to copy him, Malfoy and Parkinson rushing to the newly sorted first years to guide them to the Slytherin dorms. Theodore meets Blaise’s eyes, and they both send wordless, “Can you bloody believe he just said all that on night one?” looks at each other.

Figures as soon as Theodore starts to think that having Potter in Slytherin house might be boring, he carelessly drops information like that on them all, and then just swans out of the Great Hall.

And on that note, how does Potter expect to get into the common room?

No one would have told him the password on the train, and he left before any of the prefects made it out of the Great Hall. But Theodore doesn’t see him along the path to the Common Room, despite keeping an eye out as the crowd slowly thins, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw separating first, and then eventually Hufflepuff splitting off as well.

Blaise and he spoke softly throughout the walk to Slytherin, ignoring what Potter had told them until they could be safely tucked away behind privacy wards. They occupied themselves with debating which classes they thought they would have on Monday. They lucked out this year, and September first was a Friday, so they’d have a couple of days to settle in and unpack before classes started up. Theodore was already not looking forward to the start of their sixth year, when September first fell on a Sunday, so they’d have a full week of classes immediately after getting to Hogwarts.

By the time Blaise and he make it to the Common Room, it’s already filling up with other Slytherins. The pair migrate to their favorite corner of the room, and sit on the sofa they claimed as theirs shortly after starting as first years. Glancing around, Theodore tries to spot Potter in the crowd, but it doesn’t look like he’s made it yet.

Blaise notices his looks, and guesses as to his thoughts, “Our newest year-mate hasn’t arrived yet. I wonder if he will join us at all, or if he intends to hide.”

“Hiding away would contradict his usual behavior. Or at least what we’ve seen of it.”

“Ahh,” Blaise replies with a smile, “But he is no longer a Gryffindor. Maybe now he’ll start taking the coward’s way out.”

“That sounds like you’re calling Slytherin’s cowards.”

Blaise laughs, the infectious sound carrying over to the other students around them, and Theodore catches several of the girls - and a few boys - eyeing Blaise. “Not at all, Teddy. Just pointing out that perhaps Potter isn’t the dauntless Gryffindor we always assumed he was. I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid a common room of Slytherins, even if he is now technically a member of the house.”

“You know I hate that nickname.” Theodore complains, “And besides, it’s not like he can really avoid us forever. Professor Snape is sure to insist on his presence for his welcome speech.”

Theodore hears a snort from behind him, as Daphne rounds the couch and joins them. “Like Potter has ever given a toss what Professor Snape thinks. He’d probably intentionally miss the welcome speech, if he thought it would annoy our Head.”

Calling it a “welcome speech” is perhaps giving Snape a bit too much credit, but it is a tradition. One soon to start, Theodore realizes, as he sees Snape enter from the little side door that connects to his office. Theodore still hasn’t seen Potter come through the doors to the common room.

Looks like the newest Slytherin won’t be starting out on a good note with their Head of House. Not that that was ever likely to be in the cards for a Slytherin Potter.

Chapter Text

September 2, 1995

The Slytherin common room hadn’t changed much in the two and a half years since he was last here. The room stretched out at length away from the main entrance, the overhead lamps hanging from the ceilings casting the room in the slightest green tinge. Older, and with more time to observe the room, Harry was able to pick out the quiet luxury that is apparent throughout the space.

Rich tapestries, the fabric dark and heavy, draped from the stone walls, depicting important looking people from history - all dressed in green and silver. The furniture was substantial, deep leather armchairs, their cushions embroidered with silver thread, and long, oak study tables with dark wood polished to a near mirror finish. In the far corner, a large fireplace crackled, its carved mantle adorned with glistening sconces, flickering flames casting shadows against the stone.

Harry had remembered the general location of the common room, deep within the castle dungeons, and then just had to wait under his invisibility cloak for a seventh year prefect to show up and say the password - Alihotsy Draught - and then he’d slipped in behind her. He found a quiet corner of the common room, half tucked away behind a large statue, and waited for the rest of the house to trickle in so he could observe his new housemates.

Leaning back against the wall, Harry could feel a thrumming from the stone that extended all the way down to his bones. The pulsing magic from the castle was familiar and welcoming. Harry felt like he could truly relax for the first time in months. Being away from here was like an ache in his stomach, a hunger always yawning for something, anything to fill it.

Even the resorting issue hadn’t been enough to totally dampen Harry’s relief to be back at Hogwarts and surrounded by magic.

A Welcome Feast at the Slytherin table was pretty much exactly how Harry would have imagined it. Poisoned barbs and judgmental looks aimed in his direction, and speaking glances towards each other. It seemed like his new housemates' initial reservations after hearing him speak parseltongue had faded quickly in the face of his placidity.

Truthfully, Harry didn’t particularly care what the other Slytherins thought about him. He doubted any of them would outright kill him, not under Dumbledore’s nose, and realistically anything they might try to prank or jinx him with, he could either counter, or it would be healed up with a quick trip to the hospital wing.

If all they had for him were muttered insults and sneers, well, he’s certainly faced worse. Hell, he faced worse than that years before ever coming to Hogwarts.

So for the most part, he’d ignored the lot until the very end, when he knew it was about time for everyone to leave the Great Hall.

He’d let his anger - always lingering just barely beneath his skin these days - rise to the surface and snapped at a girl who made some offhand remark about Voldemort’s return. It gave him an opportunity to remind all the Slytherins that while he might ignore them when it suited him, he wasn’t without claws (or fangs, he corrected himself with a quiet huff of laughter).

And it meant he could drop the truth bomb that was Tom Riddle’s genealogy, and then sit back and watch the shock and confusion that reveal had caused.

Harry had given them just enough information to go off of - information to research and follow a path to the truth, but left enough questions in his wake that the Slytherins would be curious, and wouldn’t write him off immediately.

There was plenty of disbelief in the wake of what he had said, but he’d bet all the galleons in the Slytherin vault that at least a few of them would start looking into Tom Riddle, even if only to prove him wrong, and once they confirmed what could be verified, it would spread further.

For the most part, Harry had spent dinner tuning out those around him, and deciding on a strategy to get through this year. In general, he would keep his head down. He just didn’t care about the power plays and drama that went part and parcel with being a teenager at Hogwarts.

His number one priority was studying hard enough that he could manage to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. in February. He still needed to look into the process for signing up for it. He assumed he’d likely need some sort of guardian permission, but if he phrased a letter to Petunia as “this will get me out of your house faster” then she’d be sure to sign it.

It would be a year of hard work, and more studying and care for his schoolwork than he’d ever exhibited before, but perhaps this resort to Slytherin could work in his favor in that regard. While secluding himself and spending all year studying would have looked odd had he remained in Gryffindor and had friends constantly checking up on him, being friendless and alone now would probably be expected.

An O.W.L. in February, and a N.E.W.T. in August. That’s the goal. Then, preferably the day after passing the N.E.W.T., and he had legal adult status, he could fuck off from the Dursleys and never darken their doorstep again.

While waiting for the rest of Slytherin House to trickle in and half heartedly keeping an eye on the students congregating in the common room, Harry imagined what he’d do with his freedom. He was weighing the merits of buying a house in the countryside somewhere and warding it to hell and back, versus leaving Britain behind all together when a door about five meters to his left opened, and Snape stalked through it.

The professor looked as dour as ever, although he was at least cooled off from the enraged glares he’d been sending Harry for most of the feast.

It seemed to be a signal for the students - and Harry realized that the entire house must have shown up by now, as Snape walked to the large fireplace in the center of the room, nodding at a few of the upper years in greeting as he passed them. The Slytherins quieted down, the seats closest to the fireplace filling up as upper years shuffled the tiny first years closer to where Snape finally stopped and looked out over the common room. The older students gathered around as well, claiming the rest of the seats or leaning against furniture, all with their backs to Harry.

Realizing that Snape would apparently be speaking to them as a group, Harry waited until the man’s attention had turned just enough to the left that Harry thought he was out of his field of vision, and whipped off the invisibility cloak, shoving it into his pocket.

By the time Snape turned his head again, Harry was standing calmly at the back of the crowd. He knew Snape saw him, but other than a slight twitch next to Snape’s left eye, there was no reaction from the professor.

“Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts.” Snape’s voice was subdued, forcing anyone not already silent to quiet down and focus solely on the professor in order to make out his words.

“For our newest students, I am Professor Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts, and your Head of House. You’ll find that while I generally leave the governing of Slytherin House to the Prefects and upper years, I take an active interest in ensuring every member of Slytherin House meets the exacting standards set by our Founder, Salazar Slytherin.”

Here, Snape gestured to the painting above the fireplace behind him, of a cold-eyed man seated in an ornate chair, emerald green drapes behind him but with an otherwise empty background. Even without Snape’s acknowledgement, Harry would have guessed this was a painting of Salazar Slytherin. Although the man was depicted as decades younger than the statue Harry remembers from the Chamber of Secrets, it was clearly the same man.

And if that wasn’t enough, the giant snake winding between the man’s feet - the only source of movement in the painting to indicate that it was enchanted - gave it away.

Snape continued, his voice cool but steady, “Slytherin House has been home to great politicians, world-famous masters of every vocation, and entrepreneurs whose inventions and businesses have shaped our community. Slytherin students have differing passions and goals, but we all share ambition. We all share the drive to pursue our goals, and we are all willing to bend the rules imposed on us to ensure we succeed.”

He paused, letting the words settle over the students like a heavy cloak. “Naturally, a house that molds such talent will be watched with scrutiny. Make no mistake - as Slytherins in Hogwarts you will face distrust, jealousy, and spite. Your classmates in other houses will scorn you. Professors will view you with higher scrutiny and suspicion, and may try to undermine your achievements. It is the way of things. You will learn to accept it…and the best of you will use it to your advantage. Understand the preconceived notions others will have of you, and you can plan for them.”

The next pause lingered a beat longer, before Snape added, his voice as frigid as the Black Lake had been in February, “Especially in the…political climate that we find ourselves in. Things will likely be more…sensitive…than ever.”

For the first time since beginning his speech, Snape made eye contact with Harry.

He paused just long enough for students to follow his gaze, several jolting slightly when they realized Harry was standing behind them, unnoticed. They wouldn’t have seen him come in, so for anyone watching for him, it would have seemed like he just materialized out of thin air.

Harry didn’t react to gaining the room's attention, just continued to stare placidly at Snape.

After a moment, Snape continued, his eyes dead as he looked out over the dorm. “Should you need assistance in interpersonal relations with other Houses, speak to the sixth-year prefects. If they are unavailable, and you believe the matter to be urgent enough, you may come to me.” His tone made it very clear that they were not to find anything so urgent as to require Snape’s help.

“Rule breaking will be dealt with most harshly. Should another professor catch you misbehaving, you will face my own punishment in addition to whatever they may set.” Snape gestured to a board next to the main entrance, “House rules are posted. New Slytherin students are to review before breakfast tomorrow morning. Beginning next week, the common room password will change every Monday morning at six o’clock, with the password posted by six in the evening on Sunday night.”

Without another word, Snape turned sharply and exited through the main entrance, his robes billowing behind him like a second shadow. His place at the fireplace was quickly taken by the two seventh year prefects, Adrian Pucey, whom Harry recognized from the Quidditch team, and a girl Harry was pretty sure was named Gemma Fawley.

“Right you lot, you heard Professor Snape. Don’t get in trouble - “

“Or don’t get caught.” Pucey interjected with a smirk.

“If you need anything, please go to the sixth-year prefects first,” A boy and girl Harry only vaguely recognized waved from their seats, “as seventh and fifth years have N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s to be focusing on. We are all still available if you can’t find them, though, they should just be your first resource. Other than Sundays, one prefect will always be in the common room after dinner until ten o’clock every day if you need help with homework. We’ll get a rota posted on the board within a few days, along with the schedule for Hogsmeade visits and Quidditch matches.”

Pucey took over at this point, “Firsties, Higgs and Ashbrook will show you to the dorms.” He glanced to where Malfoy sat with Parkinson draped over him, and seemed to weigh the pair for a moment, then looked away. “Zabini. Show Potter to the fifth year dorm.”

Mentioning him reminded everyone that Harry was now the newest member of the House, and there was a flurry of glances aimed at him and whispers passed around the room.

“Everyone else…get to bed. I know there’s no classes tomorrow, but don’t stay up late and fuck up your sleep. It’ll make Monday morning even harder. You’ve got two full days to catch up with each other, no need to do it all this evening.”

The group dispersed, with the sixth year prefects stepping forward to gather the first years. Harry glanced to where he last saw Zabini and saw he was already making his way towards him, with a few others trailing behind, including Nott, the only one to introduce himself to Harry at the feast.

Harry hadn’t interacted much with Zabini, nor those in his circle, as a typical interaction between Harry and Slytherins usually involved Malfoy and his cronies, so he wasn’t sure where Zabini fell on the scale of blood traitor to blood purist. Harry eyed him, and while he had all the appearances of someone just as elite as Malfoy’s ilk, he watched Harry with a faint smile and amusement in his eyes.

“Hello Potter, we didn’t get a chance to speak at the feast. I’m Blaise Zabini.” Harry nodded, and shook the other boy's hand briefly, this time not bothering to introduce himself. “You’ve already met Theodore of course,” Zabini said, gesturing to Nott behind him, who watched Harry with interested, but solemn eyes. “May I introduce Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode?”

Neither girl stepped forward to shake his hand, instead, they contented themselves with nodding in his direction. Greengrass was pale skinned, and slim, with white blonde hair that fell almost to the girl's waist, and ice blue eyes that watched Harry judgmentally. Bulstrode, who Harry had really only known from the unfortunate polyjuice potion incident in second year that led to Hermione turning half-cat, was opposite to Greengrass in almost all ways. She was nearly as tall as Zabini, with curly black hair that was cut just past her chin and friendly brown eyes, despite her unsmiling face.

“We’ll show you to the fifth year dorms.” Zabini said, drawing Harry’s attention back to him, “Although maybe you already found it? I didn’t notice you come in…?”

As Harry turned to walk with the group, he had to force down a smile. He supposed he couldn’t blame them for fishing as to how he had gained entrance to the common room, but they couldn’t expect him to give all his secrets away on night one.

“No, I’ve just been in the common room. So I appreciate you showing me the dorm.”

Zabini just hummed in response, and they crossed through one of the many archways that exited off the common room.

“Our dorms are just this way. The common room is set up like a central hub, with the dorms branching off,” they passed through a brief hallway that eventually opened up into another space with more couches and desks. While everything was still in shades of dark green and silver, this space looked a little more lived in, a little more comfortable than the larger common room.

“Each year has a smaller common room directly outside their dorms. We mostly use these spaces for studying - or other quiet activities - and the shared common room is where people go when they’d like to talk. Other years are welcome in the small parlours, but only dorm mates are allowed where we sleep.” Here, Blaise gestured towards another two doors, one on either side of the far back wall.

“The quiet time is mostly just during the week though,” Bulstrode clarified, “On the weekends, feel free to be a bit louder in the parlour, as long as it’s not too early.”

Greengrass passed Harry and Zabini without a word and headed towards the door on the right, so Harry assumed the boys’ dorm was on the left. Harry wandered that way, surveying the room as he went. He was surprised to see little nick-nacks already set up, despite the group having no time to unpack. There was a wall where various Quidditch team posters hung and what looked like a self-updating league chart. Considering several of the posters were for rival teams, Harry assumed different students had hung them.

The bookshelves along the wall housed a random collection of books—some textbooks, others fiction (some even appeared to be Muggle fiction, Harry noted with surprise). A polished wizarding wireless rested on a side table situated near the center of the room, and Harry saw what looked like a potions workstation set up in the corner. A chess board with a game half-played was on a table near the wall, and on the shelves above it, Harry noticed boxes of Exploding Snap and Gobstone cases. All items the Slytherins of his year must have left behind at the end of the last school year.

Harry couldn’t imagine owning so much stuff he was fine with leaving some of it behind for months at a time.

As resigned as he was to joining Slytherin, something inside still balked at finding anything about his new house preferable to his original sorting. But having a quiet area sounded pretty nice, even though Harry sincerely doubted that the Slytherin common room ever got as rowdy as what he was used to.

It lacked the Weasley twins for one, and even on their quiet days, they made up about twenty-five percent of the ambient noise in the Gryffindor tower all on their own. Over the years, Harry had gotten used to hiding behind his bed curtains when seeking a bit of peace, but a designated lounge would be a nice change.

When he finally made it to the dorm room, Zabini and Nott trailing behind, he was relieved to note it looked similar enough to the Gryffindor dorms. All in shades of green, of course, and the room was rectangular instead of round. But the Slytherins had the same four-poster beds, four on one side and two on the other, with a familiar wardrobe next to each of them.

Really, the only significant difference was the ceiling.

Unlike the Gryffindor dorms, which had a simple stone roof, the Slytherin dorms had a massive window into the Black Lake. Staring upwards, Harry watched fish swim past. There must have been spellwork at play, because surely this far down—especially at night—the Black Lake ought to be pitch black. Harry remembered just how dark it was when he had been swimming during the second task, and that was at midday with the sun directly above.

But he could see clearly for what he’d estimate was about 5 meters before the water darkened enough that it lost all visibility.

Harry noted a door along the left wall between two beds that he assumed led to the bathroom and then spotted his own trunk at the foot of one bed.

Thankfully, his bed was between the door and the bathroom. Meaning there was no one next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he tracked Zabini and Nott as they moved to their own trunks and noticed they were in the two beds directly opposite him. Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy must have the beds deeper into the room.

“So. Harry Potter in Slytherin. I don’t think anyone saw this coming,” Zabini said, throwing himself down on his bed. “Although you didn’t seem that surprised.”

Nott was busying himself unpacking his trunk, but Harry was sure he was listening.

Harry shrugged carelessly, “Honestly, I assumed I wouldn’t be back in Gryffindor. The way my luck works, if things have any possibility to go wrong, or inconvenience me, or cause me harm, they will.”

Harry left it up to them to determine which description he thought this fell under.

“Still, it must be a bit of a shock. You haven’t exactly endeared yourself much to your new house in the past four years.” Zabini’s voice was kind. Harry didn’t trust it.

Opening his own trunk, Harry pulled out his toothbrush and the pajamas he had packed on top, then dug his slippers out from where they had gotten wedged under a book. When he had pulled out what he needed for tonight, he turned back to Zabini, who was still watching him. A glance at Nott showed the other boy was turned away from the conversation, but was watching Harry out of the corner of his eye.

“Truthfully, Zabini, I don’t really give a fuck what house I’m in. I’ve got bigger concerns than what color my tie is or who’s winning the House Cup.” He shrugged, “None of that will matter in a few years.”

He left his new roommates behind and went through the door he hoped was the bathroom.

While the Gryffindor bathrooms were communal, with simple stalls separating the toilets, the Slytherin bathroom was a series of small rooms, each equipped with a toilet, sink, and shower. They must have been personal and assigned, as he saw the first one had a little nameplate with “Crabbe, V.” on the door. Further down the hall, Harry found the door labeled with his own name.

He hadn’t bothered bringing the rest of his toiletries, but he would unpack them tomorrow morning. While he was brushing his teeth, Harry wondered if the fact that Slytherin House seemed to have so much more space than Gryffindor Tower was down to the logistics—the dungeons just having more space to expand into—or if it was due to the differences in house culture.

By the time he reentered the dorms, ready for bed, the rest of his dorm mates had made their way there and joined Zabini and Nott.

Crabbe and Goyle were sitting on the ends of their beds facing each other, talking quietly. Malfoy, digging in his trunk, looked up when Harry entered and narrowed his eyes before standing.

Harry knew Malfoy was going to try something. Whether it was just a vitriol-laced insult or some kind of attempt at being the most dominant fifth year, Harry just didn’t want to hear it. Not tonight, not when he was this tired.

Before Malfoy could get the chance to open his mouth, Harry pictured the giant snake that was slithering around the base of the portrait in the common room, and hissed Don’t waste my time. Complain to daddy, it’s all you’re good for.

Of course, the other boys didn’t know what he had said. By the way they all froze momentarily, Malfoy’s mouth half open, Harry knew it probably sounded just as disturbing as he had hoped. Sending a slight smirk at Malfoy, Harry dropped his bundle of clothes in his trunk, enabled the password lock, then climbed into his bed, drawing the curtains closed around him.

He wished he had some sort of ward in place to keep the others from tampering with his things or his bed. He’d have to look into it, along with some sort of one-way sound cancellation ward. The Gryffindor boys were used to him being a restless sleeper and occasionally waking up from nightmares. He’d rather not reveal that weakness to the Slytherins, and just hoped that he’d be nightmare-free for however long it took him to find something that would work.

He also should probably try and look into the nonverbal, wandless bolts of power he had been able to produce. Harry had never heard of anything like that, and although it had been helpful so far, finding out the source of it would be a good idea.

Ignoring the noises of the other boys preparing for bed, Harry climbed under the covers and stretched out. The blankets were thicker in Slytherin dorms, Harry thought because it would get colder this far below ground. It’s already fairly chilly in the dorm, much cooler than Gryffindor tower would be. Another surprising benefit of the resorting—Harry had always slept better in a cold room, he assumed from growing up sleeping in the cupboard, which would get quite cold during the winter months and stayed perfectly cool during summer.

See, another good thing, he told himself, I’ll sleep better in a colder dorm, I’ve got a quiet place to study, and the freedom to study as much as I want. This isn’t the end of the world. It’ll be fine. I can get through this, too.

He’s still trying to convince himself by the time he drifts off to sleep.

*

Harry was up early the next morning, before anyone else in his dorm. He assumed it was because he had likely been the first to go to bed, pretty much immediately after the feast had ended. He lay there for a little while, just staring up at the lake above him. Early morning light was shining through, and he watched the fish and swaying plants until eventually his need to use the restroom outweighed his desire to laze about.

Grabbing clothes along with the rest of his toiletries, Harry headed to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

Breakfast first, he decided, and then he’d head to the library to try and find some protection wards. He wanted to visit the Owlery today as well, to see Hedwig after missing her all summer. He assumed at some point in the day Ron and Hermione would track him down.

He’s already dreading that confrontation. He’s still angry over their complete abandonment of him all summer, and based on the stares he could feel aimed at the back of his head during the feast, they were bound to have thoughts about him being resorted to Slytherin.

By the time Harry was showered and dressed, it was barely seven o’clock. A full breakfast spread likely wasn’t set out in the Great Hall yet, but the elves would have tea and some pastries available by now. Grabbing his bag, he tossed a few spiral-bound notebooks and pens in it, as well as one of the Muggle sweets he had bought the day before. After hesitating for a moment, Harry also opened the protective compartment and packed the Marauder's Map and his invisibility cloak before heading out of the dorm.

The parlour looked much the same as it had the night prior. It didn’t look like anyone from his year had spent time in it before going to bed last night. The common room was similar, the lighting still dim, corners of the room shadowed. He was probably imagining it, but Harry thought he could feel the eyes of Salazar Slytherin’s portrait following him as he crossed the common room to the exit. Pausing next to the door, Harry looked over the house rules that Snape had mentioned the night prior.

Most of them were what Harry would expect—no disrespecting teachers, rule breaking would be harshly dealt with, no dueling in the year parlours, no foul language in the corridors, etc. It’s the rule at the end that gave Harry pause.

“All students will meet with their head of house on a quarterly basis to review academic performance, address behavioral concerns, and evaluate progress towards personal and professional goals. A schedule for these meetings will be posted.”

Below the list of rules, another parchment had been stuck to the board with a list of dates and times. It looked like only the first and seventh years had been scheduled so far, with the first-year students scheduled out over the next week, and seventh years spaced out over the following two weeks. Harry would have to check back in a few weeks to watch for the fifth-year schedule.

Lovely, meeting with Snape personally every three months? That’s bound to be a fun conversation.

He wondered how many insults Snape would be able to work into the conversation. Based on the schedule, each student was scheduled for a thirty-minute discussion—Harry bet Snape could easily average one insult a minute.

Harry occupied himself thinking up methods to keep a tally that would go unnoticed by the professor during their meeting for the duration of the walk up to the Great Hall. The corridors were deserted this early on the first day back, the only beings Harry encountered were the portraits, following his progress with their eyes, and the hint of one ghost, who flowed through a wall before Harry could even tell which one it was.

The Great Hall wasn’t quite as empty, there were a few professors at the head table—Sprout, Vector, and Flitwick. Professor Grubbly-Plank was pouring herself tea, and Harry had been so distracted last night with the resorting he hadn’t even considered why she was here instead of Hagrid. Dumbledore had glossed over the Care professor position and then everyone’s attention had been grabbed by that god-awful woman Umbridge going on a waffle.

A few upper years were scattered throughout the tables, most of whom glanced up when he entered and stared as he made his way to the Slytherin table. Warrington and Pucey, the only other Slytherins in the hall, sent him weighted stares as he passed them to seat himself midway up the table.

Pouring himself some tea to start off, Harry dug out one of the notebooks and a pen from his bag. His list of things to research—in addition to all the studying he was planning on doing—was getting long enough that he wanted to list it all out so nothing got forgotten.

By the time he was done with breakfast and his notes, more students had arrived at the Great Hall—although still not many. Harry dithered for a moment. Usually, schedules were dispersed during the first breakfast back at school, but this year with September first falling on a Friday, he wondered if they would wait to pass them out Monday morning. Figuring he couldn’t possibly annoy Snape more than he already had, Harry packed up his bag again and headed to the library.

Madam Pince was, of course, already there, guarding the books like some kind of dragon ready to light aflame any misbehaving student who handled her hoard too roughly. He gave her a polite nod, but ignored her glower just as easily as those he had gotten in the Great Hall.

Harry wandered through a few sections until he found one with books on warding. It was in the runes section, and when he scanned through a book titled “Hold the Line: Defensive Magic for Common Use by the Uncommon Witch or Wizard,” he cursed his younger self for not selecting Ancient Runes as an elective instead of Divination. Grabbing the Hold the Line book and another text, "A Beginner’s Guide to Home Wards and Personal Protections,” he headed back to the introductory Runes section and pulled out a dictionary. Based on all the diagrams he’d seen in the first book, he was probably going to need it.

*

By midmorning, Harry had identified two wards he wanted to use, and was working through the rune schematic needed to set them up. They weren’t so powerful that they would do any lasting damage to someone trying to break through them, but anything overly harmful was probably beyond Harry’s limited familiarity with runes and warding.

The first was a basic perimeter ward that was tied to his magical signature. It should stop anyone from passing through, and if it fell, the book promised he would feel it breaking if someone actually put in enough effort to do so, and then he would know to get back to his dorm immediately. Since his belongings had another layer of protection in his new trunk, he wasn’t too worried about what would happen if one of his new housemates was able to break down the perimeter ward.

The second was a simple noise cancellation ward, although long term he would be making it more complicated by attaching the runes to his bed curtains instead of an unmoving object like the bed itself or the floor. As long as the curtains formed a closed circle around his bed, the ward would be live and no sound would escape. He had to track down some thread and a needle or two first though, and hoped that all his time spent mending Dursley’s old clothes wasn’t too rusty.

The library had stayed empty, or at least the secluded corner Harry had sequestered himself away in. Even the most diligent Ravenclaws were not yet at the point where they would want to study for the year ahead. Although he bet that at least a few found their way to the library by the end of the day.

He stretched his arms above his head and tilted to each side. Despite the stiffness from hunching over his table for the last several hours, a few good meals and a solid night's sleep back at Hogwarts had him feeling like a new person.

Glancing towards the windows, he saw it was a rare cloudless day. If this year was anything like past years, they would start having rain and grey clouds within a few weeks. A nice day for flying, he mused.

Then it hit him—he was in Slytherin now. He wouldn’t be able to be on the Quidditch team. He had to close his eyes at the blow, the tightening of his chest. Quidditch, the freedom he found when soaring above the pitch, had always been one of his favorite things about Hogwarts.

Now it was just another thing taken from him. Something else he would have to weather the loss of.

Slamming shut The Beginner's Guide to Wards, Harry put Quidditch and Slytherin and everything else that had gone wrong in the last 3 months out of his mind.

He would go visit Hedwig.

She should have been up and about by now, and hopefully still in the owlery, and he had missed her while at the Dursleys. He packed away his notes, and went to Madame Pince’s desk to check out the warding and runes books, ignoring her considering stare and pursed lips.

Leaving the library behind, Harry noted that the corridors were a bit more populated now, especially as he headed out to the grounds. Students were taking advantage of the good weather and no classes as they spread out on the grass or by the lake. It took effort to ignore their attention, the whispers barely hidden behind hands.

After climbing the many steps to the top of the Owlery, he was panting slightly, out of breath from the weeks of low activity, but he lost his breath for another reason when he was barely over the threshold. A blur of white swooped towards him. Hedwig landed on his hastily outstretched arm and cooed excitedly, bobbing her head as she worked her way further up his arm to reach his shoulder, where she started preening his hair.

“Hey girl. It’s good to see you too. Did you have an alright summer?” At that, the owl nipped the tip of his ear painfully. “I know, I know. I didn’t want to send you away either," he soothed, "But trust me, it was for the best. You’d have hated being stuck there all summer.”

He stepped carefully to avoid unseating her, and made his way to the low wall encircling the owls' roosting space. Casting a quick scourgify to clear it of various owl droppings, Harry sat, and laughed as Hedwig immediately hopped down to his lap, where he could pet her. Leaning back against a portion of raised wall, Harry turned slightly so he could look out over the Hogwarts grounds. With Hedwig in his lap, and the other owls rustling quietly, with the occasional soft hoot, it was peaceful up here.

Running his hands over Hedwig’s silky feathers, he could almost pretend it was still fourth year. Could still pretend he was a Gryffindor, still had a godfather and friends, and that there wasn’t a Dark Lord out there who would happily murder him and anyone who cared for him—which at the moment seemed to just be his owl.

Hedwig, as if sensing his maudlin thoughts - or maybe just objecting to his slowing hands - whistled to pull his attention back to her. He smiled down at her and straightened one feather that was slightly ajar and just focused on petting her until her amber eyes drifted half-shut in enjoyment.

Harry glanced out again, intending to look towards the Forbidden Forest this time, when his gaze was caught by two familiar shapes hurrying towards the Owlery.

Ron’s hair shined like a beacon, but even if it were a less attention-grabbing shade, Harry thought he could recognize Ron and Hermione anywhere, from any distance. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see if they were truly coming to the Owlery or if they would change course, but it quickly became clear they were heading his way.

He wondered if they knew he was here, and were coming to talk to him, or if they were planning on writing a letter to someone. He didn’t wear the invisibility cloak on his way here, so no doubt, if they were trying to find him, it wouldn’t have been too hard to track him down. But they hadn’t exactly seemed eager to find him yesterday.

Scornfully, he wondered if they weren't looking for him at all, but instead had written a letter about his resorting. If they would consider it more important to tell those not at Hogwarts - Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius - that he wasn’t a Gryffindor anymore, rather than actually try to talk to him about it.

When they reached the base of the Owlery and disappeared into the winding stairs to the top, Harry figured he’d find out soon. He could pull out the invisibility cloak, but there’d be no getting past them on the stairs, and they needed to have this confrontation sooner or later. Better here, where only the owls were the audience to it.

He heard them well before they reached the top, their footfalls heavy and matching the thudding of his racing heart.

Hermione was the first to breach the door, breathless and wide-eyed, and she spotted him immediately. “Oh, Harry! I’ve missed you so much!” She flew across the Owlery in quick strides, with arms already outstretched. He thought she was expecting him to rise so she could hug him. But he stayed where he was, rooted to the ledge, expression unreadable. When she reached him, she hesitated for a second before leaning in anyway. She was only able to give a brief, awkward hug before Hedwig screeched and flapped her wings widely.

Hermione jumped back, startled, blinking at the owl before her eyes flicked back to Harry, questioning.

Ron lingered in the doorway, his voice uncertain. “Alright, mate?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding Harry’s eyes. He didn’t step fully into the room, as if unsure whether he was welcome.

Before Harry could respond, Hermione interjected, “Harry, we’ve been so worried about you! I can’t believe you were attacked by dementors—and then that ridiculous trial they put you through—it was such nonsense! I looked it up of course, there’s no way they could have found you guilty, you were well within your right to defend yourself,” her words were rushed, like they’d been bottled up for weeks and were now racing to get free. “And then to come back to school and be put in Slytherin, what a disaster! Professor Dumbledore told you you’d have to be resorted, but we never imagined you’d go anywhere but Gryffindor.”

So they had been in contact with Dumbledore then? At least between Harry’s reversed expulsion and their return to Hogwarts.

“Sorting Hat must’ve gotten confunded or something, right Harry?” Ron said, grinning.

They both stared at him, smiles on their faces, waiting for him to say something. To agree, to just ignore the past three months of silence.

Unfortunately for them, Harry wasn’t of a mind to play peacekeeper.

“Actually, I wasn’t very surprised.” Harry’s tone was cool, clipped. He turned slightly toward the window as if bored. “The Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin back in first year. Suppose I wasn’t able to argue my way out of it this time."

“What? You - you were meant to be in Slytherin this whole time?” Ron asked, gobsmacked.

Harry just shrugged in response.

“Er - well, I suppose it didn’t really matter, did it, Harry?” Hermione was quick to say. “You’re still you after all, regardless of what colors you wear.” Ron, glancing between the two of them with dismay, was clearly of another opinion, but Hermione didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “I’m so happy we’re back at school, it had been dreadfully boring without you all summer. I-I hope you’re not too upset with us for not being able to write? We begged and begged, but Dumbledore said it wasn’t safe.”

“Wasn’t safe?” Harry tilted his head in question, confused at what she could possibly mean by that. “How could writing to me not be safe?”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance—one of those silent, telepathic looks that always seemed to shut Harry out. Then Ron shifted awkwardly, turning to glance down the stairwell.

“We’re alright, Hermione, no one’s coming up.”

“Right, Harry, well. I’m not sure how much I’m able to tell you, but then they really ought to have told you this beforehand so we knew what we could talk about… er. Ron’s family and I were staying… somewhere… this summer. Along with a few other people. All of whom had, er… a common goal, you could say.” Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear, frowning, choosing her words carefully.

Harry thought back to seeing Mrs. Weasley shopping in Diagon Alley with Lupin. Remembered that Auror Tonks who had escorted him to the Ministry saying something about going somewhere with others where Sirius was staying.

“Who all were ‘other people’?

“Oh er, well, of the people you would know… the Weasley family of course, and me, like I said. Um, a few people popped in and out every now and then, like Professor Moody and a few aurors. Professor Dumbledore of course, and we saw Professor McGonagall once.”

“Snape, the git, came by too.” Ron looked disgusted over this fact. As if having to see his most hated professor over summer break was an insult too far.

“I think other than the Weasleys and I, the only ones that lived there full-time were, er, Professor Lupin and… Snuffles, of course.”

Harry had to shut his eyes and catch his breath. He had guessed it was coming. After the train station, seeing them all, he knew that at least by the end of summer they were all together. He just had hoped that they hadn’t been together all summer, while leaving him to rot in Little Whinging.

“People mostly just stopped by for meetings. While most of us underage didn’t hear much -"

“Didn’t hear anything at all really,” Ron muttered.

“The little we know, well there were ongoing… discussions, shall we say. About the state of things, and well, how people would be responding to the state of things. And of course, how they thought other people might react to our people’s responding to the current state of things.” Hermione stared at him with widened eyes, as if silently begging him to understand.

“Right.” Harry said brusquely, “You realize you’ve said absolute nonsense and told me literally nothing.”

“Oh, Harry, don't be angry! It’s just that I don’t know what I can share!” Hermione worried her hands together, anxiety clear. “And besides, we really didn’t hear much. We mostly spent the whole summer cleaning."

“And I mostly just counted the cracks in the ceiling,” Harry said, voice cold. “So I guess we were all busy. Why couldn’t I come, then? I’ve never had to stay at the Dursleys all summer. Not since starting Hogwarts. Why was this the summer I had to stay there the whole time?” He was desperate to understand why everyone thought it was fine to leave him there. Why it was fine to abandon him at the mercy of his relatives when he was still reeling from the kidnapping, and Voldemort’s revival, and Cedric’s death.

“We asked Professor Dumbledore, Harry. Si-Snuffles did too. He said the wards at your home were more important now than ever, and they were the best thing to keep you safe from You-Know-Who. After the dementor attacked you, we tried to get him to bring you to us, but he said you hadn’t been there long enough for the wards to be strengthened by your presence. We brought it up again a few weeks later, but the headmaster said you were safer there.”

Harry paused, waiting for either of them to add more. To say how they asked again and again, how they argued with Dumbledore, how they debated sneaking out and stealing him away, but they just… stared at him.

“And that was it?” He clarified, “You all asked at the beginning of summer, were told no, and then asked again a few weeks later to be told no again. And you all just… accepted that. Decided Dumbledore knew best and I’d be fine, and then never bothered to check up on me?”

“That’s not fair, Harry,” Hermione replied, indignant. “They had people stationed outside your house, they were keeping track of you. We knew you were safe."

Ron lingered awkwardly by the wall, kicking at a bit of loose straw with the toe of his shoe. “If I’m honest, you were lucky to miss out, mate,” he said with a half-hearted shrug. “Snuffles’s place was a right mess - grotty and nasty stuff, with every other thing we came across being cursed.”

Harry blinked at him, so taken aback that for a moment—just a moment—maybe the first time in weeks—he forgot to be angry.

Sirius’s place.

His fists clenched at his sides.

Not only were they all together, but they spent the summer at Sirius’s home. A home that Sirius had offered to Harry over a year ago, but then had needed to flee before he could make good on the offer. And while they were with Sirius, Harry had been stuck with the Dursleys, and a hidden audience of "watchers" to his misery.

“You were living at Sirius’s house?” he asked, voice low and tight. The words felt sour on his tongue. “Sirius - my godfather - you stayed in his house while I was locked up like a prisoner?”

He laughed once, bitter and without any true humour. “So you scrubbed down his house while sweeping me under the carpet. And I’m supposed to feel lucky for it?”

Hermione shifted, twisting her fingers together, guilt etched across her face

“Lucky to have been left with the Dursleys?” Harry pressed, heat rising in his chest. “Well, if it’s just missing out on chores that you think makes me so ‘lucky’ then I can assure you, I had chores. Whole lists of them, and I didn’t even have magic to make them easier. I can damn near promise you, I had more chores and cleaning than you did all summer.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, looking slightly ill. Harry spared a moment to wonder if Ron was recalling the summer before their second year, when Ron had to rescue him from the Dursleys.

“Regardless of how ‘nasty and grotty’ things might have been,” Harry continued, pacing now, unable to stay still, “I know Mrs. Weasley. Her idea of a harsh day of chores is practically a vacation compared to Petunia’s.”

He turned to face them, eyes hard. “So let me get it all straight. You two spent all summer together, surrounded by other people, including our professors and my godfather, and who knows who else, and I was just bloody left with my relatives? And you lot couldn’t even write to me? Why? Why couldn’t I have joined you?”

Ron threw up his hands. “It’s not like it was a holiday or anything!” Ron argued, “We weren’t learning anything useful or having fun - “

“Oh, well good to know your boredom can be my consolation prize,” Harry snapped, cutting him off.

Hermione stepped forward, hands raised as though she were trying to douse a fire. “Professor Dumbledore said you’d be safer at your relatives’ house, Harry,” she said, voice shaking slightly. “He said that was the safest place for you now that You-Know-Who is on the move.”

She looked toward Ron, silently urging him to jump in.

“And Lupin said that owl post might be tracked,” Ron added “He thought it could give away your location - or ours.”

"We wanted to write, we really did!” She said. “But the Headmaster said that we had to make sure there were no possible leaks of information.”

"Information leaks?” Harry repeated, stunned. His eyes were wide now, almost glassy, but his voice dropped like lead. “Am I not trustworthy? Dumbledore thinks that I can’t be trusted? What have I done to lose his trust then?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, “I’m considered an ‘information leak’ but without me, no one would even know Voldemort was back! Without me - he’d have come back years ago. Gotten the stone. Possessed Ginny. Hell, maybe he'd have taken over fourteen years ago if it weren't for my family. How can I be an information leak when half the information we have about Voldemort’s current status comes from ME?”

He ignored the way both Ron and Hermione flinched at the name.

“I was LEFT,” he spat. “For weeks. With my aunt and uncle who HATE me. With my cousin who’d sooner give me a black eye than a kind word. I got no information, no idea of what was going on. No clue if you all had been killed, if Voldemort had already taken everything over. And you lot want to complain to me about BLOODY CLEANING."

Hermione raised her hands again, a trembling gesture of peace. “We’re sorry, Harry,” she said gently. “We wanted you to join us, but it wasn’t up to us. We…we thought you’d understand.”

“Understand?” Harry barked a laugh. “You thought I’d understand being abandoned in the muggle world? Abandoned at the worst possible time, when I've never needed other people more?”

He stepped toward them, one hand slicing through the air, as if to waive away all other arguments. “Okay, tell me this. Why’d I have to get myself to London? Did you lot just think that my aunt and uncle would be happy to bring me to Diagon Alley for school shopping? That they’d drop me off at King’s Cross for the train with a packed lunch and kisses on the cheek?”

He took another step forward, chest heaving and voice rising. “I had to find my own way there. No owl, no escort, no instructions - just me, figuring it out as I went. If I hadn’t shown up, would anyone even have noticed? Or would you all have just assumed Dumbledore had a plan, like always?”

Ron bristled. “People did go to your place, Harry - on the last day of break, alright. They were gonna pick you up, take you shopping and all that, but your aunt and uncle said you’d already left that morning! And we looked for you on the train, but we didn't see you and 'Mione and I both had prefect duties. We thought we'd find you once we got to Hogwarts."

“Oh, well that’s alright then,” he said, sarcasm coating every word, “You lot made plans and just assumed I’d fall right into them. Guess that was easier - easier to treat me like a problem to manage, not a person to include. Your little Boy Who Lived, left right where you left him: in the dark.”

Back in the fucking cupboard, Harry didn't say, where they can pretend I don’t exist.

Hermione flinched at his words, shoulders stiffening. “That’s not fair, Harry,” she said, her voice tight with tears. “We…we really thought we were doing what was safest. What was best.”

Harry scoffed. “Yeah? For who?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she blinked hard, biting at her lip. After a moment she sniffed and turned to the stairs behind them. “Come on, Ron. I think we should let him cool off a bit."

Ron stood frozen for a second longer, jaw tight and red creeping up his ears. “You think we liked it?” he snapped. “You think we wanted to leave you there all summer? We didn’t have a choice. None of us did!”

Harry stepped forward a final time, just in inches away from Ron at this point, his voice lower, colder. “You had a choice. You just chose Dumbledore’s orders over my friendship. Over my wellbeing.”

Ron exhaled harshly through his nose, like he wanted to say more but knew it wouldn’t matter. With a shake of his head, he muttered, “Fine, we’ll talk later,” and followed Hermione down the stairs.

Harry let himself fall back to his seat on the window and listened to their fading footsteps. Within moments, the only noise in the owlery was the soft rustling of the wings above, and echoes of things left unsaid.

Chapter Text

September 2, 1995

Harry skipped lunch.

Still full from breakfast and a heavy dinner the night before, Harry took sanctuary in the owlery - anything to avoid another confrontation.

Hedwig was pleased with the attention, nipping affectionately at his fingers while the rest of the owls dozed with their heads tucked under their wings. From his high perch, Harry watched the grounds until they began to empty again as students went inside for their midday meal, then gently shifted Hedwig to an open roost and dug out his invisibility cloak. One swift movement, and he vanished.

He wandered for a while, keeping to the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, his mind circling the argument with Ron and Hermione.

He kept thinking of other things he should have said. Better points he could have made to make them understand his feelings. Crueler phrasing that could have made them flinch, make them hurt - the way he’d been hurting all summer.

They had their reasons, sure. But none of the reasons felt like enough.

The wards requiring him to be there longer to be at full power, still didn’t explain why no one came for him later in summer.

The risk of contacting him didn’t explain why no one found a workaround. Leaving him completely in the dark - wasn’t that a bigger risk? Harry wasn’t exactly known for his patience or clear thinking when he felt cornered. What if he’d cracked? What if he’d taken off sooner, like when he first felt the magic changing inside him?

Honestly, he should have. Now he’s kicking himself for not leaving earlier. He’d gotten to Diagon Alley easily enough once he’d tried it.

And if there were people stationed outside his house to “watch” him, would it really have been that hard for one of them to come inside? Or catch his attention somehow. One conversation. One sentence. Just one moment of contact from someone magical could have changed everything and helped him so much.

The last weeks of August had felt like a dream where he was trapped underwater. Time sliding by in slow, numb waves, days vanishing without meaning.

One voice, just one, could have pulled him to the surface.

Instead, they left him like a drowning island, cut off, sinking beneath the weight of everything they assumed he could handle on his own.

And now they were surprised to find a volcano where they left him, his fury molten and unavoidable. All that pressure, all that silence. It had to go somewhere.

By the lake, he found a sheltered hollow between a rock and the water’s edge. He sat with his back against the stone and breathed deep, imagining he was drawing in silence. Pulling control into his lungs.

He held it there until his thoughts dulled and the stillness settled in like it had over the summer. Empty. Tranquil. Manageable.

In the heart of that stillness, something inside him thrummed. Too slow for a heartbeat, too steady for breath. Not painful…just present.

Vaguely, he turned his attention to it.

It felt like power, but also…wrong. Insubstantial. Like a shadow pretending to be a boy. Watchful. Hollow.

Something else wearing his shape.

A chill slid over his spine. He shuddered, unnerved and almost let the stillness slip through his fingers. He caught it just in time, gripping the quiet, pulling it back over him. Letting the odd thrumming drift again to the edges of his awareness.

When he felt in control again, the sun was halfway through its descent to the horizon, spilling gold across the lake. Students had returned to the grounds after lunch, doing their best to enjoy one of the last warm days before Scotland’s autumn set in, but luckily most kept to the far side of the lake, wary of finding themselves too close to the Forest.

He was surprised, actually, that nothing had sensed him and come to investigate. He’d been still for hours - motionless and unfocused. An acromantula could’ve crawled right out and taken a bite before he’d noticed.

The thought jabbed at a sore memory. Second year, the car, Ron’s white knuckles and terrified face.

He pushed it aside, stood, and shook himself off before heading to the castle. It was probably nearing dinner, and he doubted he’d be able to skip another meal without it being remarked on. Especially when he’s already got this much attention on him. He should have enough time to return to the dungeons to drop off the library books he was still carting around, and maybe set up those wards around his bed.

Assuming his dorm mates hadn’t already trashed it.

Ducking behind a statue near the large doors, Harry pulls off his invisibility cloak and tucks it deep within his bag. He’d rather the Slytherin’s not know of its existence at all - better to take it off now than try and fail to sneak into the common room unseen.

The Entrance Hall was dim with early evening light as Harry slipped through a side corridor, footsteps quiet against the stone. The weight of the lake’s stillness clung to him, and he turned towards the stairwell, hoping to make it to the Slytherin common room unnoticed.

“Hem, hem. Mr. Potter,” came a voice like poisoned honey.

Harry stopped short.

The woman from the ministry - Umbridge, the new DADA professor - stood directly in his path, pink cardigan button tight and wand tucked primly through the loop of her belt. Her expression was all smiles, but her eyes gleamed with something malicious.

“Out enjoying the grounds, were we?” she asked sweetly, stepping closer. “Did you have permission to leave the castle?”

Harry blinks. There had to have been fifty other students outside just now.

He keeps his tone even when he replies. “I didn’t know I needed permission, Professor. Students are usually allowed out on the grounds before curfew, when the weather is nice.”

Umbridge gave a high, girlish laugh that didn’t match her rotund shape. Or her cold eyes. “That may be so, Mr. Potter. But Hogwarts is not the place for unsupervised wandering, Mr. Potter. Children are meant to be minded by their elders, after all.”

He nodded once, silent, coming to the uncomfortable realization that Umbridge and Aunt Petunia would likely agree on many child rearing techniques.

“Well, Mr. Potter. It’s so lovely to see you back at school,” She said, voice tightening around the edges. “Where you can be properly guided. Properly supervised. I find children thrive best under…structure.”

She leaned forward, smile stretched too wide. “And I do hope you’ll learn to thrive, Mr. Potter. So we don’t have any further incidents like your little legal mishap this summer. You’re unlikely to get off quite so luckily a second time, after all.”

His hands curled slightly at his sides, but his voice remained steady. “I’ll do my best, Professor.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” she said, stepping aside at last. “Should you struggle with anything, Mr. Potter, know that I’m here and willing to help you. You’re always welcome to come to me, I wish to be a friend to all students, regardless of their…backgrounds. My office is always open.”

He moved past her with an insincere mutter of gratitude, spine tight and skin crawling, and with the uneasy sense that he was turning his back on a new enemy.

*

The Slytherin common room was more crowded than Harry hoped, but he ignored the stares and sudden pause in movement as he entered. Back straight, eyes forward, he headed directly for the fifth-year dorms.

Unfortunately, the fifth-year parlour is no better. The girls are gathered near the wireless, where a familiar Weird Sisters tune plays softly, he remembers it from the Yule Ball. Summer homework and half-eaten sweets are scattered across the cushions near them. The boys are more spread out: Zabini and Nott sit locked in a quiet chess match, while Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are sprawled across the sofas by the fire, mid-conversation.

Or at least, that is what they’d been doing before Harry walked in. But unlike the others, these ones don’t let him pass without comment.

“Where have you been all day, then?” Malfoy drawls, giving Harry a once-over like he’s inspecting spoiled potions ingredients. “Begging at Gryffindor tower to be let in?”

“Sorry, Malfoy. Didn’t realize you’d miss me so much you couldn’t go twelve hours without my company. I’ll make sure to send you an itinerary next time so you can trail after me.” He threw over his shoulder as he passed, not slowing down, the effort of the day pressing in.

Best friends turned strangers, a ministry toad playing power games, and now Malfoy, who seemed determined to preen for an audience.

He brushed past without waiting for a retort, sparing the girls a polite nod and doing the same for Zabini and Nott. Zabini met his eye and raised a brow, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

In the dorm, Harry immediately dropped onto his bed - thankfully undamaged and untouched - and drew the curtains closed around him. He lay back and closed his eyes, unable to hold back the heavy sigh. Today felt like it had lasted a month; the last few days, a year.

If day one was any indication, this year at Hogwarts was going to be hell. His plans to pursue his O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. tests early were looking smarter by the second. For a moment, Harry let himself imagine not returning to Hogwarts after taking the N.E.W.T. test early - next summer if he’s able.

It hurt, if he was honest with himself. The thought of leaving the castle for good—saying goodbye to the sprawling grounds, the hidden corridors, the mysteries still waiting to be uncovered. Never returning to the place where his parents met and fell in love. He didn’t want to give up the time he could still have here. But if he was going to be this miserable all year, it might not be worth staying.

With that goal stirring in his chest, Harry sat up and dug out the library books. The purpose anchored him. Gave him something concrete and achievable to focus on.

He cast the perimeter ward first, then reviewed the runes for a basic sound-cancellation charm. He was rereading the steps when the dormitory door creaked open again.

Glancing up, Harry was relieved not to see Malfoy. It was Nott, entering cautiously, his eyes flicking toward Harry with a look that seemed both wary and curious. He crossed to his bed without a word.

They stayed like that for a few minutes—Harry flipping pages, Nott quietly fidgeting with something on his nightstand.

The silence doesn’t last, however. “We didn’t see you at breakfast. Or lunch.”

Nott’s voice was soft, and despite it being phrased as a statement, the question is clear.

Harry considered him for a moment, but didn’t see the harm in being honest. Nott hadn’t spoken with snark or rudeness like Malfoy had.

“I woke up early and ate before most people were in the Great Hall. I did skip lunch though, wasn’t particularly hungry.”

“I see. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

He shrugged, still not all that hungry, but he knew he needed to get back to normal.

One meal at a time.

“I’ll be there. Do you really want me to sit with you lot, though? I figured I’d be shunted to the far end of the table and ignored.”

Perhaps that was a bit too blunt. Nott sat on the edge of his bed, studying Harry like he was coming to a decision.

“I can’t speak for Malfoy, although you’re probably reading his wishes for you correctly. But as for Blaise and I…and probably Daph and Millie as well…we wouldn’t mind you sitting with us, Potter.”

“Really?” Harry asked skeptically, “I find that a bit hard to believe after four years of - “

“Of what?” Nott cut in. “I know you and Malfoy have this athletic-rivalry-slash-instant-hatred-slash-weird-maybe-sexual-tension thing - ”

“Wait, what?!” Harry interjected, but Nott barreled on, “ - but I know for a fact that you and I have never had a bad interaction. Honestly, I’m not sure we’ve said more than two words to each other our entire time at Hogwarts. Same goes for the others.”

“I know you want to lump all Slytherins together, Potter, but that wasn’t true even before you joined us in the dungeons.”

Harry was quiet for a moment, swallowing a twinge of guilt. Nott was right—none of the others had ever insulted him, nor had he personally heard them spout blood purity nonsense.

But still—there was one thing he couldn’t let slide.

“So maybe you’re not like Malfoy,” Harry said. “But are you like your family? I know someone named Nott was there in June. Voldemort said the name himself.”

Nott flinched—first at the accusation, and again at Voldemort’s name. But he straightened quickly, meeting Harry’s gaze head-on.

“I’m not my father, Potter. I probably don’t agree with you on everything—and this subject is more nuanced than we’ve got time for right now—but no. I don’t think muggleborns should be banned from our world, or that they’re ‘stealing magic,’ or any of that rot making the rounds lately. And I sure as hell don’t think they should be killed for it.”

“It’s easy to say that now,” Harry said, not unkindly. “When it’s just the two of us. When the stakes are low. Could you really go against family. Could you really go against him, when he starts recruiting.”

Nott’s mouth twisted into something too bitter to be a smile. “You think I haven’t been asking myself that since June. Since you came back clutching a dead boy shouting he was back…I knew what it meant then. You think I haven’t woken up every day since, wondering if this would be the day my father brought me to meet ‘an associate’ of his?”

Harry shrugged. “I think I’ve seen too many people claim they didn’t have a choice when it mattered most, to have much faith that people will make the hard choices when it comes down to it.”

Nott sighed, perhaps recognizing Harry wasn’t going to trust him today. “Look,” he said, “You don’t have to like me. But if you’re staying in Slytherin, you should at least know who your enemies are.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And I should trust you to tell me the difference? Does that mean we’re friends now?”

“It means we’re not enemies, even if you’re not prepared to believe that. Dinner’s in fifteen, by the way,” Nott added over his shoulder as he stood. “Sit where you want.”

Forty minutes later, after etching a temporary sound ward around his bed and making the quiet walk to the Great Hall alone, Harry ignored the stares that followed him from every table.

Without hesitation, he slid onto the bench beside Nott.

*

The first morning of classes dawned early for Harry.

Sunday had followed much the same pattern as Saturday. He’d woken early, eaten breakfast alone, and spent the morning tucked into a back corner of the library. There, he’d started sketching out a revision plan for the Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. After flipping through the textbook assigned by Umbridge, he immediately borrowed several higher-level books on defensive magic. He knew he’d be doing self-study to prepare for the O.W.L., but the useless book by Slinkhard made it obvious he’d be on his own when it came to learning anything this year.

He skipped lunch again and spent the afternoon drifting through the castle under his invisibility cloak, the Marauder’s Map open in one hand as he avoided populated corridors. By dinner, he’d resurfaced and joined Nott and Zabini at the Slytherin table again, exchanging polite but surface level conversation with the Slytherins that Nott had said would be receptive to his company.

Afterwards he’d turned in early and, unsurprisingly, woke before anyone else in the dorm.

This morning, instead of heading straight to the Great Hall after showering and getting dressed in his uniform, he claimed a seat in the fifth years’ parlour. He lit a low lamp, cracked open a thick book on counter-curses, and began to read.

It was only about an hour later when the door to the girls’ dorm creaked open, and Daphne Greengrass stepped through.

Harry glanced up from his book, expecting her to pass through the room without much more than a nod or perhaps a casual “Good morning.” But to his surprise, her eyes landed on him immediately. After a moment’s pause, she walked over and took the seat on the opposite end of the couch, folding herself down with graceful ease.

Once settled, she gave him a small, polite smile. “Good morning.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “...Good morning.”

There was a short pause, just long enough to make him wonder if she’d say more—or if that was it. Then she spoke again.

“How are you finding Slytherin House?” she asked, tone light but not insincere. “I imagine transitioning midway through your time at Hogwarts must be… challenging.”

Harry raised an eyebrow slightly. “That’s one word for it.”

“You’ve been able to hide out the last few days. With classes starting today, you’ll have to face the rest of the school. I believe there’s already betting in the House as to how you’ll react.”

“Ah. Are you hoping to get the inside scoop so you know which way to bet?”

“Oh no, I’ve already placed my wager and am quite confident in my prediction.”

“Do you lot usually make bets on your fellow students?”

“There’s not much else to entertain us up here in the Highlands. At least not until Quidditch starts up again.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, tone dry. “Nothing says good fun like speculating about people’s breakdowns.”

She laughed lightly, then tilted her head. “We do tend to take a more mercenary view than you might be accustomed to. You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t,” she added with a shrug that somehow managed to be both graceful and indifferent.

“I, for one, am looking forward to the entertainment you’re sure to provide all year long. For example, odds are 3-to-1 that Flint asks you to try out for Seeker. If you can make sure I’m there for Malfoy’s reaction, Potter, I’ll owe you a favor. I’ve got another bet on how many Potter-in-Slytherin induced meltdowns he has in the first month of school, and that one is sure to be highly amusing.”

“You think Flint’s going to want me as his Seeker? And that’d I’d just be happy to play against my previous team?” Harry raised an eyebrow, the thought of it filling him with guilt but tempting all the same. He knew, if the offer came, he’d have a hard time turning it down. Not if it meant flying again.

Greengrass’s expression softened, almost contemplative. “I think you’re the best Seeker Hogwarts has had in years. Maybe decades. And while Flint might not be the brightest in the classroom, he’s not a fool - especially when it comes to Quidditch. Malfoy’s never beaten you, and if Flint wants to win, and keep the House from turning on him for picking someone less qualified, he’ll be begging you to try out by the end of the week. And I think someone who flies like you - takes the risks that you do while on a broomstick, probably loves it too much to quit it entirely, just because of the color of shirt you’d be wearing.”

“If Flint’s desperate enough to ask me, maybe I’ll consider it.”

Harry knew himself well enough to admit to himself he’d likely agree. He wouldn’t show up to practice uninvited, wouldn’t ask to join, wouldn’t put himself out there only to be mocked and dismissed by the team. But if he was recruited…well that was a different story.

He firmly avoided any reflection on how the Gryffindor team would respond.

All’s fair in love and war, he reminded himself. And quidditch is a bit of both.

“Just make sure I’m there when Draco dearest hears about it, Potter.” She says, anticipation clear in her expression.

He huffed a laugh, “Yeah, his reaction would be priceless. I’m sure ‘his father will hear about it,’” he added, mimicking Malfoy’s tone.

Greengrass laughed. “You are particularly skilled at causing Malfoy’s favorite phrase to be repeated ad nauseum. I suppose I’ll have to resign myself to hearing it even more this year, now that he’ll be seeing you more often.” She stood, signaling they were nearing the end of the conversation.

“Apologies in advance,” Harry replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“No apologies necessary. As I said, the entertainment value of having you here will be high enough, it will be worth any migraines caused by Draco’s whining.” With that, she left him, heading towards the shared common room.

Harry wondered when another Slytherin would corner him and make him question his long-held beliefs about Slytherins - first Nott, now Greengrass. Next it’d be Snape offering him cookies and life advice.

He snorted at the mental image, the thought of the bat-like potions professor acting kindly too much even for his imagination.

Returning to his book, Harry read for a few more minutes until the door to the boys’ dorm opened again and Zabini exited.

Upon seeing Harry, the other boy's smile widened. “Good morning, Potter! Will you be joining us for breakfast this lovely morning?”

It seemed that by avoiding his fellow Slytherins the past two mornings, Harry had missed that Zabini was a morning person, his voice far too chipper for this time of day. Nott, trailing behind Zabini, appeared to be in a similar mood to Harry, based on the sulky glare aimed at the back of Zabini’s head.

“Yes,” Harry answered, “I can skip one morning in the library, since we’ll get our schedules today.” Harry had gathered from discussion Saturday night that Snape had told one of the prefects their schedules would be passed out at breakfast on the first day of classes, not over the weekend.

A bit unhelpful, Harry thought, since now they’d all have to run back to their dorms to get the correct books between breakfast and their first class.

Harry stood, “Give me just a moment to put my book away.” He stepped past the other two and slipped back into the dormitory, ignoring Crabbe, who shot him a glare. The last two occupants of the dorm were missing, but Harry thought he faintly heard the sound of a shower running through the cracked bathroom door. Figures Malfoy wakes up late. He seemed the sort to laze about.

Leaving the book in his trunk, Harry grabbed his outer robes, which he had left hanging up in his wardrobe, and slung them on.

Rejoining Nott and Zabini, the group made their way up to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was as they were approaching the large doors, heading into the hall, that their path was interrupted.

“Oi! Harry!”

Leaning against the wall in the direction of Gryffindor Tower were the Weasley twins, both watching him expectedly. When he didn’t immediately start walking towards them, one of them - difficult to tell at this distance, but Harry thought it was George - impatiently beckoned him, while the other - probably Fred - eyed the Slytherins standing behind him with narrowed eyes.

“Should we meet you inside, Potter?” Zabini asked courteously, sending a curious glance back at the twins.

Couldn’t be any worse than the conversation with Ron and Hermione…better to just get it over with.

“Sure, I’m sure this won’t take long.” Harry said over his shoulder, stepping toward his former housemates.

When he approached them, he allowed the two of them to shuffle him backwards until they were out of view of the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Harry, we know you’re usually one for causing chaos -” Fred started

“ - And we love that about you, really. One of our favorite things about being your friend.” George picked up.

“But really, this summer takes the cake, mate. You had us concerned, and you know we prefer to go through life as unconcerned as possible.”

“Er - sorry.” Harry said, unsure. The words were joking, but both the twins had genuine looks of worry on their faces.

“And now you’re in bloody Slytherin where we can’t be keeping an eye on you.” Fred glared.

George, nodding primly, adding “It’s enough to turn our bloody hair grey, worrying about you. You wouldn’t believe the trouble we got into after we tried to sneak out to see you this summer.”

Harry blinked, “You - you tried to sneak out to see me?”

“Well we knew where you lived, Haz. We didn’t think it would be hard. And we thought it was stupid to send you off alone after everything last term. We thought a visit from your favorite Weasleys could cheer you up…and we might have had a few things we wanted to test on your cousin again.” Fred told him with a wink.

George picked up the story, “Remembered where you lived from when we took the car and picked you up. And we had our apparition license, so a few weeks into summer break, we figured we’d stop by for a chat…see how you were.”

“Course, we didn’t bloody know then that Dumbledore had people guarding you all day, did we? We got halfway up the street and Kingsley stormed up to us and made us leave.” Fred said, still annoyed at the indignity.

“We got such a bollocksing when we got home. And after your little tête-à-tête with a dementor, when we wouldn’t promise to not try it again, to just kidnap you ourselves -”

“- Mum had Bill make us these damned rings that kept us from apparating. Said she’d only remove them when we were ‘mature enough to treat apparition as the privilege it is’.”

They both waved their hands at Harry as Fred explained, and Harry noticed a simple silver ring, with what looked like runes engraved around the band, on each of their right middle fingers.

“Don’t worry, Haz. We’re still not speaking to her. She went mental this summer, she did.” Fred added.

“Barely speaking to Bill as well. And that actually is quite the loss,” George told him, a mournful look on his face. “He was always our favorite brother. The twat’s trying to suck up to mum though, so she’ll stop hating on his new girlfriend.”

Harry, in shock and amazed at the incredible amount of information the twins had just dumped on him oh so casually, said nothing.

They had tried to come visit him. Tried to do so multiple times, in fact. And refused to agree to stop trying. They wanted to take him away from Privet Drive, and their threats of stealing him away had been serious enough their mother had taken actual steps to ensure they couldn’t do so.

Harry had to swallow the emotions that threatened to escape. He couldn’t afford to break down in front of the twins, especially not right before walking into the Great Hall. If he started crying now, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Thank you.” He said finally, his voice rough as he met both Fred and George’s eyes. “For trying. It…it would have meant a lot to see you over summer - still does, just knowing that you tried, even if you were turned around before you actually reached me.”

He couldn’t help himself. The question slipped out before he could stop it. “And you’re not…upset? About my resorting?”

The twins glanced at each other, communicating silently, before George turned back to Harry with a soft smile, “Of course we’re upset, Harry. We’ll miss having you in Gryffindor.”

“Always good for a laugh, you are. And the Quidditch team isn’t likely to recover.” All three of them wince at that reminder. “But the hat’s the one that makes the final call - we can’t choose our houses anymore than you can choose not to be a speccy little git.” Fred finished, with an affectionate grin and a soft nudge to Harry’s shoulder.

“To tell you the truth, we both were almost sorted into Slytherin in our first year.” George continued, his tone light, “Freddie was worried I wouldn’t get the same offer, since I was after him so he begged for Gryffindor, and when I went I refused to go anywhere he wasn’t.”

The relief hit him harder than he thought it would - to know the twins were like him, a Slytherin/Gryffindor mix, and that it didn’t change how they saw him.

“Besides, you’re our best investor, Harry. It’d take more than a little newly discovered snakey-ness for us to throw you over.”

“Anyways, we just wanted to let you know that we might not be in the same House anymore, but we still consider you our littlest brother. So if you need anything -”

“Especially if what you need is assistance getting a little revenge on anyone -”

“Slytherins giving you trouble, Lions upset about the resort -”

“Other Weasleys that maybe aren’t so indifferent to the persuasiveness of certain authority figures.” George adds with a flinty look.

“You can come to us.” The twins both finish in unison.

Harry smiled at the both of them, the familiar charm of their double act always managing to lift his spirits. He felt a warmth spread through him. “Thanks,” he said again, his voice a little softer than before.

They wished him luck on the first day of term, promising to meet up somewhere more private soon - they’d been getting curious looks from the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws passing by on the way to breakfast. Harry got the sense they’d blab more details about their summer than Ron and Hermione had. It also sounded like they’d come up with even more inventions they were eager to share.

After separating from the twins, Harry stepped through the doors of the Great Hall, making his way to the Slytherin table, scanning the length for Nott and Zabini. While dinners at the Slytherin table seemed to be sat in year order - with the youngest students closest to the teachers’ table and the seventh years at the opposite end - breakfast and lunch were more informal.

Eventually, he spotted Zabini and Nott, joined by Greengrass and Bulstrode about three-quarters up the table. Sliding onto the bench next to Zabini, Harry fixed himself a cup of tea before piling some toast and eggs onto his plate.

“Snape’s not been by yet with the schedules?” Harry asked casually, glancing up at the head table, where Snape was sitting, clutching a mug as though it were a lifeline. His usual expression of dour superiority was firmly in place. Harry quickly looked away before the professor could catch him looking. He’d managed to go two whole days without being noticed by Snape. He didn’t think that streak would last much longer, especially once they had to interact.

“Not yet,” Bulstrode said, words muffled with the croissant she was eating, “But he should start passing them out soon, if he’s going to make it through everyone in time.”

As if on cue, Snape set his mug down and stood. Harry tracked his progress down the Slytherin table as he approached, swallowing down as much of breakfast as he could. He’d just set down his fork and turned his attention to the tea when Snape made it to them.

“Ms. Greengrass.” Snape murmured quietly, his voice low as he handed her a piece of parchment, “And Ms. Bulstrode.”

“Mr. Nott, note the alternating schedule every other week due to the difficulty in scheduling Arithmancy around Ancient Runes.”

“Mr. Zabini, your schedule.” Snape's eyes flickered over the table as he handed the final schedule over to Zabini, but there was a brief pause before he continued.

“Mr. Potter.” The drawl came, thick with disdain, just as Harry had known was coming. The tone was the same one Snape had used back in first year when he’d called him ‘our new celebrity’ and proceeded to quiz him on topics far beyond first year potions.
Harry tensed as Snape extended the parchment toward him, his gaze locking onto the professor’s chin, refusing to meet his eyes. He’d read once that locking eyes with animals might encourage predators to attack.

When Harry reached out to take it, Snape didn’t let go immediately.

“In preparation for our upcoming one-on-one discussion, Mr. Potter,” Snape began, his voice oozing with condescension, “I reviewed your student file. It appears some information was missing.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He had no idea what Snape could be referring to. Seeming to read the confusion on Harry’s face, Snape continued, his voice colder still.

“Despite your frequent visits to the hospital wing, courtesy of your many moronic activities, your medical record is surprisingly sparse. Hogwarts has no information on your immunizations, allergies, or any other relevant medical history. It seems you failed to undergo a proper medical examination prior to attending Hogwarts.”

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in. “As you apparently neglected to attend a proper medical assessment prior to your enrollment, Madame Pomfrey will need to take time out of her busy schedule to accommodate you. Report to the matron by the end of the week to schedule this. I expect it to be completed by the end of the month, so I can have a fully updated file prior to our meeting.”

Before Harry could even open his mouth to protest, Snape swept away, moving on to pass out the remaining schedules without a second glance.

As Snape stalked down the table, Harry sat back, fingers gripping the edge of the bench as he processed the professor’s words.

It wasn’t his bloody fault he’d never had a medical assessment - he hadn’t even known one was required. And Snape will eventually be looking over the information. Wonderful. He could just picture it now.

You’re looking a bit underweight, Mr. Potter. Are meals at Hogwarts not to your liking? Perhaps I should set you detentions in the kitchens so you can learn the value of a well-cooked meal. Or perhaps you’re just seeking attention and think starving yourself is the best way to do so?

A ripple of unease threaded through him before he forced himself to shake it off. It was probably just an obligation thing. Snape wanted to make sure no one could blame him if something happened to Harry while under his watch, so he’d force a medical check to tick the box. Then, hopefully, Snape would go back to ignoring him.

Taking a deep breath, Harry forced his mind to settle. If he had until the end of the month to meet with Madame Pomphrey, there were more immediate things to consider.

Unrolling his schedule, he scanned the list of classes.

Mondays were shaping up to be a nightmare. He started with Astronomy theory first, followed by double Potions, then Divination. After lunch, another double session, but this time of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He skimmed the rest of the week, noting that every course had one double section and one shorter period throughout the week.

Well, he sighed to himself, he had heard that the academic work load would increase in preparation for the O.W.L., and it seemed like this was the first real sign of that being true.

Friday looked to be his best day of the week. Free periods in the morning, followed by Defense Against the Dark Arts again before lunch, and then a double Care of Magical Creatures class in the afternoon.

He’d try to use that day - and the free periods on Wednesday, presumably scheduled to recover from the late-night Astronomy practical the evening before - as time to self-study for the DADA exam he hoped to take early.

Harry tucked his schedule away with a quiet groan when the others did the same, then followed behind the other Slytherins to collect his books for the day from the dorm.

Between Greengrass, the twins, and Snape, today was already long - and it had barely even started.

Chapter Text

September 4, 1995

Astronomy Theory had turned out to be a surprisingly interesting course. In past years they had mostly been limited to identifying the constellations and tracking the planets’ movement across the sky. Beginning in fifth year, they started learning how celestial patterns could influence magic - things like how lunar phases might weaken or strengthen the magical flora blooming beneath them, or how planetary alignments could alter the accuracy of a divination reading.

Professor Sinistra, after giving a brief lecture on the importance of preparing for O.W.L.s, explained that their curriculum would gradually become more theoretical. It was assumed that by now, students knew how to chart the night sky; now the focus would shift to understanding why it mattered.

They were paired with the Ravenclaws for Astronomy this year, and Harry was relieved to know that the late-night sessions would be spent with a quieter group instead of the Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs.

The walk from the sixth floor down to the dungeons for Potions nearly ate up the entire passing period. By the time Harry reached the classroom - trailing behind Nott and Bulstrode, who were animatedly comparing the magical influences of Saturn’s moons versus Jupiter’s - the Gryffindor fifth years were already gathered outside, waiting.

His eyes were immediately drawn to Ron and Hermione, both of whom were staring at him. Forcing himself to look away, he let his gaze drift further down the corridor. Seamus was glaring openly, while Dean had a hand on his shoulder, whispering something in his ear.

The Gryffindor girls kept glancing between him and Ron and Hermione, their eyes flicking back and forth like they were waiting for a fight to break out.

Harry leaned against the wall opposite the cluster of his former housemates, scanning the group until his eyes landed on the last Gryffindor.

Neville stood a bit apart from the others, brow furrowed in something like concern. Since it didn’t seem outright hostile, Harry gave him a small nod in greeting. Neville’s face eased.

“Hey, Nev,” Harry said quietly. “Good summer?”

Neville smiled. “Not bad. Got a Mimbulus Mimbletonia for my birthday. Have you heard of them, Harry?”

He hadn’t, but he could take a guess it was a plant, judging by Neville’s excitement. When he said as much, Neville nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s really rare! Came all the way from Assyria. It’s got this incredible defense mechanism. If it feels threatened, it ejects Stinksap to scare off predators. Smells terrible,” he added sheepishly, and Harry had a feeling someone had already been hit by a blast. “But it’s dead useful in a bunch of potions.”

“That’s cool, Nev,” Harry said with a grin.

Neville brightened. “Maybe you’d want to see it? I’ve got it set up in the dorm -”

Seamus stepped forward, yanking his arm out of Dean’s grip. “Potter’s not a Gryffindor anymore, Neville. He’s not welcome in the dorm. And you won’t be sharing the password around just to sneak a snake in.”

Neville stammered, retreating slightly under Seamus’s glare. “Er—no, I—I meant I’d bring it to him.”

Harry slipped his hands into his pockets to hide the way they’d curled into fists. His voice was calm. “You got something you want to say to me, Seamus?”

“Yeah. I do, Potter.” Seamus turned toward him, ignoring Neville entirely.

“Did you know my mum didn’t want me to come back this year? Didn’t want me rooming with you. Guess if we’d known you belonged in the dungeons after all, I wouldn’t have had to argue with her so hard to be allowed back.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “And what exactly is her issue with me? I’ve said maybe ten words to her in my life and they were all about the World Cup.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Seamus shot back, arms crossing. “Maybe the fact that you’re a liar. You and Dumbledore. And if last June wasn’t bad enough…That mess this summer, breaking the Statute of Secrecy… can’t believe you turned into such an attention seeker. But I guess that’s what happens when you’re famous before you can walk.”

Harry shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Then I suppose she’s relieved I’m not a Gryffindor anymore. And you’re safe—tucked away at the top of your tower.”

Before Seamus could fire back, another voice cut through the tense corridor.

“Oh, give it a rest, Seamus.”

Ron stepped forward, scowling at his housemate. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And neither does the bloody Prophet that your mum’s so fond of.”

Seamus rounded on him, caught off guard. “Don’t have a go at my mum! And if he’d just give us some bloody answers! I think we’re entitled to that if we have to share a school with him.”

A few murmurs from the other students.

Seamus pressed on, pointing toward the green-trimmed robes Harry now wore. “Honestly, he probably should’ve been down there from the start. Always skulking off, always keeping secrets. Slytherins have a knack for only taking care of their own don’t they? Liars, cheats, and Dark wizards. No wonder he fits in.”

Several Slytherins stiffened at that - Harry felt it more than saw it - but it was Daphne Greengras who spoke first. Her voice was cool, detached, but unmistakably sharp.

“Coming from a Gryffindor, that’s rich. How many of your lot have to start fights in corridors with younger years just to feel brave?”

A ripple of laughter came from the Slytherins nearby, low and quick, but it fizzled instantly when Draco Malfoy rounded the corner, eyes sweeping the group like he’d caught the scent of blood.

“Well, well,” he drawled, smirking as he took in the tension in the hallway. “Are we having a spat? Does Potter’s former house take issue with his new sorting?”

“Careful, Malfoy.” Ron warned.

“Oh, I’m shaking,” Malfoy sneered, leaning against the stone wall, Crabbe and Goyle coming up behind him. “Relax, Weasley, I’m just enjoying the spectacle. Anyone taking Potter down a peg is something I can enjoy - even if it is a Gryffindor who does it.”

Seamus gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’m not doing anything for your enjoyment Malfoy. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

“Well you’re not speaking for me.” Ron interjected, his attention back on Seamus. “You’ve been on about this for days, and now you’re harassing him in the corridors. If you don’t knock it off, this will be approaching the point of bullying, and I’ll take points.” He gestured toward his prefect badge.

Seamus scoffed but took a step back. “Whatever. He’s already one of them. Probably feels right at home with the snakes. Just don’t come crying to me when it turns out he’s as mad as The Prophet says.”

He turned and stalked off towards the classroom door, Dean trailing behind him with a conflicted glance at Harry.

Ron turned back to him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other.

“Do you think we could talk today?” Ron asked hesitantly as Hermione crept closer beside him. “Maybe after dinner?”

Harry looked between them. He wasn’t really sure what else there was to say, but he had avoided them the rest of the weekend after their confrontation in the Owlery.

“Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll be in the library after dinner. You can meet me there.”

They both looked relieved.

Before anything else could be said, the Potions classroom door creaked open, and Snape’s cold voice slithered through the hallway.

“Inside. Now.”

As the others shuffled in, Neville edged closer to Harry again, “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t,” Harry reassured him, “I think Seamus was going to corner me sooner or later. Want to sit together?” Harry used to sit with Ron and Hermione in Potions, and regardless of their plan to speak later, he doesn’t want to be in close quarters with them for the whole class.

“Are you sure you really want to sit with me?” Neville asks, apprehensive, “I’m not the best at potions, and Snape usually…well, it’s hard to go unnoticed if you’re next to me.”

As the two make their way through into the dimly lit potions room, Harry huffs a quiet laugh, “I’m not really able to go unnoticed by Snape anyways. Might as well suffer together.”

*

Had Harry really thought about it, he probably would have guessed Potions would be the most difficult of his classes to get through on his first day. Mix together the usual antagonism between Slytherin and Gryffindor, Snape’s own hatred of Harry, and the volatile nature of potions themselves, and it all equaled a powder keg just waiting to blow up in his face.

It was surprising, then, when Defense Against the Dark Arts turned out to be far worse.

Potions had been relatively low-key. Snape had, as usual, swept around the classroom glaring at everyone and offering pointed insults toward every Gryffindor attempt at brewing. But oddly enough, despite Harry’s assertions to Neville, the dour professor had completely ignored Harry. Neville had benefited from this sudden blindness as well, as Snape seemed to just avoid their shared table entirely.

Harry didn’t think it would last long, but he planned to take full advantage of Snape pretending he didn’t exist for as long as possible.

After Potions came Divination, where Harry had claimed the smallest, one-person table at the back of the room (usually left empty), and endured Professor Trelawney’s usual doom and gloom predictions about his life expectancy with gritted teeth and barely restrained eye rolls. He couldn’t wait to drop Divination during his N.E.W.T. years.

At lunch, seated once again at the Slytherin table, the conversation focused mostly on complaints about the amount of homework they had already received. Sinistra and Snape were particularly brutal, though, for once, Harry was privately grateful he had taken Divination instead of Ancient Runes - held during the same period on Mondays - as the Runes students had been given another long essay due on Thursday.

By the time the group left the Great Hall and made their way toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, everyone was visibly relieved that this would be their final lesson of the day. Harry’s thoughts were preoccupied with how long it would take him to complete his assignments before he could shift focus to his planned self-study. He supposed it depended on how long the conversation with Ron and Hermione lasted after dinner.

Entering the classroom, Harry felt a sinking sense of dread. Umbridge had left her mark, all the dark detectors that Moody (or fake-Moody, as it were) had installed were removed. There were no bookshelves like Lupin had installed, nor even the diagrams that Quirrell had hung up in first year. The walls were bare, a blank slate upon which Umbridge chose not to add anything.

Harry supposed he should just be grateful it wasn’t portraits of herself like they’d had to endure with Lockhart.

Umbridge herself sat at the front of the room behind a lace-covered desk, her smile plastered in place like it had been stitched on. She wore a fluffy pink cardigan, and an enormous velvet bow perched on top of her head. As the last of the Gryffindors entered the room, she stood and waved her wand to shut the door. Harry didn’t catch the incantation, but saw her lips move as she cast it under her breath.

“Good afternoon, boys and girls,” Umbridge said sweetly, surveying them like they were kindergarteners on their first day.

When the class only stared back blankly, she tutted softly and added, “Tut tut. That simply won’t do. When I greet you, I expect you to reply, ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ Now, let’s try again, shall we?”

She repeated herself, and this time a chorus of unenthusiastic voices replied, “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll work on that throughout the year,” she said primly.
“Now, I see many of you have your wands out. You may return them to your bags - you’ll not be needing them today. Please retrieve your assigned book for this course, along with some parchment and a quill for note taking.”

Harry had intended to take notes in one of the Muggle notebooks he had picked up in London before the train. His hand hovered over a blank spiral-bound pad, but at the last second he withdrew a roll of parchment instead and ignored the ballpoint pen tucked in the corner of his bag. Umbridge struck him as exactly the sort of person who would have a problem with anything unconventional.

As students rustled about, following her instructions, Umbridge walked to the blackboard and rapped it with her wand. Words unfurled neatly across the surface.

Defense Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles

“I understand,” she began, turning to face them again, “that you’ve had quite the revolving door of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors. One might almost think the position is cursed.” She laughed lightly, as though she had said something very clever.

“The lack of consistency is unfortunate, but the real problem lies in the quality of instruction. Rarely did any of them follow Ministry-approved curriculum, and as such, none of you are truly prepared to take your O.W.L. exams at the end of the year.”

She tapped the blackboard again. The title disappeared, replaced by a list of course aims - each one duller than the last.

“Please copy down the course aims,” she instructed.

Once the scratching of quills had ceased and everyone had looked up again, she clasped her hands and beamed.

“Now, please turn to page five in your textbooks and begin reading the first chapter. There will be no need for talking.”

Harry couldn’t help the slightly raised eyebrows, but didn’t pause long before he obediently flipped open his book. As the classroom fell into near silence, the only sounds were turning pages and the scratch of quills—until Umbridge’s heels began to click slowly between the desks, patrolling like a pink, frilled sentry.

Harry, who had already skimmed the first few chapters of the book, forced himself to reread the assigned pages. His eyes moved mechanically across the text, but it was so dull the words refused to settle in his mind. It wasn’t long before his attention drifted, drawn to Hermione, who sat near the front of the room with her hand raised.

She held it there with unwavering patience, her posture perfect, her expression composed. Umbridge, however, continued to pretend she hadn’t noticed. The seconds ticked by. A few students shifted in their seats, others began to glance toward Hermione, then toward the professor, then back again. By the five-minute mark, nearly the entire room had turned their attention to the tableau in front of them.

At last, Umbridge relented. She stepped delicately around her desk and approached Hermione’s table, her hands clasped and her tone syrup sweet.

“Yes, dear?” she asked in a near whisper “Did you have a question about Chapter One?”

“No, Madam,” Hermione said politely, but clearly enough to be heard across the classroom, “I had a question about the course goals. There’s nothing included about practicing defensive magic, only about understanding the theory.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room as heads swiveled toward the blackboard. Sure enough, the course aims still remained there in neat, chalk-white script. All focused on understanding the use of defensive magic. Not a single mention of spellwork.

Umbridge let out a dainty laugh. “Using defensive spells? My dear girl, this is a classroom. I can’t imagine a situation in which you would need to use defensive magic here.” She smiled, eyes twinkling with false warmth. “I assure you, you’ll be perfectly safe under my instruction.”

“We’re not going to use any magic in this class?” Ron blurted out from next to Hermione.

Umbridge’s head snapped around. “Students raise their hands before speaking in my class, Mr. - ?”

“Weasley,” Ron said, throwing his hand into the air with exaggerated speed. “Sorry. I just don’t understand how we’re supposed to learn Defense if we’re not allowed to practice it.”

“I did not call on you, Mr. Weasley.”

Umbridge said, her smile sharpened. “In this classroom, we raise our hands and wait patiently to be addressed.”

She turned back to the front of the room, clasped her hands neatly in front of her, and looked around as if daring someone else to interrupt her lesson plan.

Unfortunately for her, several other hands had risen.

Parvati Patil was called on first. After Umbridge confirmed her name, she asked, her voice tentative, “But…Professor, won’t there be a practical component to the O.W.L.? If we don’t practice spells throughout the year, how will we be ready?”

“Miss Patil,” Umbridge said, her voice turning brittle, “you will find that a firm theoretical foundation is more than sufficient for success. The ministry has full confidence in this curriculum.”

Parvati slowly lowered her hand, looking unsure.

But more hands stayed up.

To Harry’s surprise, Daphne Greengrass was called on next. “Professor,” she said smoothly, “what if a student doesn’t come from a household where they can safely practice magic? Isn’t class the only safe, legal place to try defensive spells?”

Umbridge blinked. She clearly hadn’t expected any challenges from a Slytherin.

“That,” she said with a tight smile, “is unfortunate. But not insurmountable. You will find that understanding spellwork on paper provides all the preparation necessary.

“But the exam—” Seamus cut in, his hand only half-raised, “—it is practical. That’s the whole point.”

A few students nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Finnigan,” Umbridge snapped, “you are not the authority on the structure of Ministry exams. I suggest you focus your energy on reading the assigned chapter rather than speculating wildly.”

As murmurs spread across the room, Harry saw Ron glancing towards him, brows lifted in silent invitation.

Harry ignored it. He looked back to his parchment, appearing to take notes though he wasn’t writing anything of substance. He could feel Hermione’s glance burning into the side of his face too - expecting him to speak up.

He didn’t.

If Umbridge didn’t care whether they failed the Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., then Harry didn’t see the point in trying to change her mind. They all could self-study like he planned to. Arguing with her wouldn’t do any good.

Hermione raised her hand again—high, steady, determined.

This time, Umbridge didn’t pretend not to see.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“I still don’t understand how we’re supposed to be prepared—for both the O.W.L. and for the real world—without practicing actual defense.” Hermioen said. “There are real threats out there.”

For a flicker of a moment, Harry saw something flash across Umbridge's face - triumph, maybe. Or something close to it. Her eyes flicked toward him, then back to Hermione.

“Real threats?” She echoed, tilting her head in false confusion. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

“I mean the return of You-Know-Who.” Hermione said plainly.

Gasps rippled across the room, a few students stiffening in their seats. Even the Slytherins looked more alert now.

Harry felt the room shift around him, all eyes flicking between Hermione and Umbridge—then sliding, inevitably, toward him.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t move.

He stayed silent.

But something cold uncoiled in his chest - a pressure with nowhere to go, coiled tighter every time he swallowed the words he wanted to say.

“I see,” Umbridge said, her tone still sweet but now with a razor edge. “You have been listening to rumors, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s chin lifted. “I’ve been listening to facts. V-Voldemort—”

“Enough,” Umbridge snapped, her voice like a whipcrack now. The sugar had finally burned off. “You will not speak that name in my classroom. Nor will you spread dangerous lies with the goal of fear mongering.”

“They’re not lies,” Hermione said, her voice rising. “They’re—”

“—the product of disturbed imaginations and attention-seeking behavior,” Umbridge cut in smoothly, as if quoting from a Ministry memo. Her eyes slid—just for a second—toward Harry.

He felt the weight of the room settle on him again, like it always did -expectation, doubt, accusation - all heavy in their gazes. But he kept his attention fixed on the parchment in front of him, pen unmoving. Let them look. Let Umbridge wait.

He knew exactly what she was doing. She was trying to draw him out, goad him into lashing back, into proving her little narrative right. The unhinged boy desperate for attention. The liar. The unstable orphan.

But he wasn’t going to give her that.

Let her spew her Ministry-approved lines. Let her pretend Voldemort wasn’t back. Let her pretend Cedric Diggory hadn’t died with his eyes wide open and his wand still in his hand, for the crime of simply being in the wrong place. For being the spare.

That was the part that really twisted in his chest—not her insults, not the smear campaign, but the way she said it all so sweetly, so confidently, as though Cedric’s murder didn’t matter. As if Harry being stolen straight from Hogwarts grounds - in the middle of a Ministry sponsored event, no less - wasn’t a stain on both Fudge and Dumbledore.

The pressure behind his ribs felt almost physical now - like a storm sealed beneath his skin, waiting for the space - the permission - to open up and let it out.

He refused to let it. He gripped his control even tighter, forcing his expression to remain calm, his hand holding the quill to remain steady. He dug deep within himself searching for that cool place of serenity, where nothing could reach him.

They wanted to shame him. They wanted him to be thought of as a nobody - someone not worth listening to. They wanted a clean page where no one had died, where Harry hadn’t been dragged through a graveyard, and there were no boogeymen back from the dead.

Maybe he was giving her what they wanted by staying silent, but Harry didn’t see the point in arguing. Not when Umbridge was just waiting for an excuse to punish him, not when the others were so eager to believe her. Eventually, Voldemort would step out from the shadows. And when he did, there’d be no more pretending. No more dodging the truth. No more lies to hide behind.

Hermione opened her mouth again, but Umbridge held up a hand.

“This is not a debate club. Five points from Gryffindor for insubordination, and you will serve detention this evening at five o’clock. You may report to my office.”

Ron twisted in his seat. “That’s not fair—!”

“Would you care to join her, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron’s mouth snapped shut.

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue further, but after a beat, she nodded stiffly. “Yes, Professor.”

Umbridge’s smile returned, prim and satisfied. She looked again towards Harry and paused, as if she expected him to object as well.

“Now,” she said, glancing around as if nothing had happened, “Chapter One, everyone. No more interruptions.”

The classroom fell into silence. Pages turned. Quills scratched.

He hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t let her pick a fight. Harry hadn’t said a word.

But that coiling pressure - the rage, or magic, or whatever it was that sometimes filled his center - it was getting stronger. Harder to swallow down.

He wasn’t sure what would happen if it broke free. Wasn’t sure what would be left standing in his wake.

Harry didn’t look up again until the end of the lesson.

*

The library was nearly empty by the time Ron found him.

Harry had picked a table near the far window, half-obscured by a stack of thick Herbology texts someone had left behind. He’d watched the sunset a while ago, and a glance at his watch told him curfew was fast approaching. After dinner he’d managed to complete his Astronomy and Divinations homework.

He was debating getting started on Potions before needing to head back to the Slytherin dorm room, or just calling it a night, when Ron appeared and dropped into the seat across from him.

“Where’s Hermione?”

“She’s still not back from detention with Umbridge. I tried to wait for her, but when she wasn’t back ten minutes ago, I figured I’d see if you were still here before curfew hit.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed loosely, as if he’d been expecting this exact question and didn’t have the energy for it.

“I mean it,” Ron said. “Umbridge was going after you - looking at you the whole time - and you just sat there.”

Harry shrugged. “She wanted a reaction. I didn’t give her one.”

Ron frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “But Hermione was doing it for you. She said what we were all thinking. You could’ve backed her up.”

“I didn’t ask her to do anything for me,” Harry said flatly.

Ron stared at him, eyes narrowing. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry asked, voice still quiet. “You lot want me to say something, to prove something, but nothing I say is going to change her mind. Or the Ministry’s. They’ve already decided I’m a liar.”

“So what, you’re just going to let them keep saying it?”

Harry gave a tired half-smile. “Eventually, Voldemort will stop hiding. Then no one will be able to ignore it. Let them talk until then.”

“That’s mad,” Ron snapped. “You think you’re just going to wait it out? Let them drag your name through the mud and make everything think you’re lying while you sit there and act like you don’t care?”

“I don’t care what they think,” Harry said, a little sharper now. “I care that people are going to die because the Ministry and Fudge are too stupid to do anything. I care that I have no idea what Voldemort is doing right now, and so I have no way to prepare for it. I care that we’re sitting in a school full of kids, and the professor who’s supposed to teach us how to protect ourselves, is deliberately leaving us untrained. But if you’re asking me to put on a show for people who don’t want to listen, who are convinced I’m nothing but an attention-seeking liar, I’m not interested. I don’t give a fuck what those people think of me, and I’m not going to sign myself up for punishment just to prove a point.”

Ron looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t quite know how. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“This isn’t just about Umbridge,” he muttered finally.

Harry glanced up. “No. I didn’t think it was.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and when Ron spoke again, his voice was lower.

“You’re still pissed we didn’t write.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“You think we left you on purpose. That we didn’t care.”

“You didn’t,” Harry said evenly. “That’s the part that stings.”

“That’s not fair!” Ron hissed, leaning forward now. “Dumbledore told us not to! He said it was for your own good—we didn’t want to ignore you!”

“But you did,” Harry replied. Still calm. Still cold. “You followed orders. You let me rot at the Dursleys all summer while everything was changing, and no one thought I deserved to know.”

Ron’s face flushed. “We didn’t know anything either!”

“You knew more than I did,” Harry said. “You knew something. And that doesn’t even matter, you could’ve written anything. Just a line. Anything. You have no idea what it was like being entirely cut off. I thought I was going crazy. I thought I had already gone crazy and made everything up. I just needed some kind of proof that you lot were still out there, and I wasn’t totally alone.”

Ron went quiet. “Look. I understand why you’re upset. Really, I do. But…all my life I’ve heard stories about the last war, and the people who died in it. Mum still cries over her brothers, on their birthdays and the anniversary of their deaths. Dad talks about the friends he grew up with that were killed, and his voice when he talks about them...”

“Maybe we didn’t do the right thing, maybe if you were in our shoes you’d have done it all differently but…all I could think about was what if I did something wrong - what if I went against Dumbledore and the rest of the adults' rules, and because of me, you died. How could I live with that? With getting you killed? Maybe that makes me a coward, but I don’t want to be grieving you for the rest of my life, Harry.”

Harry’s fingers curled around the edge of his book, knuckles tight against the spine. For a moment, he didn’t speak.

He hadn’t expected Ron to say that.

He forgot sometimes. Voldemort had taken so much from him. His parents, being raised by his godfather, his anonymity, any hope of a normal childhood. It was easy to get swallowed up by all he’d lost, to feel like the only one who had.

But Ron, who’d grown up steeped in war stories, who had a family shaped by grief before he was even born - understood the realities of what another war would mean.

It didn’t erase the loneliness. Or the silence. Or the sick, heavy nights spent wondering why no one had written.

But maybe it wasn’t as simple as them not caring enough.

Harry turned back to his book, though he wasn’t reading it.

“I get it,” he said eventually. His voice was low, almost an exhale. “Why you listened to them. Why you stayed quiet.”

He paused, then added, without looking up, “It doesn’t make it hurt less. But I get it.”

Ron sat there for a moment, jaw clenched, then let out a breath through his nose.

“Yeah. Alright.” It didn’t sound like agreement, more like resignation.
“Guess that’s all I’m getting for now. I just…” he trailed off, then shook his head, “I wish that mattered more. It still feels like you’re holding it against us.”

Harry looked up at him at last, his expression unreadable.

“It does matter,” he said quietly. “Just not enough yet.”

Ron gave a short nod, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Hermione’ll probably still want to talk to you,” he said. “Since she couldn’t tonight. Her reasons for everything - they weren’t the same as mine.”

“I figured,” Harry said. “I’ll listen. But I won’t promise to forgive and forget”

Ron hesitated at that, then turned to go.

“See you around, mate.”

The word hung in the air behind him—half memory, half hope.

Harry didn’t reply.

But he didn’t look away until Ron was gone.

Chapter Text

September 6, 1995

Harry woke to his alarm on Wednesday and stretched before casting a quick Tempus. After last night’s late Astronomy practical, he had actually managed to sleep in. His dreams had been strange - full of endless corridors, frustratingly both familiar and unrecognizable.

Cracking his neck, he felt a flicker of relief at having a slower start to the day. With a free period first thing, he could grab a quick breakfast and spend some time in the library before Charms later that morning.

Pulling back his bed curtains - reminding himself again to charm them with a permanent silencing ward - Harry shuffled into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Yesterday had gone much the same as Monday, though he sensed the Slytherins were getting curious again. He’d stayed quiet through the weekend and the start of the week, but their eyes were starting to weigh heavier. Calculating. Testing.

Nott and Greengrass hadn’t pushed him for further conversations, though they continued with polite, meaningless exchanges at meals and between classes. Zabini remained his usual self - amiable, amused, and far too observant.

By the time Harry crossed the common room, others were already scattered about, studying or chatting quietly. Pale green light filtered through the lake-view windows, washing everything in an eerie glow.

He passed a group of older students seated near the fireplace when he heard his name murmured low. The tension prickled up his spine. Their attention followed him like a cold draft.

Halfway to the door, a voice called out.

“Funny, isn’t it? The Chosen One, skulking through the dungeons like he’s afraid of the dark.”

Harry turned.

Crispin Mulciber. Seventh-year. Tall, broad-shouldered, leaning casually against the back of an armchair. Several students nearby stilled, watching. Although he noticed a few of them chuckled - too sharply. Harry glanced toward them and spotted Cassius Warrington and Adrian Pucey, both seventh-years like Mulciber, seated lazily near the fireplace. They watched with the idle interest of spectators at a duel.

Harry clocked it immediately - this wasn’t random. It was performative. Deliberate. Mulciber had picked his moment when the room was full, the atmosphere just bored enough for a spectacle, and the prefects too wary of challenging upper-years this early in the term.

”You lot always called us cowards,” Mulciber continued, voice pitched loud enough for the entire common room to hear. “But you spent years hiding behind Dumbledore and your little Gryffindor friends - the blood traitors and the mudblood. Doesn’t seem like you have them any more though, does it?”

He tilted his head, mocking.

“What’s the matter, Potter? Kneazle got your tongue? Or are you just afraid you’re not such a hot commodity now that you're not a virtuous Gryffindor?”

The room was utterly silent.

”You’re in our House now,” Mulciber said, his voice low and sharp. “And some of us lost family too. To your side. They were killed, or tossed in Azkaban after the Dark Lord’s fall. Barely any of them even got trials. No evidence, no proof. Just a last name or a mark they never had. Unless they could pay their way out.”

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the common room, low and resentful. Some of the older students weren’t looking at Harry at all. They stared at the floor, at their books, at the fire. But their silence was thunderous.

It wasn’t neutrality. It was memory.

Years’ worth of absences at birthdays and holidays. Names never spoken at the breakfast table. The kind of silence that lingered longer than grief.

Harry realized this wasn’t just about him. Not entirely. He was a symbol of their loss, their defeat, of everything that had gone wrong for the traditional and pure blood families during the war. Of how some names had become warnings, and others had been buried. Even the ones who had survived hadn’t escaped untouched.

Mulciber’s voice dropped, cruel and intimate. “But I suppose you wouldn’t understand. You’re not the one who had to sit at a funeral wondering if your uncle had been guilty… or just in the wrong place, with the wrong surname.”

He laughed once, the sound bitter and sharp.

“My cousin Isaac was only sixteen. Barely knew which end of a wand to point in a duel. Still ended up in Azkaban.”

His lip curled. “You’ve had the luxury of certainty. Your parents were heroes, weren’t they? Died for the cause. Died fighting. Everyone applauds that. No one questions it. You didn’t have to watch them rot behind bars for something they may or may not have done.”

He stepped forward, straightening to his full height. “And now we’re meant to break bread with you. Share a dormitory with you. Look across the table every day and see the face of the boy who ruined everything for some of us.”

Harry’s fingers itched toward his wand, but he exhaled slowly, forcing down the flare of anger in his chest.

“I’m sorry about your cousin,” he said, voice low but steady. “I am. What happened to him…they were too quick to throw people into Azkaban.”

He meant it. Even without knowing the specifics. He’d learned that with Sirius, innocent but still thrown in jail - and from the pensive memory of Barry Crouch Jr.’s arrest. Crouch may have been bat shit insane by the time Harry met him, sure, but back then he’d just been young.

“But I was a toddler. I didn’t make those decisions. And I didn’t ask to be shoved onto a battlefield - or a banner - before I even knew the rules.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask for any of it. But I’m also not going to apologize for surviving. Or for my parents choosing the side of the war that won.”

Mulciber’s lip curled. “Didn’t think you would.”

Without warning, his wand was up. “Confringo!”

Harry dove to the side, a rush of heat exploding behind him. His wand was already out.

“Stupify!”

Mulciber deflected with a shouted “Protego!” The spell shattered against the fireplace mantle, sending sparks and stone chips flying.

Chairs scraped. Students ducked. Prefects threw up containment wards around the younger years.

Mulciber launched another spell—“Furnunculus!” —that slashed through the air where Harry had just been.

Harry countered with “Obscuro!”, trying to temporarily blind him, then chained it with “Ventus!” and “Expulso!” The blast knocked Mulciber sideways, though not hard enough to disarm him.

A bone-breaking curse whistled past Harry’s shoulder. His curses were getting more and more severe.

Heart hammering, Harry dropped low, rolled, and shouted, “Incarcerous!”

The ropes missed.

”Expelliarmus!”

Mulciber’s wand flew from his hand—arcing directly toward Harry. Before it could land, a seventh-year prefect caught it cleanly out of the air.

Harry pivoted, wand snapping toward her before he registered who it was.

She raised her eyebrows but didn’t flinch. “That’s enough.”

Her voice cut through the chaos. “You got your temper tantrum out, Mulciber. Potter disarmed you. And there’s only twenty-five minutes left of breakfast, stop holding people up. It’s over.”

She looked between the two boys with open disdain, waiting for them to nod. Reluctantly, they did.

Harry turned back toward the door, sliding his wand into his sleeve.

His heart was still pounding. He just wanted breakfast—and to be done with this.

And then—

“Diffindo Maxima!”

The spell struck him between the shoulder blades.

He staggered, lungs seizing—but no pain came. Just a pulling. Like something uncoiled from inside him and turned.

The air behind him shifted—cold and oppressive.

Harry’s vision narrowed.

A crack rang out as the curse rebounded, angrier, unshaped, and hurled itself back at the caster. Mulciber screamed as his wand exploded in his hand, splinters and sparks showering the common room.

The backlash was still building.

Harry felt it before he saw it: the broken wand’s magic surging toward him. Possibly reacting to the intent of its owner, or just because the wand had previously been aimed at him.

And then - instinct.

Something inside him reached. And devoured.

It swallowed the spell midair, drank it in like water in a drought. Not Harry’s magic.

Something else.

Something that was a part of him but also separate.

Mulciber was on the floor, howling—his wand hand mangled, blood dripping on the stone floor.

Harry swayed. His knees buckled, and he flung a hand out to catch the wall.

A whisper:

”What the hell was that?”

He couldn’t answer. His breath came short, magic roiling beneath his skin like wildfire.

Overhead, the lights flickered violently. One lantern popped, its glow fading to ash-gray.

“Someone get Snape,” the prefect barked, already kneeling by Mulciber to cast stasis charms.

A fourth-year bolted from the room, giving Harry a wide berth as she passed.

Slowly, the attention shifted—from Mulciber’s ruined hand to Harry.

Harry straightened. Set his jaw.

They wouldn’t see fear. Not from him.

He gave himself three seconds—just three—to ensure his legs would hold.

One.

Two.

Three.

He stepped away from the wall. The nearest students shifted back without seeming to realize it.

Without a word, Harry walked out, undisturbed this time, as the weight of a dozen stares followed him.

The dungeon corridors were cool and empty as Harry stepped out of the common room. His footsteps echoed faintly, but he could barely hear them over his racing heart.

Whatever that thing was inside him, had acted without his consent. It had felt his danger and lashed out. Not with spells, not even with wandless magic.

It had somehow fed off the magical energy that was aiming for him. And while Harry had - momentarily - felt weakened after it had swatted away Mulciber’s spell, after it…absorbed the magical rebound from his wand exploding, it had seemed to - power up, for lack of a better term.

Other than the sheer shock, and confusion, Harry felt great. Powerful. Like he had simultaneously had a full nights sleep and a three course meal, and dessert besides.

Whatever was inside him wasn’t normal.

But it also didn’t seem like it was dangerous. At least not to him.

It had protected him.

Harry rubbed at the center of his chest absently. The sense of other had faded, but he could still feel the echo of it. The edges of that space inside him occupied by something else.

He needed to figure out what the hell was happening to him - preferably in privacy and without anyone else realizing before he got answers.

Harry remembered back in second year, after finally confessing to Ron and Hermione he had been hearing voices in the walls, and Hermione gently telling him that it wasn’t normal - even for the Wizarding world.

Whatever he was experiencing now definitely fell into the same category. And he needed to get to the bottom of it, preferably before revealing some hidden secret in front of the whole school like his parseltongue.

But the question was where?

He needed a place to research, but the library wasn’t private enough. He needed somewhere he could continue practicing with and manipulating the lightning magic he had explored over summer, but a random empty classroom wouldn’t have the space needed. And he needed somewhere he could dive down deep inside himself to explore whatever was growing inside him, and basically anywhere in the castle he was likely to be disturbed by something or someone.

There’s always the Chamber of Secrets, he considered it for a moment, but would prefer to avoid the damp space so far underneath ground. He didn’t feel like cleaning it, and definitely doesn’t want to spend time somewhere with a giant dead basilisk and who-knew-what else skittering through the tunnels.

Racking his brain, Harry couldn’t think of any other spaces that were suitable. Considering it a last ditch effort, he ducks into a small alcove a few corridors away from the path between the Slytherin common room and the Great Hall, and stopped.

“Dobby?” He called quietly

There was a soft crack, and the little elf appeared instantly, wide-eyed and still dressed in the Hogwarts tea towel that Harry had seen last time.

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby squeaked, looking him over. “You is not hurt? Dobby heard - there was shouting in the Slytherin common room and mean boy sent to Hospital Ward.”

”I’m fine,” Harry said, though his voice came out hoarse. He swelled. “I just…I need a favor. Again.”

Dobby straightened immediately, ears perked. “Dobby is always happy to help Harry Potter, sir!”

Harry hesitated, “I need somewhere I can go that’s private. Somewhere I can… try some magic and do some private research. Things I don’t want anyone else seeing or interrupting.”

Dobby blinked. “A place where Harry Potter can be alone and do what he needs?”

He noded, “Exactly.”

Dobby’s face split into a grin. “Then Harry Potter needs the Room of Requirement."

”That…what?”

The elf bounced excitedly. “It is a secret room, sir! It appears when a witch or wizard really needs it! It provides whatever the person requires. Elves call it the Come and Go Room.”

”Come, come, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby will show you! Come to the seventh floor, to the tapestry of the dancing trolls. Dobby will teach you how to use it.”

Before Harry can confirm he’ll meet Dobby there, or ask any questions, there’s another crack and the elf disappears.

Guess I’m going to the seventh floor then.

Harry dug his invisibility cloak out of his bag - it was never far from him these days - and threw it over his shoulders before making his way to the seventh floor.

He had to edge around several other students along the way, but most were preoccupied with getting to their classes on time and didn’t notice that there’s anyone else nearby them.

Eventually, he made it to the tapestry Dobby mentioned, and found the house elf waiting there impatiently.

Once he pulled the cloak off, Dobby hurried to him, grabbing his wrist gently and beginning to pull him down the hallway.

“Here, Harry Potter, sir. Walk three times down the hallway. You must be thinking of what you need the whole time.”

Harry nodded, and allows the elf to pull him where he wants him, thinking all the while “I need a place I can research what’s going on with me in private. I need a place I can research what’s going on with me in private.”

On their third pass of the hallway, between one blink and the next, a door melted into existence on the blank wall.

Even though Dobby had warned him, Harry still blinked in surprise before stepping forward and pushing it open.

The room inside was vast and softly lit. Shelves of old, unfamiliar books lined the walls, and a sturdy table sat in the center. A set of dueling dummies stood at the far end of the room, and a comfortable sofa was tucked into the corner near a lit fireplace that was crackling merrily. Despite the fact that they were nowhere near the external walls of the castle, the far wall was lined with peaked windows that looked out over the Black Lake, and Harry could just barely make out the Quidditch Pitch.

Harry stepped inside slowly, awestruck.

It was exactly what he needed. Somewhere away from everyone else in the castle - their attention, their expectations, their cruel whispers. Somewhere he could research what was happening to him and the space to find a way to control it.

Behind him, Dobby said quietly, “This place is loyal, sir. It gives what you need, as long as you ask it. But if others is needing it too, it might change. And if you don’t ask for no one else to being allowed in, it won’t hide yous.

Harry nodded. “Thanks, Dobby. Once again, you’ve managed to get me exactly what I need.”

The elf sent him a proud smile and bounced up on his toes once before bowing low and disappearing with a final crack.

Harry looked around the room again and then cast a quick tempus. He had two hours before Charms, and there were hundreds of books in the room. There’s no way he’d be able to get through as much as he’d like in the short time he has this morning, but he could at least go through the shelves and identify some that might be more helpful.

Dropping his bag and invisibility cloak on the table, he has just enough time to mourn the breakfast he never went to the Great Hall for, when a plate of sausage rolls and a steaming cup of tea pop into existence on the table.

He wasn’t sure if the room or Dobby sent them, but either way, he grinned and grabbed a roll before heading to the nearest bookshelf.

An hour and a half later, Harry had stacked a large pile of books on the table and started skimming When Magic Overwhelms: A Study of Accidental Magic in Adolescents by Ophiuchus Black. While its description of magical outbursts had at first seemed to align with what he’d been experiencing, none of the examples Fawcett gave seemed powerful enough to match what he’d been experiencing. No one with lightning they could control, or magic that seemed to operate on its own wishes.

Setting the book aside, he reached for The Bound and the Buried by Clarissa Fawcett. He didn’t have much time to read it before needing to leave for class, but he quickly flipped through the first couple chapters. This tome focused on cursed magic and repression, and Harry notes with interest there’s a whole section on how trauma can impact one's magic.

Putting a slip of paper in the book to mark those pages, Harry resigns himself to needing to leave the sanctuary of the Room of Requirement. He can’t afford to skip class on the same day he had a duel with another student - a duel that resulted in destroying their wand and injuring them.

Harry’s sure he can expect to be called to Snape’s office sooner rather than later - maybe even to the Headmaster’s.

Not that I should get in trouble, he thought, considering I was only defending myself from an attack from behind.

Not that that will stop Snape from blaming me.

He set the book back on the table, and peered around. He hopes when he comes back the room will show up exactly as he left it, selected books pulled out from the shelves and all. Resigning himself to perusing the shelves again if needed, Harry stood and grabbed his belongings. Pulling the map from his bag, Harry opens it with the pass phrase and checks to make sure no one else is outside in the hallway - it wouldn’t do to give away his secret hiding place by a door suddenly appearing from nowhere.

Reassured the corridor was deserted, Harry quickly cleared the map and exits the Room of Requirement, once more hidden under his invisibility cloak.

Unless Snape had finally gotten his long-awaited wish and expelled him, Harry planned to return to the Room the moment his last class ended.

*
When Harry rejoined his classmates for Charms, it was clear the Slytherins had been discussing his duel with Mulciber. Their quiet murmurs cut off the moment he rounded the corner, and he felt their gazes land on him - weighted and considering.

Approaching them, bypassing the Ravenclaws also gathered in the hallway, Harry leaned against the wall nearest the Slytherins who’d been relatively friendly to him so far.

It didn’t take long for them to approach.

Zabini sidled over first, ever casual, hands in his robe pockets. There was a glint in his eye as he looked Harry up and down.

“Well, you’re just full of surprises this year, aren’t you, Potter? First a re-sort, and now leaving fellow students bloody on the dungeon floor. Maybe you really are meant for the house of the ruthless.”

Harry raised a brow. “Well, I’d hate to be accused of being boring.”

Nott spoke next, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve. “Oh, I doubt anyone could accuse you of that. Rumor says Mulciber’s wand exploded. And that you didn’t even cast a spell to cause it.”

Further down the wall, Bulstrode added flatly, “Potter didn’t cast anything, his back was turned. I was in the common room. I saw it happen...Mulciber was still moaning when they hauled him off to the Hospital Wing.”

Harry shrugged. “I did nothing but defend myself. He started it, raised his wand first, and tried to curse me in the back after we’d already agreed it was over. As far as I’m concerned, he got what he deserved.”

“You shattered his wand,” Zabini replied, his voice edged with something between disbelief and admiration.

Harry met his gaze, his own expression clear of anything resembling regret or remorse. “As I said… what he deserved.”

Just then, the classroom door creaked open, and Professor Flitwick’s voice called them in.

As the group began to shuffle inside, Nott fell back a step to walk beside Harry.

“Whatever that was, Potter… I hope you can do it again if needed. Mulciber’s friends aren’t likely to be pleased.”

Harry didn’t answer, but in the quiet of his own mind, he didn’t think it would be outside his ability to respond with equal force.

Not when that thing - whatever it was that had protected him that morning - was still pulsing just slightly off-kilter from himself, deep in his chest. Before it had faded into the background, content to lie dormant.

Now it was ever present. Like it refused to be ignored any longer.

Like it was waiting.

*

Repercussions for the duel with Mulciber came after Potions class. Honestly, Harry was surprised he hadn’t been called to either the Headmaster’s office or Snape’s during Charms, but then maybe Dumbledore was still keeping his distance and Snape knew he’d be seeing Harry in his class later that day, so didn’t see the point in calling him down earlier.

The dungeon was colder than usual, or maybe it was just Harry’s nerves. He’d been hyper-aware of the professor as Snape paced at the front of the room, lecturing on potions theory.

Snape hadn’t looked at him once.

Which somehow made it worse. Harry felt like was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Snape to spit some venom laced words at him or announce to the classroom that Harry had been expelled.

In contrast, Hermione kept glancing over from her seat among the Gryffindors. Harry figured she’d corner him eventually - Ron had said she’d likely want to talk, since she’d had detention the night before.

Her expression was pinched and anxious, and there was a worried look in her eyes. He wondered if her concern was entirely based on Ron’s recounting of their conversation the night before, or if something else had happened. Maybe she’d heard about the duel in the Slytherin Common Room.

By the time class ended, it was taking all of Harry’s will power to keep his expression calm and uncaring. Which, of course, was when Snape finally addressed him.

“Potter. Stay behind.”

Harry stayed rooted to his desk as the rest of the class filed out. Hermione paused, as though on the verge of saying something, but Ron nudged her along with a glance back at Snape.

On his way to the door, Nott sent Harry a fleeting look that seemed to say good luck before disappearing into the corridor, closing the door with a quiet click.

Snape didn’t look up immediately. He moved with precise, deliberate motions, vanishing the chalkboard with a flick of his wand, resetting the room to its usual spotless state. When he finally turned to face Harry, his expression was as unreadable as ever, but cold.

“I would like for you to explain to me what you think occurred this morning.”

“Well, sir, I woke up like normal and then I went for a shower -“

”You know exactly to what I am referring,” Snape snapped. “Explain to me why you were reportedly dueling a fellow slytherin in the common room.”

“Ah, of course, sir. Thank you for being more specific.” Harry’s tone was deliberately bland. “You see, I was minding my own business, passing through the common room, when an upper year confronted me. Eventually, he pulled his wand and began casting curses. I defended myself. After I disarmed him, Fawley intervened and told both of us to end it. We agreed, and I turned to leave. That’s when Mulciber attacked me again - by casting a spell at my back. I defended myself.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. ”How did you defend yourself?”

Harry tilted his head. “What do you mean, sir?”

”I mean, Potter,” Snape said, stepping closer until he was looming over Harry, “what spell did you use to cause Mulciber’s curse to rebound. What did you do that caused Mulciber’s wand to explode, nearly severing his hand?”

”Why does it matter, sir?”

”Because,” Snape hissed, “if you have been practicing magic above your skill set, as your head of house, I must be informed. If you have been dabbling in things far beyond your comprehension, it’s not only dangerous to you, but to everyone around you. I will not have one of my Slytherins maimed because you are too arrogant - or too ignorant - to leave well enough alone.”

Harry pushed back from the desk and stood.

“So let me make sure I understand,” Harry said, voice rising. “I’m attacked, both verbally and with magic. And somehow I’m the one in trouble? For defending myself? For winning against someone two years my senior? He cast the severing charm at me when my back was turned. If I hadn’t managed to rebound it, I could have died.”

”Yes,” Snape snapped, “and that is the only reason why I have not sought to have you - finally, blessedly - tossed out of this school. But the kind of power you displayed this morning is far beyond anything you have demonstrated in the past. And you will tell me where you learned it.”

Finally fed up, Harry spat, “I don’t know, okay? It just happened. Mulciber cursed me, and the defensive magic was just… there. It was instinct. Accidental magic or something.”

Something flickered in Snape’s expression before it returned to carefully neutral. He took a half step back and leaned against the desk behind him.

“Accidental magic?” he repeated, voice quieter now “At your age? My, my, you are the exception to everything aren’t you?”

His gaze flicked upward - just for a moment - to Harry’s scar. Then back down.

“Tell me,” Snape said slowly, “have you been losing time. Blacking out? Experiencing dreams you can’t quite remember?”

Harry frowned. “No.”

Snape’s expression didn’t shift. “What about headaches? In your scar or…behind the eyes? Unexplained emotions that don’t seem to align with the situation?”

“Well I’ve got a headache right now, and I’m feeling pretty annoyed but all that seems rather normal for this situation. So - no.”

“Lose the cheek, Potter,” Snape said sharply, “or I’ll have you in nightly detentions.”

“Is Mulciber being punished,” Harry asked. “For attacking me?”

“He is spending the next several days in the hospital wing, with Madame Pomfrey healing his hand. He may never regain full motor functions, and will need to purchase a replacement wand. I believe that is punishment enough.”

Snape paused, folding his arms. “If you experience any of the aforementioned symptoms, you will report it. Either to myself or Madame Pomfrey.” Snape orders.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Why not Dumbledore?”

Despite being upset with the headmaster as well, he would still prefer him to dealing with Snape.

“Headmaster Dumbledore is much too busy for the woes of one teenage boy, Potter. You will go to your Head of House or the hospital matron.”

Internally, Harry rolled his eyes. Right. Like I’m going to march up to Snape and announce I’m going mad.

If he did start experiencing the symptoms Snape listed - blackouts, memory loss, erratic emotion - it sounded more like the beginnings of insanity than anything else. And if that was what was happening to him… well, Harry would prefer to keep that to himself as long as possible.

Harry nodded briefly, hoping it would be enough for the professor, who continued to regard him with cold, calculating eyes for another moment.

”Dismissed.”

Harry grabbed his bag and hurried to the Great Hall, hoping to snag a quick lunch. He still had History of Magic as his last class that day, but judging by the double period he’d already endured earlier in the week, Binns wasn’t about to become any more riveting - even in their O.W.L. year.

And since the ghost had stopped taking attendance sometime around their first year, Harry didn’t feel particularly guilty about skipping. He’d rather spend the afternoon back in the quiet sanctuary of the Room of Requirement.

He didn’t need History of Magic. He needed answers. And thankfully, the Room was still waiting.

Chapter Text

September 10, 1995

The rest of his first week back at Hogwarts was, comparatively, low key, and Harry felt himself falling into a routine that he thought he could manage to keep to all year.

The Slytherins had gone back to keeping their distance, sending him wide-eyed, wary looks whenever he passed through the Common Room or joined them in the Great Hall for meals.

With the exception of Zabini and his lot, of course, who had stuck to Harry even more closely, inviting him to join them for study sessions in the library and card games in the small parlor.

Harry tended to decline these invitations, instead spending any free time he had in the Room of Requirement. In the privacy the room offered, he worked to complete the bare minimum of schoolwork before shifting his focus to self-studying for Defense Against the Dark Arts and researching anything that might explain the surges of power he’d experienced.

When his eyes began to strain and the itch to move became too much for him to ignore, Harry put the training dummies in the far corner of the Room of Requirement to good use, practicing the spells he might be tested on in the DADA O.W.L. and refining the strange lightning he was able to generate.

He’d return to the Slytherin dorm exhausted, long after the others had retired to bed, and fall into a deep sleep that was increasingly interrupted with dreams of never ending corridors of black tile.

Despite the week progressing without any other confrontations - from Slytherins, professors, or Hermione, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a temporary reprieve. He felt eyes on him constantly. Watching, waiting, evaluating.

The tension wore on him. His shoulders stayed tight, his eyes constantly scanning for movement at the edge of his vision. He was jumpier than usual - flinching at sudden sounds, quicker to reach for his wand even when there was no real threat. The vigilance never let up, a coiled spring in his chest that refused to release.

What’s worse - the thing inside him was responding too. He felt it rising - slow, deliberate, protective - whenever he felt particularly threatened. When upper-year Slytherins sent him scathing looks as he passed. When Umbridge fixed her beady eyes on him and smirked like she already knew every secret he wanted to hide. When Dumbledore swept out of the Great Hall without once looking in Harry’s direction.

It stirred in those moments, with something different than the fear and frustration Harry felt. Something colder. Sharper. Eager.

Despite searching through book after book in the Room of Requirement, nothing Harry had found so far seemed to match exactly what he was experiencing. There were a few more books he had set aside to look through, but if he couldn’t find anything in them, he had resigned himself to setting this project aside - for now.

When Hermione finally cornered him after dinner on Sunday, he was almost relieved. At least this was one thing he could get over and done with.

She approached him while he was still sitting at the Slytherin table, which Harry begrudgingly thought was particularly brave of her. The other Slytherins watched her approach with predator’s gazes, all of which she ignored save for a slight tension between her brows. She must have been watching for him to finish eating, as he had just set down his knife and fork a few moments before she arrived.

“Hi Harry. I was hoping I could talk to you.” She glanced down at the many eyes on them. “In private.”

Standing from the table, he jerked his head to the exit, indicating she should follow. They were silent, neither attempting to speak, as he guided them to a side room a few corridors away from the Great Hall.

The last week - the confrontations, the heavy studying, reading The Daily Prophet and realizing just how often they were calling him a madman - it had all managed to distract Harry from the betrayal and anger he had felt towards Hermione over the summer.

She was a muggleborn. She knew what it was like to leave everything magical behind and return to a life that seemed dull in comparison.

This silent walk with her at his side - the space he had assumed she would always fill until he found himself standing alone all summer - brought all that anger roaring back.

He motioned for her to enter first, and then closed the door behind them, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

She surveyed him for a moment, then swallowed hard. Her voice carefully steady, she said “I know you’re frustrated with me.”

Harry gave a dry laugh, and glanced at the polished badge on her robe. “If I were a Prefect, I’d award you five points for that stunning observation, Miss Granger.”

She winced, but pressed on. “I know you’re upset we didn’t write. I wanted to. I almost did, so many times. But every time I started, I thought..what if I make it worse? What if there’s a reason Dumbledore said - “

”Oh, brilliant,” Harry cut in with a glare. “There it is again. ‘Dumbledore said.’ That’s your excuse?”

”It’s not an excuse, it’s -“ she bit back her first answer. “I trusted him. I still do. Forgive me for wanting to follow the instructions of the only person I know who’s actually led a war against a Dark Lord. The only person who seems to have any idea how to defeat You-Know-Who.”

She hesitated then, the words clearly burning in her throat. “It’s not like I’ve ever been in a war, Harry. I’ve read about them, studied them - muggle and magical. But reading isn’t the same as living through one. I didn’t know what to do. So yes, I clung to the rules. To Dumbledore’s plan. Because I didn’t trust myself not to make everything worse.”

”So in essence…you didn’t know what you were doing, so you did whatever you were told to do.”

She flinched, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“How many times?” he demanded. “How many times have they - has Dumbledore, specifically, proved that while he might be a great wizard, and oh-so-important, he’ll happily let students - let kids - get thrown into danger. Every. Single. Year. And let’s not pretend you’re not happy to break the rules when it suits you - Polyjuice Potion, remember? But for some reason, now, when I needed you the most, is when you decided to keep your head down and not step a toe out of line?”

Hermione’s mouth opened, closed. Her fingers curled tightly around the hem of her skirt. “I just didn’t want to make things worse,” she whispered

“You didn’t want to get in trouble,” Harry snapped. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me? Being alone that long. Do you have any idea what I could have done? In my bloody desperation to not be alone?”

”I just wanted you - wanted all of us - to be safe.” She said, louder now.

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t reply. The silence stretched thick between them.

“Fine. Fine,” she said at last, exhaling sharply. “Maybe this will convince you I’m not just blindly following orders anymore.”

She yanked back her sleeve and thrust out her hand.

There, etched faintly but unmistakably into her skin in Hermione’s neat handwriting, were the words I will not speak back to my betters.

Harry blinked. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing. “What the hell?”

”Detention with Umbridge,” Hermione said shortly. “She makes you write lines with this awful thing called a blood quill. It uses your own blood as ink.”

”That’s vile,” Harry said. “Did you tell anyone?”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes were shiny, like she was holding back tears. “I went to McGonagall right afterwards and tried to tell her. She was sympathetic, but she said things are so precarious with the ministry right now that pushing back isn’t possible.”

Harry had the sinking feeling Hermione was more upset about the fact that McGonagall had been unable - or unwilling - to resolve the issue, than over the actual torture device being used on her.

“She told me to just keep my head down and try to avoid getting any more detentions.”

Despite himself, Harry felt a flicker of sympathy rise in his chest. He understood what it felt like to be let down by adults who were supposed to protect you. For Hermione, who’d built her entire world on structure and faith in authority, that kind of betrayal had to sting even worse.

Harry had never had high hopes. The Dursleys had dashed them early. But he could still remember those first few weeks at Hogwarts - hoping that the adults here might be different from the ones back in Surrey.

“I think in a lot of ways, we’ll be on our own this year, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. It’s already clear that Madame Umbridge isn’t going to teach us anything - not really. So I was thinking, we should start a study group. Real defensive magic. Not the Ministry-approved rubbish.”

“Er - yeah, I suppose I was already planning on doing some self-study.”

Harry wasn’t planning on telling her about his goal to sit the exams early, but he wasn’t opposed to spending a few evenings a week in the library with her and Ron, brushing up on Defense. Maybe the time spent together would give them the chance to…heal from everything.

But then she kept going.

“I mean, there’s already a few people I’ve spoken to who are really interested. Everyone’s worried about the O.W.L. and with what’s happening with the Ministry… well, it just makes sense.”

Harry frowned, slow realization dawning. “Wait - what?”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

”This wouldn’t just be you, me, and Ron studying…you want it to be like, a big group thing?” Harry clarifies

”Yes.” Hermione says, “So we can all study and get better at defense. I thought - well, since you have the most experience with this kind of thing…I thought you could be…almost like our teacher.”

”You want me to - what? Lead some kind of secret Defense club? And who exactly were you planning to invite?”

”Well - others in our year, of course. I’m sure they’d want to get the practice in before the O.W.L. And probably some upper years, maybe a few below us too?”

Harry stared at her.

He could already picture how it would go. A large group of students, lured in by the promise of better exam scores or just the chance to blow off steam Defense exams, only to walk in and see him standing at the front of the room. How many of them would immediately walk out? How many would whisper behind his back, convinced by the headlines this summer or his recent resort that he was dangerous, delusional, or worse?

And if Umbridge ever got wind of it…

Harry had been doing surprisingly well at avoiding her ire so far, he wanted to keep it that way.

Besides - he barely had time to keep his head above water with the increased schoolwork, his research, and his own O.W.L. revision.

”No.”

Hermione blinked, clearly startled. “Harry -“

”No,” he repeated, sharper this time. “You don’t get to keep me at arms length all summer, then trot me out now that you need someone to take the risks.”

“That’s not what this is - “

He shook his head. “It feels a hell of a lot like it.”

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things.

“I’ve got enough on my plate,” Harry said finally, turning toward the door. “If you want to play secret rebellion, be my guest, but I won’t be taking part.”

He heard her call out behind him, but didn’t stop.

As his footsteps echoed down the corridor, the weight of the conversation settled hard in his chest. He could still see the red marks across Hermione’s hand. I will not speak back to my betters. Written in her own handwriting, carved into her skin.

Harry wondered how Umbridge was defining “better”…was it just that Umbridge was an adult? A ministry worker? A Pureblood? Harry might be frustrated with Hermione at the moment, but he doesn’t like her being told a witch like Umbridge is her “better.”

The worst part of it all was that Hermione had gone to someone. She’d done what students were supposed to do - what, admittedly, Harry probably wouldn’t have done. She’d told a teacher.

And that teacher hadn’t done anything.

If McGonagall - Lauded Transfigurations Professor, expert animagus, and Deputy Headmistress - couldn’t intervene, what chance did the rest of them have?

How many more students would sit through detentions like that? How many would keep their heads down and quietly bleed because they didn’t think there was any point in fighting back? And how long until Umbridge found an excuse to give Harry a detention, and he found himself under the quill, writing with his own blood.

If the Professors here couldn’t help them, Harry would have to look further afield.

*

The Slytherin common room that night was quiet, with most of the house elsewhere. Harry was grateful for it.

As he passed through the fifth-year small parlor, he saw Nott and Zabini were the only ones there. Nott looked to be writing a letter, and Zabini was curled up with what was, by all appearances, a Muggle sci-fi paperback.

Harry tried to pass through without saying anything, but didn’t get far.

“Potter.” Zabini called. “Would you like to join us? Theodore and I are enjoying each other’s company, since all of our schoolwork is finished. You’ve disappeared enough over the weekend, surely yours must be done as well, no?”

Harry debated it internally. As much as he’d like to just go hide in the dorm - or grab his books and go back to the Room of Requirement - the conversation with Hermione has him feeling…vulnerable.

For all he’d told himself he was fine being alone, he did miss the easy rhythm of companionship he’d had in Gryffindor Tower. He’d have to stay on his guard more with Zabini and Nott, but maybe - just maybe - he could find a fraction of the ease he’d once found with Ron and Hermione.

“Sure,” he says, watching as Nott’s head jerked up in surprise and Zabini grinned like he’d just won a bet.

“Let me just go grab some parchment, I have a letter to write.”

He passed them without further comment, hearing rapid whispers behind him as he stepped into the dorm.

Harry pulled off his outer robes and tie, tossing them onto the bed to be more comfortable, then grabbed a few sheets of the fancy stationary he’d picked up in Diagon Alley the day before returning to Hogwarts.

When he returned to the small parlor, the other two had stopped whispering and resumed their individual pursuits. Harry claimed a seat nearby - close enough for conversation but not right next to them - and pulled over one of the small lap desks.

Dear Madame Bones,

I want to thank you again for all of your assistance this summer. I regret that I was unable to meet with you following my trial, unfortunately I was pulled away by my escort and returned home immediately, where I didn’t have access to my owl until I returned to Hogwarts. Your support during the trial was instrumental, and I can’t imagine the outcome being nearly as favorable without your help that day.

You had mentioned wanting to speak with me further. I’d be very open to this, although I expect we’ll need to correspond by letter for the time being, as I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to London, anytime soon. I also hope that, since you knew my parents and grandfather, you might be willing to share any anecdotes you remember. While many people talk about my parents, very few seem willing or able to actually tell me what they were like.

I must also admit I’m writing to ask your guidance on another matter.

You may already know this, but I was raised entirely Muggle. My mother’s relatives, who I was placed with, never told me about magic or my heritage. My Hogwarts letter was the first explanation I received for all the “odd” that I now know were just accidental magic. Unfortunately, even after rejoining the Wizarding community at eleven, I haven’t received many more explanations. I seem to occupy a strange place, people assume I know things because my parents were magical, butt I never had the chance to learn the way Muggle-born students often do. Sometimes I feel like I’m slipping through the cracks a bit, and am missing out on the details of the magical world.

I imagine there’s a lot about our culture and laws that I’m still unaware of, but I’m hoping you could help me understand one thing in particular: the customs and regulations surrounding disciplein in magical schools.

In Muggle schools, corporal punishment was made illegal in ‘86, something my uncle has often complained about. At Hogwarts, punishment has usually meant detentions, points deductions, or loss of privileges, so I assumed corporal punishment wasn’t allowed here either. Is that incorrect?

I’d be very grateful for any information you’re able to share, both on this issue and about my family.

Sincerely,

H.J. Potter

Harry read through the letter one last time, checking for any lines that needed adjusting. Hopefully Madame Bones will have time to reply. He was fairly certain corporal punishment wasn’t allowed at Hogwarts - he’d heard Filch complain about it often enough - but he wanted to confirm that Umbridge was actually doing something wrong before reporting it outright.

Whether it was illegal was a separate question, but maybe Madame Bones could still assist somehow.

Harry glanced up at Nott and Zabini. He’d felt their attention occasionally while he wrote, but they left him undisturbed.

Before he could look back down, Nott caught his eye. As if this was a signal, the other boy put down his own papers and focused on Harry.

Nott cleared his throat, then nodded toward the parchment in Harry’s hands.

“I feel like I need to apologize, Potter.” Nott said, nodding towards the parchment in Harry’s hands. “I assumed you weren’t much for letter writing, but that’s practically a novel you’ve been working on.”

Zabini glanced up too, raising a brow at Harry’s pile of parchment. “Must be one hell of a pen pal.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s to someone I met this summer - Madame Bones.”

Nott and Zabini both struggled to wipe the surprise from their faces.

“You’re writing a letter to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?" Zabini asked, tilting his head curiously.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I met her over the summer before my…trial. She mentioned she knew my family, but I didn’t have time to talk to her then, and I couldn’t follow up until I returned to school.”

They exchanged a glance.

“Madame Bones is a powerful woman in the Ministry,” Nott said slowly. “Not the sort you write to on a whim.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a whim.”

“No,” Zabini interjected, “I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Harry didn’t offer anything more. But the silence that followed wasn’t awkward - just measured. Curious.

“So,” Zabini said after a beat, leaning back in his armchair. “You’re just casually corresponding with top Ministry officials now. Planning to write the Minister next?”

Harry rolled his eyes, “Why? So he can call me a delusional liar directly instead of through The Daily Prophet?”

That earned a quiet snort from Nott, “Yes, he has been rather blatant in his maneuvering lately, hasn’t he. I wish I could say it’s a change but he’s always been a bit of an idiot.”

“My mother’s always said that one got the job because people thought he’d just sit quietly and not make waves - for either the traditionalist bloc or the progressive reformers,” Zabini added. “But he’s shown quite a talent for self-preservation when the tides turn.”

”His use of the press has been - sorry to say it, Potter, but surprisingly devious of him,” Nott said. “In a matter of weeks, he’s managed to turn a large percentage of the population against you. It seems far too intelligent for Fudge.”

“If Draco’s bragging is actually truthful for once,” Zabini added, “Lucius has been cozying up to the Minister lately - more than usual, that is. Sycophantic dinners, private donations, the whole routine.”

Nott gave a humorless smile. “This all is more in Malfoy Senior’s wheelhouse than Fudge’s. Manipulating politics and public perception through legal loopholes and alliances is practically the Malfoy family sport. It’d almost be a shame Draco fell so far from the branch - but at least he’s easier to manage.”

Zabini nodded. “Well, it helps that Malfoy was trained as a solicitor, even if he never bothered to practice officially. All the polish, none of the ethics.”

Harry blinked at that, the detail clicking into place in his mind. “He’s a lawyer?”

”Technically,” Nott said. “Studied Magical Law before ascending to his Lordship. My uncle said he only did it to be able to speak the Ministry’s language. That’s a man who never actually intended to represent anyone but himself.”

The thought sat heavily in Harry’s chest. A solicitor. Like Ms. Raynotte.

He could still remember her cool, sharp voice in the courtroom that day - how she’d cut through Fudge’s pomp like a knife through fog.

Maybe Madame Bones wasn’t the only person he met this summer he should reach out to.

Zabini closed his book with a soft thump and set it on the armrest. “So. Now that your literary masterpiece is complete…”

”Oh, I don’t know,” Harry said, stretching slightly. “I think I’ll need to add a bibliography. Maybe an appendix or two.

“Well, before you write your epilogue,” Zabini said dryly, “you might consider a break. Theodore promised he’d lower himself to play a few hands of cards tonight.”

Harry hesitated.

“You know the rules of Exploding Snap, I assume?” Nott added, eyes flicking up toward him.

“I’ve played.”

Zabini gave him a look that was half challenge, half invitation. “Then pull up a chair, Potter. Let’s see if your gameplay’s as dramatic as…well, everything else about you.”

Harry didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth might have twitched.

He slid the parchment aside, tucked the lap desk under the chair, and pulled closer to the small table between him and the others’ sofa.

He could write a second letter after, and send them both off with Hedwig in the morning.

“All right,” he said. “Deal me in.”

*

Responses from both women came quickly, with Hedwig returning to him Tuesday morning with a letter from Ms. Raynotte and a massive eagle owl dropping off a letter that Harry assumed was from Madame Bones.

He tucked both letters away in his bag after giving each owl a small piece of bacon in thanks, ignoring the curious glances from his dorm mates.

Harry quickly finished his breakfast and hurried from the Great Hall. He’s got a few minutes before History of Magic - enough time, hopefully, to read both letters, if not reply to them.

He stepped into an alcove off the corridor near the History of Magic classroom, tucking himself behind a humming suit of armor.

He opened the first letter at random and glances at the bottom to see it’s signed from Ms. Raynotte.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Thank you for your letter, which I received with interest. I’m pleased to hear from you again, and I trust your term at Hogwarts has begun without undue disruption.

It was my privilege to act as your counsel during your disciplinary hearing this summer. I was impressed by your composure during what was a politically charged proceeding. I hope the result - acquittal on all charges - has afforded you some measure of peace, though I understand the public discourse may have continued in your absence, despite your innocence.

You indicated in your letter that you require legal assistance, although did not go into details. I would be happy to offer preliminary advice or determine whether ongoing representation may be appropriate, depending on the scope of your concern.

To that end, I would recommend an in-person meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss the particulars of your situation and, should you wish to engage my services formally, to review and sign a standard retainer agreement. For your reference, I have enclosed a copy of my firm’s general terms of engagement and current fee schedule, which I encourage you to review in advance of any meeting.

I look forward to the possibility of working with you again, Mr. Potter, and hope I might offer some clarity of reassurance in what I imagine continues to be a challenging time.

Your sincerely,
E. Raynotte, Esq.
Vance, Raynotte, Fawcett & Associates

Harry glanced through the additional parchment Ms. Raynotte had included, one looking to be the standard contract, the other a listing of fees.

Harry wasn’t familiar with contracts - or solicitor pricing - but nothing looked too surprising on an initial read.

When Harry opened the second envelope, a folded piece of parchment slipped out, along with several photographs and two newspaper clippings.

Harry's stomach swooped as he looked at the photos. They’re weren’t of his father, but Harry recognizes the messy black hair and jaw shape. His grandfather?

In one, the must-be-a-Potter was young, in school robes near what looks like the black lake, along with a few other students. The group grinned at the camera, then burst into laughter and began nudging each other before cycling back to smiling again.

The second photo looked like it’s from some sort of formal event. A much younger Madame Bones stood beside a fair haired man, both in elegant dress robes. Next to them stood the man Harry thought was his grandfather. He wasn’t looking at the camera however - instead, he was gazing down at the woman in his arms with an expression so full of adoration that Harry had to pause. She was looking back at him, the same love written across her face. Her features were partially turned away, but Harry thought he saw something in her nose and eyebrows that matched his own. His grandmother?

Harry looked at the newspaper clippings next. They resembled the society pages that Aunt Petunia read religiously, flowery language and all. One announced the marriage of Fleamont Potter and Euphemia Macmillan. The other celebrated the birth of James Fleamont Potter.

He read both articles with greedy eyes.

This was tangible proof that his family had live. They had married and had babies and been part of the world. They hadn’t only existed as names on gravestones or as war heroes talked about with sympathy. They had been a living, breathing thing.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt like he was holding a piece of it in his hands.

He turned his attention to the letter included.

Dear Mr. Potter,

I was quite happy to receive a letter from you this week. When you departed so suddenly after the trial, I thought perhaps you preferred to keep your distance, so I refrained from reaching out.

I was not particularly close with either your grandparents or your parents, as I fall between them both in age. However, the Bones family has long been allied with the Potters, so I grew up interacting with you grandfather, and in turn, watched your father grow up - if at some distance.

I am happy to share as many stories about them (and your grandmother and mother, although I interacted with them even less) as possible. For now, I’ve included some photographs and a pair of news clippings that may interest you. The first photo is of your grandfather, Fleamont, when he was at school. My uncle was just a year above him, and they were good friends. The second is from a ministry function shortly after I joined the Wizengamot, not long after your grandparents' marriage. As you can likely tell, they adored one another.

As for the other matter you wrote about - first, let me state clearly that I was not aware you were ‘raised Muggle,’ as you wrote. Although still allied with your family, following your grandparents’ passing and your parents’ withdrawal from public life during the war, I did not interact with your family as much as I once did. I also suffered personal tragedies of my own around that same time, and I admit I had little capacity to extend my attention beyond my own household.

Please know, Mr. Potter, that should you ever have questions about the wizarding community - it’s customs, laws, history, etc. - I am always available to you.

You asked about disciplinary practices at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, corporal punishment has not been explicitly outlawed - neither in Hogwarts bylaws nor in broader Wizengamot law. That said, there are strict limitations on what forms of punishment may be administered, and under what circumstances. Most modern witches and wizards are opposed to corporal punishment in any form, and it has, as a result, largely fallen out of favor at Hogwarts. But changes come slowly to wizarding Britain, and nowhere is that truer than the Wizengamot. Our statutes have not yet caught up with what most of us now consider unacceptable.

I assume you must be writing with a specific incident in mind, and I encourage you to write to me with the details. If you believe that you - or any other student - are being subjected to inappropriate disciplinary practices, I will assist in any way I can. My niece, whom I have guardianship of, is in your year. So what you are experiencing at Hogwarts matters to me not only as someone who wishes to help you, but as a guardian who would protect her own, and, by extension, all students.

I hope you will feel comfortable writing to me again. Should you be willing, I would be very interested in hearing more about your experiences last June. I understand if you are wary - my colleagues at the Ministry have not been kind in it’s treatment of your testimony - but if you would trust me with the truth, I will treat it with the respect it deserves.

Please do not hesitate to reach out if you wish to continue this conversation.

I remain at your service.

A.Bones

Well, Harry thought, that was promising. It was frustrating that corporal punishment wasn’t completely ruled out, but at least it sounded like public opinion wouldn’t be on Umbridge’s side - assuming she continued using her nightmare quill in detentions.

He tucked both letters back in their envelopes, then his bag. He might be stalled in his research about whatever was happening with him, but at least these letters opened some new paths forward.