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Chapter Text

Five, four, three, two… Harry groaned, feeling as if a tiny bludger was attempting to pound its way into the world through his skull. His memories, murky and vague, rose to the surface of his mind. Indistinct images of running for his life while pulling Hermione along through the dark streets. Spells ricocheting off the buildings and cobblestones around them cast bright lights of blue and orange, illuminating their shadows as they attempted to find somewhere to hide. Yelling followed behind them, rage filled voices screaming that they couldn’t escape . Harry thought he might still be dreaming, the thoughts feeling so familiar yet so different; escape, save them .

The foggy images in his mind overlapped with brighter, more recent memories of his uncle taking his fists to Harry’s already battered body the night before. The neglect of the last several weeks spent in his relatives’ home making him too weak to fight back. Not that he ever did. The fear, rage and adrenaline mixing in his system from both sets of images causing him to heave over his bedside.

As expected, nothing came up, and he gasped for air as he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling while he waited for his heart to stop racing. It had to be a dream, right? He knew Obliviate was a spell used to remove memories, but adding them? Even now, he knew he was in his family’s home, his body aching where the bruises had yet to heal. He knew that the headache was because he hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. Nevertheless, every time he attempted to remember more of those fuzzy dreams, the pounding behind his eyes intensified.

They felt so lifelike; He could remember the feel of the cold night air on his sweaty skin, the nearly painful grasp of the hand clutched in his own. When the focus shifted towards Hermione running behind him, he could see her own tear-streaked face was many years older. She was wearing elegant robes, long braids whipping around her face as she looked back at their aggressors.

In addition to the dream memories, he felt the coils of rage wrapping around him just underneath his skin, gripping his rib cage tight. While some of it seemed to be directed towards the faceless attackers of his dreams, most of it had no target which left him feeling like he was drowning. His usual nonchalance appeared to be gone overnight which left him concerned that maybe he’d been compelled… or cursed.

Calm down. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples for some relief but knew that it was going to be a long day as Aunt Petunia banged on his door to summon him downstairs. He wasn’t eager to leave his room knowing it would take at least a week for his Uncle’s fury from the precious night to pass. Something about Harry sneaking food always set the obese man over the edge. The locks on the cupboards and fridge weren’t enough of a deterrent, but the bruises he currently sported under his oversize shirt proved he wasn’t sly enough to keep from getting caught. At least not this time , his fist clenched at the thought. He hadn’t cared so much yesterday about his own well being, but now he was angry and disgusted at his own complacency.

Reaching over to the small side table, he plucked the wire frames of his glasses, sliding them onto his face as he tried to organize his thoughts. Maybe its hormones? He reasoned, watching how the light played and shifted between his fingers in front of his face. Aren’t teens supposed to be angry? He wasn’t too sure why it would start up on a random day in August, nor did it explain the weird visions; but the idea consoled him enough to let him push the thoughts to the back of his head as he got out of bed.

Standing, Harry looked towards the open window where Hedwig was perched. She had a small field mouse clasped in her talons, and Harry gave her a sad smirk as she attempted to offer him the morsel.

“You’d better eat that; I need to watch my figure.” He joked, and he could almost imagine the owl scowling at him before downing the rodent whole. He slipped on some clean trousers, tying the shoelace belt tightly around his waist before making his way downstairs. He was met by glares from both Vernon and Dudley, but both faces quickly shifted to shock as Harry’s own expression turned deadly in reply.

Was it his imagination, or did the dishes rattle in the cupboard? He could hear a neighbor's fire alarm go off in the distance.

He was saved from having to speak to the pair as Petunia’s grating voice explained that they would be having guests, Marge Dursley. She didn’t look up from her paper as she ordered him to start breakfast, warning him that he would spend the day cleaning and would also be cooking dinner.

“So don't go gettin’ greedy and sneak any of the food.” A threatening glare from Vernon accompanied the command. Harry kept his face blank, getting to work as an easy distraction from his thoughts.

The rest of the day went on as usual, nothing exciting other than causing Vernon’s sister to turn into a balloon. It was almost like deja vu, watching her pudgy face get rounder as she floated away. He knew that it was against the law to use underage magic and that he might end up being expelled for his newfound temper, but for some reason he was confident that nothing disastrous would happen. It was almost like it had happened before.

Maybe I should ask Hermione about the dreams, he wondered later that night, sitting at the bus stop with his trunk and Hedwig. As the witch was a major figure in them, she might be able to shed some light on what was happening. Or at least help him figure it out. Pulling a scrap of parchment from his summer work, he penned a quick missive to his friend. While he knew with the more solid memories floating in his brain that she was on vacation with her family in France, the vaguer memories, that may or may not be his own, made it seem urgent that he speak to her even if it was only through a letter.

He relayed his symptoms; strange dreams, confidence in the future, and a new burning anger that was easy to provoke. He didn’t tell her that he was currently homeless at a bus stop because of his temper, instead stressing the urgency of her reply. He looked over the letter, praying he didn’t sound mad before folding it and releasing Hedwig into the night air.

As Harry watched the spot of white fly into the air, a shadow appeared out of the corner of his eye catching his attention. A stray dog sitting calmly a little ways away. The sight of the black scruff sitting among the trees held his attention; deep sorrow filled his heart as images of a man he had never met flashed before him. He stood without a thought, his mind drawn to the creature as if it was a long-lost friend, and only the screeching of breaks broke him from his trance-like state as a large bus skidded to a stop in front of him. Bright lights pouring out of the vehicle onto the street. He angrily scrubbed the tears from his face before boarding, pushing all thoughts of the strange dog from his head.

The next weeks passed in a blur. He was mostly left to his own devices, as Fudge had assured him that blowing up his aunt was fine in their books. He’d felt smug, not because he’d gotten away with it but because the feeling in his gut had been right. Maybe divination won’t be as bad as Fred and George complained about last year ; he wondered if maybe he had the ‘sight’. 

Spending most days by himself, Harry continued to be plagued by flashes of foggy thoughts and images. Sometimes he’d see a stranger on the street only to be blinded by images of the same person in shackles headed to Azkaban. Or he’d see an anonymous student from Hogwarts shift from a shy second year to a determined teen, smoke billowing around their ash smudged form as a battle raged on around them. But nothing seemed to put an end to his new memories, nor the resulting headaches that plagued him.

A short reply from Hermione was his only solace, where she assured him that she knew what to do and would see him in the week before school. Her elegant scrawl helped calm his nerves as he spent his time exploring Diagon Alley, his mind filled with flashes of shops and people that weren’t there, had never been there. 

It was in deep contrast to the feelings he got from Ron’s letters. Even the sight of the family owl seemed to invoke a rage in him, and he wasn’t sure why. Surely, Ron hadn’t done anything to deserve his ire yet, though it was bound to happen. He knew his relationship with the red head could be bumpy at times but nothing they hadn’t been able to get past. But the more he replayed every encounter with Ron in his head, solid memories of his first and second year at Hogwarts, the less Harry wanted to do with him. He wasn’t sure why. Could this be from feeling jealous over the Weasleys’ trip to Egypt or had someone cursed him to hate the boy? With out an answer, he hadn’t bothered to open the last letter.

It was during these two weeks alone that he started to realize something curious. With no outside influences other than a pounding head, he found himself craving information. No nagging Hermione to ask him about his summer homework, no teachers scolding his laziness or class deadlines to pressure him into doing the readings, he was free to do whatever he wished. Only he often found himself perfectly at ease in the public library across the street from Gringots.

Some books felt familiar even though he knew he’d never seen them before. Fingers caressing ancient pages as he memorized texts like a starving man. The names of others would pop into his head and he would spend hours searching for the text only to find it already checked out or wasn’t available. When this occurred, the disappointment was short lived before he’d walk to Flourish & Blotts to purchase his own copy. He’d never owned so many books in his whole life.

With a hint from Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry figured out that underage magic wasn’t traceable in the wizarding hubs like Diagon. Too much magic everywhere to pin it to one young wizard with a new found passion for spell work.

He knew that it shouldn’t be this way, that something had to be wrong with him. He was able to concentrate, he picked up new spells instantly, the magic flowing naturally from his wand as if he’d performed each his entire life. Information on werewolves, animagi, and dementors all felt necessary, and he took studious notes. Potion ingredients and their uses came easily to his mind as he read manuscripts for fun. Homework that had given him nothing but grief for weeks was finished in a night.

For the first time in the last three years, he didn’t feel like a muggle pretending to be a wizard.

***

With just one day left of solitude before his friends arrived, Harry was perusing a collection of charms texts when the flash of blond hair moved into his path. He gasped as a foggy memory, the clearest he’d yet seen, felt like a punch to the gut. Draco, older looking with dark circles around his fear filled eyes. His pale blond hair falling onto his face as he struggled vainly against the same dark robes that had chased Harry and Hermione in the other visions. Yelling for them to run before being apparated away.

“Potter?” The sneer on the boy’s face couldn't hide the concern in his voice as Harry grabbed the bookshelf to steady himself, his other hand going to his head.

“What do you want D- Malfoy.” Harry stuttered out, squeezing his eyes shut against the throb in his head and new emotions not entirely his own. He should hate him; Malfoy had always been a prick and his worst bully. He’d definitely hated him before he’d woken up with this random selection for dreamlike memories. But the anger that sparked in him at the thought of his muggle family, at the thought of Ron, or at any mention of Dumbledore out shined whatever petty dislike he held for the boy in front of him. Instead, with the new scene of adult Draco flitting in his mind he found himself now fighting the urge to wrap the blond in a hug, feelings of concern and caring flooding his brain. 

I’m definitely under a spell , he took a step back, trying to collect himself.

Draco watched him, his expression shifting to one of disdain as he gave Harry a once over before turning away to examine the shelf. Harry couldn’t help the feeling of disappointment, and cursed himself under his breath for being overly emotional. Malfoy hating him wasn’t anything new. Nothing had changed in the world, it was only Harry who was different.

“My family has a copy of each of these, none of them in such… used condition.” The blond scrunched his nose as he pulled a book from the shelf, thumbing through the tattered pages. The library’s well-worn collection was showing its years.

“I’m sure they do,” Harry rolled his eyes, “So what are you doing here then?”

“I was just curious if you’d been snatched up by the lunatic yet,” He smirked at Harry’s confusion, “Really Potter, no one’s told you yet that Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban?”

Harry had seen the wanted posters posted around the shops, each one invoking some new memory of the man he’d seen with the black dog. Smiling, happy, caring memories that didn’t match a laughing maniac in the moving photos. “Why would he be after me?”

“They say he’s the one who betrayed your parents to you-know-who. He also murdered another friend named Peter Pettigrew. Caused an explosion so big that only a pinky was left of the man. It would make sense he would want to finish what he started, at least that’s what everyone is saying. But I don’t buy it.” Draco peaked up from the book for the briefest of seconds, ice grey eyes meeting emerald green before shifting uncomfortably. Snapping the book shut, he slotted it back on the shelf, dusting his hands off. “I heard all of your parents’ friends weren’t what they seemed, better watch your back Potter.” With a flourish, the blond spun away, marching confidently towards the exit and leaving Harry to puzzle over the exchange.

He wasn’t sure if that had been a threat, but the riddle made his brain go into overdrive. What could he mean, ‘not what they seemed’? Obviously someone who you thought was your friend betraying you to Voldemort counted, but this was the first Harry had ever heard about his parents' friends. Perhaps Hagrid would know .

Tucking his notes and borrowed books away with a discreet shrinking spell, he made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron for lunch. He knew Tom was attempting to add some more meat to his bones; heaping plates of sandwiches, meats and cheeses were ready for him every afternoon around this time. It was unfortunate that he would feel ill after only a few bites, too much food having the opposite effect than intended.

Looking at himself in the mirror across the bar as he nibbled a piece of bread, he marveled at what appeared to be a homeless boy with glasses staring back at him. His hand-me-down clothing was huge on his slight frame. Old stains, while not noticeable to everyone, caused Harry’s confidence to drop , and the many well worn holes meant that they did little to ward off the weather.

“Tom?” The reflection’s gaze hardened with his resolve, staring back at him. “Where might I find a good shop for clothing?”

“Eh? Clothes you say?” The man was stooped behind the counter, pulling bottles of brandy from a large crate. “There’s Madam Malkin's as you know, or Galdrags for fancier dress robes, but there’s also Occamy Fitz. They’re better for everyday attire. See this?” Tom stood, slipping fingers into the belt loops at his side as he turned left and right to show Harry the worn trousers. You could tell they were well loved, but there wasn't a single tear, hole or stain on the garment. “Had this pair for thirty two years. Might be a bit outdated fashion wise, but a good pair of pants will be in working fashion for every century. Occamy’s has plenty of good charms on their garments to keep them from fraying, and you can pay a bit extra to have some size altering charms added. That is what they are best known for; I know I needed it, being two stones heavier than when I first got ‘em.” The man grinned at Harry before turning back to his work.

Harry remembered seeing the sign for the shop not that far from Ollivander’s. It had been busy with young witches and wizards getting ready for school and the end of summer. A quick thanks to Tom before Harry rushed from the pub and down the streets. It only took a few minutes before he found himself standing nervously outside the brightly colored shop, peering in the windows.

Despite his initial confidence in the decision to go clothes shopping, a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Dudley rang out in the back of his mind telling him he wasn’t worth the cost of a new pair of trousers. Harry could see a few customers milling about inside, pulling garments from shelves to inspect. He shifted uncomfortably, but again caught his reflection staring back at him in the shine of the window glass. Steeling himself with Gryffindor courage, he pushed open the door, the bell chiming lightly. No one paid him any mind, continuing their shopping as his wide eyes scanned the different fabrics folded on shelves. 

Mannequins magically shifted to strike poses at the ends of aisles, showcasing the shirts, pants and robes found on each line of shelves. A variety of hats and scarves traded places from one hooked rack to another, flying gently through the air above his head. Reaching out, Harry’s hand shook as he caressed the plush softness of a midnight blue knitted jumper.

“Can I help you?” He jumped at the voice, turning quickly to find an older witch staring down at him, her arms laden with a pile of folded lime green shirts. She wore simple cream robes with her wand sticking out haphazardly from a breast pocket. Her grey hair was split into two thick braids that hung to her knees, and her powder blue eyes softened as Harry shifted nervously with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“I uh-” He swallowed thickly before continuing. “I- I think I’d like a new pair of trousers please? And a couple of shirts that, uh, fit?” He finished lamely, his face heating as his eyes latched onto a spot on the floor between her feet. 

“I suppose we could manage that,” the kind voice drew his gaze as she pulled out her wand, sending her burden floating to its intended location. Next she summoned a tape measure from somewhere behind the counter that began measuring his height and seam lengths. “Turn in a slow circle for me?”

He did as instructed as a quill and parchment joined the tape measure in the air, jotting down quick notes before the woman nodded. “Do you have a favorite color?” 

This brought Harry up short. He couldn’t remember ever having been asked that. All of his school things were red and gold; scarves, hats, robes and even the hand knitted garments from Mrs. Weasley. Red or gold would have been his usual reply, but his eyes were drawn to the blue jumper again…

“I like blue, and gold,” He decided with a shrug. 

“We have a large selection of blues, are you looking at that one there? We have it in your size,” The jumper floated off the shelf, unfolding itself for Harry to examine. It had a faint corded pattern to it, but otherwise looked like any other sweater… and for some reason he wanted it more than anything. He nodded, and the witch moved it to the counter with a flick of her wand before ushering him through the aisle, plucking various garments off shelves for his inspection. By the time they made it back to the counter there was a large pile waiting for him. 

As they worked through the various styles, Harry voiced his concerns with buying too much; that they might not fit if he ever hit a growth spurt. Miriam, the shop keeper helping him, had assured him that for a small up charge all the items would fit him the rest of his life in addition to the shop's self-mend guarantee.

Free of the worry, it had ended up being a fun experience, and he’d purchased more than he’d planned.Harry had decided on three pairs of pants; one khaki, one charcoal and one black. Five simple button-ups of blues, blacks and greys lay next to them as well as three graphic tees. He grinned down at the Ballycastle Bat’s seeker that moved back and forth on his broom on the front of one of the t-shirts, the illusive snitch gliding across the fabric in random directions.

“Shall I charge this to the Potter accounts?” Harry looked up in surprise, but Miriam wasn’t looking at him, instead she was folding and bagging his purchases.

“Um, yes please?” He did his best to ignore the couple behind him that began to whisper about ‘famous Harry Potter’, grateful the shopkeeper hadn’t made a big deal over him. Gathering his packages, he thanked her for her help before making his way back to his room, the warmth of pride swelling in his chest.

***

Harry could hear the bickering from the top of the stairs. It wasn’t as if the two were being subtle, but as he drew closer to the source he was honestly surprised neither individual had drawn their wands. If anger was tangible it would be sloughing off of Ron in waves, while the deadly quiet of Hermione was menacing. She was holding a large ball of orange fluff, a tail flicking irritably side to side.

“That beast is gonna kill Scabbers!”

Hermiony’s expression looked almost bored, though her voice was brimming with the threat of violence “And? Really Ronald, both Parvati and Angelina have cats and Scabbers has done just fine.” 

“That’s not the point! He’s sick, he doesn’t need to be fending off your hairy pig to boot! Back me up mate!” Ron called out, having spotted Harry on the stairs.

For the briefest second, an older Ron, red hair greying at the temples and slicked back, glared up at him instead. “ Right Harry ?” Seemed to echo from both the man and the boy. Rage bubbled up, wrapping tightly around his chest making it difficult to breathe. His mind couldn't seem to shake the flickering image, older Ron’s hate filled gaze overlapping the concerned face of his much younger friend.

A painful grip on his forearm drew his attention, grounding him as he turned to Hermione. Her chocolate eyes shifted slightly, the warning clear. Not now. Her white knuckle grip allowed him to take a breath as she gave an imperceptible shake of her head.

“You alright, mate?” Ron was at their side on the staircase, his concern evident.

“Yeah, sorry, just a bit of a shock. You're both so tan.” He smiled wanly at the duo and Ron laughed.

“Still not as tan as you,” Ron finally took the time to observe Harry, a small frown puckering between his brow as he took in the new outfit. “Nice getup, your cousin lost a few pounds?”

Harry crossed his arms defensively, tucking his hands into the long sleeves of his new jumper. “No, I bought them…”

“Why?” Ron frowned harder, and Harry recognized the glint of jealousy. It had always been this way; everything Ron was wearing had belonged to one of his older brothers at one point or another. But the difference is the amount of love in those threads, Harry thought with a flare of irritation, hand-me-downs from necessity, not because it was either to go to him or the bin.

Hermione must have sensed his rising ire, as she quickly changed the subject to Ron’s trip. It was a good distraction and he began to regale them with stories of mummies and sand. It didn’t take long for the older Ron to fade to the back of Harry’s mind, but it still left him with many questions and no answers. What could be causing anger, and why was it aimed at some of the best people in his life?

With that in mind, he was anxious to get Hermione alone. Harry made up a lame excuse about needing to finish up his summer work when Ron invited him to fetch some medicine for Scabbers from the pet store. The thought of schoolwork repulsed the red head enough to keep him from asking questions as he made a quick exit, leaving the duo to themselves. Harry quickly guided Hermione with her orange fluff up to his room where they could have some privacy.

When he turned from closing the door, he found himself wrapped in a tight embrace. “Oh Harry!” There was so much heartbreak in her voice, and he could feel his neck getting damp where Hermione had tucked her face. Dread pitted itself in his stomach.

He gently pulled her away to look into her tear streaked face, so similar to the one from his dream. “What’s wrong, you said you’d explain. Am I cursed? Is that why all this weirdness has been going on?”

“No,” She shook her head, still sniffling, ”but I think we may have made a mistake.” She wiped her eyes before pulling a gold chain out from under her shirt collar. A small pendant with what looked like an hourglass swung back and forth before their eyes.

His brow puckered in faint recognition as he tried to remember where he’d seen one before. “Whats that?” 

“It’s a time turner, a device that allows the users to travel in time. McGonagall was able to get me special permission for this year since I’m taking classes that overlap.” She quickly tucked it back into her shirt. “It’s not just you Harry. These visions you wrote about, I keep having them too. But where you see us running, I see one of these. A time turner; But instead of being gold and refined, it’s a tarnished silver with chips and dents. Spinning, spinning, and then it breaks.” She paused miserably.

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would we travel back in time, much less to third year as adults? And where are our adult bodies? And why am I so angry?!” Confusion clouded his mind as he began to pace, trying to work out what she’s revealed.

“Small pieces keep coming back to me in my dreams; me reading missives from the ministry, something about purging evil wizards… I see Ron… sometimes he's kissing me, I think we might have been married?” Her dark complexion was becoming paler by the second, and Harry quickly pushed some of the book off of a nearby chair for her to sit in. Her far off expression didn’t change as she continued. “But in one, I’m angry as well, and we’re yelling and… he strikes me to the floor, a swift kick to the ribs leaves me gasping as he shouts, calling me a traitor.”

“So we’re angry at Ron for hurting you.” Harry didn’t doubt her words, something inside his mind didn’t even seem to question that it might have happened, but it didn’t seem like all of the answers.

She shook her head, lifting the orange cat into the chair with her to pet. Harry sat on the bed across from her not bothering to clear his papers. A moment of silence seemed to drag out as they both were thinking about the situation. Finally, Hermione met his gaze, “I think it might have more to do with the missives. The ‘purging’ of evil wizards.”

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing though? Keeping another dark lord from rising and all that?”

“But what if they weren’t evil? You and I know from muggle history that it’s easy for people to get on board with crazy ideas when they are scared. The muggle witch trials killed a bunch of people who were convicted of being wizards but were simply scared muggles like the rest of them.” He could remember learning about the subject in primary; close to twenty-five hundred people were killed between the 16th and 18th century. Hogwarts: a history had cited this to be the reason the four founders had built Hogwarts in the first place.

“So we saw the ministry trying to get rid of non-evil wizards… and Ron was one of them?”

“I think he might have been part of the effort…” She worried her lip. Harry remembered his encounter in the library the day before, the memory of older Draco yelling for them to run. Before this had all started, Harry had definitely believed the blond to be evil. Just a few months ago they’d even thought he was petrifying muggleborns with a basilisk.

“I’ve also had more than one vision,” He explained the memories coming up at the most random times, the black dog and Sirius Black, and finally ending with Malfoy.

“So we rebelled against the ministry, escaped, tried to travel back in time, and messed it up. Now our current selves are being assaulted by memories and emotions from our adult selves.” Hermione summarized, with a giggle bordering on hysterical. “At least I only get new memories in my dreams; I’d think that would be pretty distracting.”

“You’re telling me!” He huffed, flopping back onto the duvet with no concern for the books digging into his back.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” 

“Why do you have all of these books?” Her voice was small, and he flipped his hand in the air nonchalantly.

“Some light reading?” He joked, before sitting up to catch her hurt expression. “What? I just… I’m enjoying it, I guess. Learning that is. I don’t know what future-me was like, but I think I like learning because of all this craziness going on. Watch!” He cast a reverse to a camouflage spell, and what would have appeared to be brickabrack soon morphed into all the books he had stacked on the tables and fireplace mantle. Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight. “I know a lot of it is being relearned, I think from my future-self. But I’m able to concentrate on what I’m reading, and I’m learning so much!” He grinned at her, trying to coax her to return the expression.

“That’s… great,” She shifted awkwardly, before shifting her gaze to her shoes. “It’s just- it’s not because of me is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your visions have a lot of people in them, you might have seen something about future-me that would make you not trust me. I wouldn’t blame you, if you wanted to look for the answers on your own.”

He reached out, clasping her free hand in one of his and waited for her to raise her gaze to meet his. “No Hermione, I trust you. I really am just trying to learn. I have three years of school to catch up on.” He joked, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. They both knew he’d been a lazy student, preferring to play quidditch and exploding snaps than doing homework. Hermione had the look of ‘I told you so’, but kindly refrained from voicing it. 

“So what’s its name?” He motioned to the cat in her lap to change the subject.

A sad smile broke across her face, “Crookshanks. Mom and Dad finally said I could have a pet. As soon as they said the word, I knew where he was and when I would get him. Couldn’t even wait a few hours, dragging them both straight to the shop as soon as we arrived.” 

They sat in silence for a while, just trying to come to terms with their new reality. They could hear the world outside continue to spin, strangers footsteps echoing along the hall. But inside the stillness of Harry’s room, their minds raced against the many problems that felt like a crushing weight. The biggest of all begging to be asked, and he knew he needed to even as his voice cracked.

“What are we going to do?”

Chapter Text

Harry sat on the train, Hermione across from him. Ron had left to find the loo nearly ten minutes beforehand, and it was likely the tense silence that kept him away now… or possibly the sleeping adult curled up in the seat next to Harry. Remus Lupin is what it said on the man’s trunk; no one had bothered to wake him as the train rolled across the Scottish countryside.

Instead, Harry had replayed his craziest plan to date in his head. Hermione had balked at first, arguing that he’d lost his mind. Maybe I have, he mused, remembering the late conversation from the night before. After having dinner with the Weasleys and Hermione’s parents, they’d left Ron to the mercy of Fred and George to sneak back up to Harry’s room.

“So our future selves thought whatever was happening was important enough to come back in time and change the past, right?” She started, pulling one of his books into her lap without thinking.

“Right…”

“Well if it was important then, it likely still is. So shouldn’t we go about trying to use these memories to change the future as well?”

The reasoning made sense to him, except; “How will we know if it’s changed or if we are actually just repeating the same events?”

This had stumped her and they sat in silence before something clicked in Harry’s brain.

This last week had been one instance of deja vu after another. The feeling had made him uncomfortable, and left him seeking things that were ‘novel experiences’ such as going to the library and a couple of shops that were set out of the way. Despite this, oftentimes he found himself feeling as if he’d walked the streets in the same way before, kicked the same pebble down the path, had the same conversation with the shop keepers or Tom at the leaky cauldron.

But the conversation with Draco had been novel. The conversation with Hermione was novel. He’d relayed the information in excitement, “Perhaps we need to avoid the deja vu to change things.”

“I don’t really feel it though, deja vu. I’m only seeing the memories in my dreams. How will I know?” She tugged at one of her curls.

“We could do something so completely crazy, that our previous selves would never have attempted it? That way we won’t have to worry about repeating the past.” 

“And what do you have in mind?”

Harry swallowed nervously, the thought coming too easily and too quickly to his mind as the sorting hat’s words all those years ago rang in his ears. “You are the bravest witch I’ve ever met. The smartest witch of our generation, and far kinder than the rest of us. But if we’re to change the future, maybe… maybe we both need to learn a bit of cunning. What better way than from the experts?”

A plan had formed, and after some convincing and a fair bit of research, they’d boarded the train with determination shielding their hearts against their fear. As the collection of red and gold clad students had greeted them, a hole had opened up in the pit of Harry’s stomach knowing that in a few short hours they would all hate him. 

Without Ron in the cabin now, he turned to Hermione to ask again; “Are you sure you want to go along with this? There’s nothing saying both of us need to, I'm sure it could just as easily be changed with my actions alone.” 

Her face seemed to lose all emotion as she looked at him, shaking her head. “No, we both came back, and we are both going to do this. You’re not going to be sacrificing yourself alone again if I have anything to say about it.”

It felt as if his ears twitched, “What’s that supposed to mean? Did you see something else?” He’d wondered by her ragged appearance this morning if she’d gotten any sleep.

She paused, before looking just slightly over his shoulder, her voice as expressionless as her face. “No, but since I’ve known you, you’ve gone by yourself to thwart two versions of Voldemort, an evil teacher and a basilisk. Lets not shoot for a third near death experience, shall we?”

This made him laugh, “I never try, they just tend to find me.”

The train continued on for several minutes, the rain beating on the windows. Harry rubbed his head against the dull throb that had taken up permanent residence in his frontal lobe. While not a blinding headache like the first few weeks, it was as if his brain was still trying to make room for all of the memories that were attempting to take up space in his noggin. Maybe Madam Pomfrey would be willing to teach me how to make a headache potion, he mused, closing his eyes against the bright light.

Ron still hadn’t returned, and Harry wondered if he’d found another compartment to sit in. His presence hadn’t been received very warmly when boarding the train, and Harry was feeling rather guilty about it. It wasn’t as if his friend had done anything wrong yet, and if their plan worked he never would. But Hermione had straight up ignored the red head, and Harry had nearly lost his temper twice as the other boy couldn’t seem to stop from complaining about Crookshanks, his siblings, and Harry’s new Ballycastle Bat’s shirt. Any attempt at conversation had quickly dissolved into silence, leaving them all to their own thoughts for close to an hour before he’d disappeared. 

The night before, when the subject of Ron had come up they had decided it would be better not to tell him of what had happened or their plan. When Harry had attempted to play devil's advocate, Hermione’s own well hidden anger had flared as she’d put her foot down on the subject.

“That is one piece of this future I will see changed above anything else,” she’d stated vaguely, before changing the subject.

Now sitting in the rocking train car, lightning flashed outside with a thunderous clap. Screeching sounded as the train began to slow. Harry could see the lights flicker behind his closed lids, and a chill ran through him as the air seemed to cool by several degrees. He might have thought it was due to the weather outside, except for the sense of foreboding that redoubled in his gut. Sitting up, he could see the frost forming on the windows, and his breath clouding before his face. 

“Harry-” Hermoine’s worried question was cut off as the cabin door slid open violently. A ghastly figure swathed in tattered black was floating in before they had a chance to draw their wands. The sound of a hundred different screams rang through Harry’s mind as he collapsed into unconsciousness.

It was the soft voices around him that roused him from the blackness. He wasn’t sure if it had been minutes or hours but he could feel the train moving underneath him. Looking up, the world was blurry, his head laying on Hermione’s lap. 

“Harry, you're awake!” She was looking down at his squinting face with relief.

“Technically. Where are my glasses?” She passed them into his line of sight. He felt weak and nauseous as he sat up, trying to collect his thoughts. Reading about something versus experiencing it first hand had been his preferred method for learning, but he thought he might want to change that opinion as his stomach heaved with the knowledge of what he’d just encountered. “Demetors?”

“Yes,” A gruff voice interrupted, and Harry looked up to see an older unkept man watching him from the doorway. “Bit of nasty work, those. Here, eat this. It will help.” He took the proffered chocolate frog from the man, wincing as more memories bombarded his mind. This man, Remus Lupin; smiling as he taught a class, laughing with Harry and the man from the wanted posters, and finally a pale corpse with eyes closed to the world . Stuffing the chocolate into his mouth, he took deep breaths in an attempt to keep from being overwhelmed by the images.

The man must have thought the wince was for the side effects of the encounter, giving a solemn nod before continuing, “They’re presence away from Azkaban was likely due to the escaped prisoner. I’ll be having a word with the conductor now. Come find me if he continues to feel poorly,” He instructed Hermione before disappearing into the walkway.

“They were checking the train for Sirius Black?” Hermione asked in a whisper once they were alone again.

“I guess so, it makes sense. But what doesn’t make sense is that Professor; he’s friends with Black, or will be. We both will be, and it hurts-” He fisted his shirt above his heart, trying to subdue the emotional onslaught the memories had conjured, “how do I stop it from hurting?”

She reached out her hand to take hold of his, squeezing tightly as she watched him with sad eyes. “I wish I knew.”

***

The shock in the room was palpable; nobody moved as the two third-year students walked to the front of the room where the sorting hat sat. The hat eyed them curiously, while Professor McGonagall’s face was flushed with shocked disapproval. At the high table, Snape looked like he was choking on his spoon, while the other teachers tittered in confusion. Professor Dumbledore smiled benignly behind his goblet. 

“It’s our turn, Professor.” Harry’s voice was even and calm, despite the panic welling in his mind. They had planned it this way, sitting as far up the Gryffindor table as they could, their smaller frames wedged between the larger seventh years. As the last first year was sorted they had moved quickly, so that they too could be sorted, again.

“Mr.Potter, this is highly irregular. Return to your seats at once.” McGonagall’s harsh whisper could still be heard throughout the room. Even the ghosts were watching with bated breath.

“Irregular, but not against the rules, Professor.” Hermione’s voice was clear and cold, shoulder to shoulder with Harry she stood with her head held high under their head of house’s stern gaze.

“I expected better of you Ms. Granger, really…” She trailed off, looking to the high table for support. 

“Ms. Granger and Mr. Potter are correct. It isn’t against the rules.” Dumbledore called from his seat, a cheerful smile playing on his lips. “It is not all that uncommon for students to doubt where they belong in the world, especially at their age. While a creative way to console their fears, it is nevertheless their choice. Rather brave of them, don’t you agree?” He finished sagely, sparking another bout of anger in Harry. He wasn’t sure why he held anger for the headmaster as he had yet to appear in any of Harry’s memories, but now wasn’t the time to speculate. Harry didn’t take his eyes off of the sorting hat, something telling him he didn’t want to look into the bright eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

McGonagall cleared her throat irritably, “Very well, which of you wants to go first?”

Harry stepped forward, and a din of whispers filled the hall. He didn’t want there to be any mistake in his intentions, or for anyone to accuse Hermione of bullying the ‘Golden Boy’ into resorting against his will. For the last two years he’d often followed Ron and Hermione’s lead, his first and best friends. ‘ It’s time to make a decision for myself’ , he repeated what he’d told Hermione earlier in his head as he took the last few steps to the seat.

Turning, he could see the faces of the other students staring back at him. First and second years appeared confused, as did most from the other houses. It was only the house of the lion that differed, looks of anger and betrayal plain on their faces. Ron was as red as his hair, glaring daggers across the hall. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry felt the weight of the hat as it settled over his head, the brim blocking the world from view. No longer was it several sizes too large, it fit comfortably above his ears with the worn leather soft on his forehead.

Well, well, well. There’s quite a bit more in here than there was last time… over twice of what there should be I see. Quite troublesome.

“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? About the extra bits?” He could feel the hat in his mind among both the sharp memories of the last two years and foggy memories of the indiscernible future. He worried that if the information got out then the memories might be removed.

It isn’t any concern of mine, just a lot of work to properly sort you out. A lot of work indeed… Unless you had other plans?

“You were confident that I belonged in Slytherin house my first year; are you still?”

This isn’t my first resorting, as you well know -the hat poked at a memory- but more often than not my assessments are accurate. Now, are you asking to be sorted into your proper house?

“Do you always take the students' wishes into consideration when sorting?”

Always. Right now, sitting amongst the snakes are keen eyed ravens, lions sleep alongside badgers… and even serpents have what it takes to be brave.

“Slytherin!” Rang out through the hall.

Shouts of “traitor!” and “snake!” followed suit among the yells of shock and outrages. The hat was removed to reveal McGonagall’s face, pale in grief as she motioned for Harry to step to the side. A second call for slytherin followed the first, and the yelling and shouting doubled as Hermione again stood at Harry’s side, looking ill.

“Attention,” Dumbledore called out calmly, and another hush fell over the student body as if waiting to see what he would do next. “Now, all sorted students need to take their seats at their tables. This year we’ve had some faculty changes…” He began his usual welcome speech; Harry blocked it out as they made their way to their new table.

Green and silver robes shuffled to the side, making space between Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass for them to sit as two new plates appeared. Many of them refused to acknowledge the newcomers through dinner, and Harry and Hermione kept their heads down as they waited patiently for the evening to be over.

They had no such luck, however, just as Draco voiced that “Potter can’t keep himself from being the center of attention,” with a sneer, Professor Snape appeared at their backs.

“Potter, Granger, with me.” He turned with a graceful sweep of his robes, leaving them to scurry from their seats as the rest of the students began to file out of the great hall, headed for their houses. Within minutes, they were seated in Dumbledore’s office with the headmaster smiling faintly, Professor Snape glaring, and Professor McGonagall’s brows pinched in concern.

“Lemon drop?” The candy dish casually floated in their direction before making its way back to the desk when they shook their heads.

Snape cleared his throat irritably, “Headmaster, this must be a foolish prank by Potter and his friends. You must send them back to Gryffindor with Minerva.”

“I agree Albus, this has gone far enough-”

“Excuse me professors,” Hermione interrupted, sitting straighter in her chair. “But we’d like to remain in Slytherin house.”

“But it just isn’t done!” McGonagall huffed, folding her arms with an angry expression that mirrored Snapes.

“It was done; According to the first and second editions of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ it used to be common practice for students to switch houses as they grew up to provide support for new interests. It’s only in later editions that it’s been edited out.”

“Then this was your idea Ms. Granger? Were you hoping that your incessant need to be right would land you in Ravenclaw? Did you convince Mr. Potter that it would benefit him somehow with his lazy disposition and lack of talent?” Snape sneered down at her.

“Actually, it was my idea, Professor.” Bright green met the black irises before quickly looking away, the same feeling of foreboding entering his mind as with Dumbledore. Instead his gaze shifted to the portrait to the right of the man’s head, watching the long dead headmaster who seemed to be snoring in his chair. “Perhaps I simply need the right atmosphere to apply myself.”

“You think yourself quite clever then, Potter?” 

Snape’s cool expression couldn’t hide his disgust, and Harry smirked up at the man. “Not at all, but I look forward to learning from you Professor.”

“Why you-” 

“You heard the boy Severus, this was his choice; what is done is done.” Harry finally worked up the courage to look at Dumbledore’s face. Displeasure was painted clearly on the man’s face veiled by a thin smile. He was not happy.

***

Getting used to the change was proving to be more difficult than either of them had realized. While the monotony of classes was a familiar comfort, it was a challenge to break the habit of going to Gryffindor tower or their old table. And neither side was making it any easier.

The Slytherins were, much to Harry’s surprise, keeping their distance. While not welcoming, this also meant they weren’t bullying them, which was a pleasant side effect. Harry’s dorm held himself, Crabb, Nott, and Draco; not that he’d really seen any of them. The dorm room was empty when Harry woke up, and the curtains were drawn on the other three beds by the time he left the showers for bed. 

The other houses were not nearly as keen to turn a blind eye. Tripping jinxs and stinging hexes left him wary to travel the main hallways, and he’d often find animated toy snakes on his chairs or in his bag. Ron was especially obnoxious, flagged by Seamus and Dean and having mastered the spell that upended Harry’s bag into the corridor daily. It amazed him how quickly someone who’d claimed to be his best friend had turned on him.

He was having a hard time pinning down Hermione, who was already swamped with her class load. From what he had seen of her, she was cool and collected despite the abrasion on her palms and knees that matched his own. They didn’t talk about it. By the second week it was already beginning to wear on his nerves, and he was feeling quite alone.

It may have been from so many attacks that he was hypervigilant; keeping an eye out as he walked to Defense, he caught Kenneth Towler cast an aguamenti over the top of Theodore Nott’s head, soaking him. Harry could hear the blood rushing in his ears, the anger that had been building over several days finally bubbling over as he stepped in between the two.

“Pick on someone in your own year Ken.” He held his want loosely, eyes narrowing on the larger fifth year. 

“Ah the turncoat, taking up the defense of another snake, how sweet.” Kenneth sneered, his own wand gripped tightly. The crowd passing by eyed them warily, no one intervened. 

“Make a smart decision here Ken,” Harry’s voice was cold and sure, “We both know you’ve flunked out of Defense two years running, with only Angelina keeping your grades afloat. Do you really want to test me?” The other teen’s gaze dropped to where Harry’s wand was at his side, weighing his choices before finally spitting on the stone floor at Harry’s feet.

“Back stabbin’ snake.” His gaze shot daggers as he backed away before disappearing down the corridor. They were soon left to themselves as everyone else rushed to classes, fight averted. Harry turned to find Nott ringing out his uniform with a scowl on his face.

“Here let me help,” His voice was quiet, but he didn’t miss the flinch from the other boy when he raised his wand. Casting a quick drying spell, the water was gone almost instantly, and Harry quickly stowed his wand.

Nott watched him from the corner of his eye as he retrieved his book bag which had luckily been spared the deluge, “You’ll pick a fight with a fifth year, but won’t defend yourself from a simple tripping hex?”

He shrugged, not sure what to say. It wasn’t the same, being bullied versus watching others receive the same treatment. “I get why they're mad at me,” He finally said, wishing his voice didn’t sound as sad as it did. “But you weren’t doing anything, and Kenneth is a prat.”

They started heading in the direction of DADA, the last stragglers. It was weird walking beside the other slytherin; he was taller, with dark brown hair. Harry had rarely seen the quiet boy without a book in his hand, nearly as studious as Hermione; but he had to also admit he’d rarely taken notice of any of the slytherin students besides Malfoy.

Nott snorted, “I’m in slytherin. You’ll find that to be the crime and source of derision among the student body. Though you should know…” He cast another side glance at Harry, “You are a Gryffindor .”

The house name was spat with contempt. Harry did his best to stare straight ahead and not let the words cut as intended, but couldn’t help the sliver of guilt as he recognized the truth in the other boy’s accusations. He couldn’t really think of a time when he himself had cast an unprovoked spell in the direction of another student; they had most often been cast in response to Draco being a prat. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t joined in the laughter when someone else had taken initiative to cast a jinx, nor did it stop him from stepping into the frey when a fight broke out. He could remember a few occasions where Ron had started something that Harry would have to finish due to his subpar wand work. 

It had almost seemed righteous to defend his friend from an evil snake. Harry swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat as the memory of older Draco again entered his thoughts. Evil indeed, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

By the time they made it to class, everyone had already taken their seats. Nott left him without a backwards glance, moving to take his usual seat between Pansy Parkinson and Malfoy. Malfoy shot a glare at Harry as he took his own seat beside Hermione, while Pansy whispered furiously at Nott, who studiously ignored the girl while pulling out his books.

“Everything alright?” Hermione whispered, concerned by his tardiness.

“Fine,” Harry lied, and wasn’t subjected to her prying as Professor Lupin called for attention before guiding the students to the staff room on the third floor. Today’s class was on Boggarts, a magical creature that depicted your worst fear. Apparently there was one living in the wardrobe in the staff room, which raised quite a few questions in Harry’s mind, mainly wondering why they would let it stay. But he didn’t ask anything as his head pounded in his skull. 

He swayed on his feet Professor Lupin pulled Neville to the front of the class, the deja vu of the scene being taken over by another memory. Remus sat beside Harry on the carpet, in the darkest, dankest excuse for a house he had ever seen. The fireplace barely driving off the chill. They sat together watching the man, Sirius Black, who seemed so lost, the ghosts of the past haunting his every waking moment. 

“I wish I could take him from this place,” Remus whispered, his own grief leaking into his voice. 

“Why don’t you?” Harry’s voice, barely a whisper. Remus’s eyes flick from Sirius to the door, quiet voices could be heard in the other room. Even as anger could be seen in the other man’s expression, Harry felt nothing. Not for him, for the man on the couch, for any of the voices save the faint elderly laugh of Dumbledore. Harry felt the urge to protect the great wizard, to step between him and everyone else. He quickly shook it off, knowing there was no one in this house to hurt his mentor, and he turned back to watch Remus’s face. 

“We are all too proud to admit that we may have sided with the wrong savior.” Harry shook the memory from his head as the sad, scarred face faded from view, confused and irritated once again at himself and those faceless voices in his memory. 

Class had continued on in his distraction, and he watched with unseeing eyes as the bogarts portrayed the fears of his classmates for all to see. Neville’s had been Professor Snape, Ron’s was a giant spider. By the time it was Harry’s turn to step up, he thought his greatest fear might be the idea of finding out his greatest fear. The room that had been filled with giggles from an eightlegged rollerskater soon hushed with expectation. 

Professor Lupin moved as if to step in front of him, but too late. As Harry watched, the creature morphed into himself; older, taller, with his usual untameable hair graying at his temples. Its tan skin showed the wear of years, and behind round glasses were sad green eyes. His own voice reached his ears, “You can’t stop this-”

“ Riddikulus! ” Harry flicked his wand, putting his boggart into a cheerleading costume of bright orange complete with pompoms. ‘Chudley Cannons’ was written across the front of the croptop, causing more laughter to break out in the room.

“Well done, well done! Now I expect an essay-” Lupin gave instructions for homework as the class was dismissed, and Harry was relieved to begin packing up his things. Hermione cast him a knowing glance.

“I didn’t expect you to be so vain, Potter.” Malfoy jeered, earning laughs.

Harry rolled his eyes, “we can't all be as pretty as you, Malfoy.” 

He didn't bother to wait for a response. Bag in hand, he walked to double potions alone. Hermione also had Ancient Runes in the same time slot, and the class room for AR was located closer to defence than the dungeon. This meant that she would more often than not come rushing into potions seconds before the final bell, earning some snide comment from Snape. This however, was the extent of his response. Snape never took points from his own house, and that safety net now included Harry and Hermione. This earned them glares from the Gryffindor students they shared the class with but it was a relief to Harry; potions had always been his worst subject, and the main source for point loss with his old house. Now, Snape’s bias was aimed at Ron and Neville. Both of whom, Harry had to admit, would be dangerous alone in a potions lab. 

Everyone also believed that Snape’s blatant goodwill also extended to his grading, something Harry used to believe himself. But with just one week of double potions under his belt, he was now pleasantly surprised to see his grades rising with the help of his new found love for the subject. While everyone else thought it was because he was now a snake, Harry was proud of the fact that he was earning grades that put him in the top five of the class. He still wasn’t as good as Hermione or Draco; but being able to concentrate now helped him not burn his concoctions, and he found the readings to be fascinating rather than repulsive. 

And with no friends to distract me, I’m actually getting the homework done, he thought sarcastically to himself. Pulling his essay from his bag, he thought to spend the last minutes making sure he covered all the important points of ‘Antidote to Common Poison’. Suddenly, the parchment in his hand became a reflective surface, his shocked face staring back up at him. A roar of laughter drew his attention to where Ron sat with Seamus, and he rolled his eyes.

“Thought you might be worried about sprouting grey hair,” Ron chortled.

“Aye, don’t frown so much, you’ll get wrinkles.” Seamus wheezed, holding his sides. 

Harry held up the paper mirror trying to contain his temper, “I appreciate your concern, now change it back.”

“Do it yourself, snake,” the redhead’s face went stoney, facing forward as Snape called for attention. Harry turned to find Hermione had appeared at his side, the same concerned look that had been ever present on her face irritating him more. He shook his head mutely, turning his attention to the front while tapping his wand with whispered incantations, trying to transfigure the mirror back into homework.

This didn’t go unnoticed.

“Mr. Potter, is my lecture boring you?”

Every head turned.

Harry didn’t look up right away. His wand stilled. His stomach was tight, breath shallow with irritation. He felt Hermione shift beside him; warning, maybe pleading, but it was too late. He wasn’t able to keep himself in check as a collage of memories flashed through his mind. All of them Snape, all of them wretched.

He met the Professor's eyes despite the gut feeling that told him it was a bad idea. Slow and steady, he didn’t flinch as black irises seemed to peer into his soul; still finding him lacking. 

“I told you to empty yourself of emotion!”

“Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,” Harry snarled.

“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!” said Snape savagely. The memory slapped Harry like a battering ram, his rage lashing out of control beneath his skin.

“No, sir,” he said, his voice sharp around the edges. “I always enjoy lectures where I’m the main subject. Saves me the trouble of taking notes.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Someone in the back let out a low whistle, quickly muffled.

Professor Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Detention. Tonight,” he said coldly, before accio- ing the mirror parchment from Harry’s fingertips. Hermione sat in tense silence beside him, while the rest of the class kept sneaking glances his way, as if he’d grown a second head.

Harry sat sightless and unhearing as the rage bubbled in his gut; the short exchange hadn’t been enough to extinguish the fire, only adding fuel. After the two hour class ended, he decided he'd much rather go blow off some steam than eat lunch. It was a quick trip to the broom shed, and the students parted ways for him as if sensing his feelings and recoiling from them. Collecting his broom from the storage shed, he sped off into the air, performing lap after lap around the field. Despite being September, the summer heat was still hanging on, the sun beaming down from a cloudless sky.

The wind acted like a balm on his soul, wiping away his worries as he spun loops and slipped into near vertical dives with ease. Flying was definitely something he always missed over the summers, and it was disheartening to know that he wouldn’t be playing quidditch this year. Or ever, since my head of house hates my guts. Not for the first time, he felt a tinge of melancholy; he thought he should miss Gryffindor, miss McGonagall, and the Fat Lady and the Tower. He definitely should have missed the people he had considered friends, even if they weren't anymore. But he was simply hollow, aching. Not sure what he was feeling.

As he slowed, his final lap completed, he felt wetness on his face. Tears he hadn’t known were falling escaped down his cheek. “Ahhh!”, Harry furiously scrubbed at his face with an angry yell to the sky. It’s not as if I haven’t survived worse, he landed softly in the grass scowling at his own weakness. I’m fine, I'm fine, I’m fine…

While the flight had been a good idea, in the end it had only put Harry in a darker mood, and he spent Divination staring irritably into his crystal ball wishing that the day was over. By dinner time he didn’t feel like seeing anyone, slipping into the dining hall to grab up a croissant and an apple before disappearing down the hall. 

Hiding in the Slytherin common room turned out to be the best option since everyone else was at dinner. Quiet, with the flickering green fire warding off the dungeon’s chill, he made himself comfortable on one of the worn leather chairs and pulled out his latest assignments. An easy hour of applying himself to his work helped distract him from his thoughts, and he was pleased by the progress he’d made.

After checking the time, he sighed, remembering the consequences of his actions. Resolving not to get into any more trouble by being late, he threw his bag onto his bed before heading to Snape’s office. A quick knock had the door opening itself to reveal the professor seated at his desk grading papers. No words needed exchanged as Harry headed straight to the potions storage room where several mountains of dirty cauldrons lay stacked precariously to the side of one wall. 

It wasn’t difficult work washing cauldrons, just tedious. One only needed to be careful of what was left inside; never anything dangerous, usually just inconvenient… Like now. 

Halfway through his second pile of cauldrons, Harry found a strange purple goop had soaked through his white button up. Despite his best attempts to remove it, the goop appeared to be expanding, and becoming wetter. 

“Merlin,” he pinched the fabric away from his body, lifting it so it wouldn't accidentally touch his trousers. He knew he’d need to take the shirt off in order to keep from becoming sopping wet himself. Harry eyed the office door. Snape rarely chose to check on his progress, but Harry didn’t want to get caught shirtless in the potions closet. Weighing his options and finding he had none, he slid the dripping fabric over his head. 

***

Finding the Potter boy half-naked had not been on Severus Snape’s list of anticipated horrors that evening. He froze in the doorway, mouth opening with a sharp rebuke already halfway formed… but the words stalled as his eyes narrowed, assessing the scene in front of him.

The boy had his back to the door, arms lifted as he wrung out his shirt, dripping purple sludge into a cauldron. It was a ridiculous sight. Infuriatingly messy. But it wasn't the state of undress that caught his attention.

It was the skin.

Severus had a sharp eye; trained to catch the faintest discoloration in a tincture or the precise shade of bruising that indicated spoiled ingredients. What he saw now was unmistakable: scars. Pale, long-healed, but no less telling. They stood out stark against the tan skin pulled tight over bony ribs. A collection of them ran to and fro across the boy’s tan skin; some thin, some jagged, one disturbingly long running perpendicular from scapula to hip. 

The kind that didn’t come from broomsticks or hallway duels. The kind a child learned not to talk about.

He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. “That will be another detention,” he said smoothly, “for indecent exposure and assaulting your uniform with experimental slime.”

Harry jumped, spinning around and clutching the ruined shirt to his chest. “It was soaking through!” he snapped. “Would you rather I melt?”

Severus raised an eyebrow, careful to school his expression into mild disdain. “Given your track record, Potter, I assumed spontaneous combustion was inevitable.”

Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to his shirt, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like greasy bat. Severus let the insult slide, unusually so, and instead walked to the nearest shelf to pluck a sealed jar from a row of identical ones. He placed it deliberately on the table and watched as Potter’s skeptical eyes landed on the jar of bright blue powder.

“For future reference, that particular cauldron once held a student's attempt at Swelling Solution. It reacts to heat and moisture. Like sweat. Or panic.” His tone was dry. “Perhaps next time, refrain from manhandling it half-naked like a second-rate calendar model.”

Harry flushed, scowling at the cauldron as if it had personally betrayed him.

Severus watched him sidelong, noting the slight tremor in his hands, the defensive hunch of his shoulders, the way he positioned himself instinctively, subtly, with his back away from the professor.

Interesting . He gave no indication he’d noticed anything at all.

“Clean up,” he said curtly, “and try not to ruin another shirt. I imagine you don’t have many.”

He turned on his heel, robes whispering against the stone floor as he strode back toward his desk. But he didn’t sit. Instead, he stood with his back to the door, gaze fixed on the half-marked essay still lying in front of him, the magical quill poised mid air but unmoving.

Behind him, there was the clink of cauldron metal from the other room, the soft rustle of fabric, a frustrated grunt. Severus didn’t need to see to know that Potter had likely yanked his half-dried shirt back over his head after using the powder to stop its spread and was now trying to salvage what dignity he had left. Good. Let the boy be irritated, angry. Anything but frightened. He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to care. But the fine lattice of old scars he’d seen wasn’t the sort of thing he could forget, and it certainly wasn’t the result of Quidditch. He would know.

A Potter, abused. The very notion scraped against years of well-earned bitterness. James-bloody-Potter had strutted through this school with arrogance and privilege wrapped around him like a cloak. Dumbledore had assured the entire magical community that the infant had been placed in a good loving home. At the time, Severus had snorted at the idea of Petunia Evans being loving. But spiteful though she’d always been, surely she wouldn’t have dared lift a hand. Would she?

Severus's jaw tightened.

No. He would not jump to conclusions. He would observe. He would confirm.

Severus waited patiently for the boy to finish, working through grading the various assignments. He’d made quick work of transmuting the metallic parchment that Potter had submitted back into its intended form. Though he was loath to admit it, the work was… above average. Nothing worth praising but better than it had been in previous years. Which was unfortunate, since he quite enjoyed using his red ink to graffiti over student's work.

As soon as Potter left, Severus tapped a small missive with his wand which instantly turned into a small origami butterfly that fluttered quickly out of the door. Within minutes the responding knock echoed on his door.

“You wanted to see me, Uncle Sev?” Draco entered, looking drained. Severus had inquired after his health several times since returning to Hogwarts, but he had remained tight lipped. The boy had only requested Dreamless Sleep which Severus had hesitantly given with a solemn promise that Draco could come to him with anything and he would listen. Draco had yet to take him up on the offer. 

“Yes, sit. I have something to discuss with you.” Severus paused, not quite sure where to start. The idea had formed shortly after his exchange with Potter, but it would require some help to gain the information. As a spy, he wasn't above using his resources to any end; it would just take some convincing. Clearing his throat he looked down at the boy before him, “I need you to befriend Harry Potter.”

The blond's mouth dropped open, sputtering in search of a reply, “bu-bu- NO! I can't be friends with Potter! He's not even supposed to be in Slytherin!”

Severus arched a brow, the picture of calm disdain. “And yet, here he is. The sorting hat is rarely mistaken, Draco.” He didn’t bring up the fact that the hat had been wrong enough the first time to warrant a second sorting.

Draco crossed his arms, his expression tight with indignation. “He’s Potter . He’s insufferable. He thinks he’s better than everyone-”

“And you think refusing my request makes you superior?” Severus’s tone cooled a degree. “This is not about house rivalries, Draco; obviously since he is in the same house it would do you some good to show him the real face of Slytherin. But I digress. This is about something far more important than petty schoolyard feuds.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Why me ?”

Severus gave a small, slow shrug, his voice dipping into something nearly casual. “Because you’re close. You both now share a dorm and you’ve known each other for years, even if not pleasantly. No one would question a sudden shift in behavior, not if it’s subtle.”

“You mean spy on him,” Draco muttered.

Severus’s lips twitched. “I prefer to think of it as... gathering context.”

“This is about the change in house right? Or… something my father would be more inclined to know? Is he in trouble? Did he do something?” Draco asked, something like hesitant curiosity creeping into his voice. When surrounded by friends and other students, Draco’s father was spoken about with admiration from the boy. But in the privacy of his godfather's office, Draco didn’t bring up Lucius with an expression of pride, but rather with a fearful hunch to his own shoulders. Ah Slytherin, the house for the sly and cunning, learned by children through fear filled memories. Severus was silent for a moment longer than was comfortable before he folded his hands together, raising his eyes from his desk to meet Draco’s silver gaze.

“I suspect Potter may be keeping secrets,” he said carefully. “Dangerous ones. But not of the sort you’re thinking. And I need to know what they are. I need proof . I won’t act on guesswork.”

Draco was still frowning. “So you want me to pretend to be his friend? Ask questions, dig around?”

“Not even that, at first,” Severus said. “Start with politeness. Civil behavior. You’re clever enough to manage that, aren’t you?”

Draco flushed. “Of course I am. But…this is Potter. He’ll know something’s up. And if he doesn’t his mud-” Draco swallowed his words quickly, knowing how much Severus detested blood purity prejudice. “His friend, Granger, will figure it out.” 

The man let the slur slide, knowing that Rome wasn’t built in a day. Too much time spent under Lucius’s watchful eye had resulted in some skewed opinions that Severus had been working the last two years to correct. But it was normal for Draco to slip back into old habits after a summer at home. He’d learned to mimic his fathers mannerisms not out of loyalty, but out of self preservation..

“Then be better at pretending,” Severus said coolly. “You are your mother’s son, after all.”

At the mention of Narcissa, Draco stilled. A request in the form of a challenge was an excellent motivator with the boy, and Severus let the silence linger before continuing, more softly now. “She and I go back a long way, as you know. And I care what happens to her son, my godson. I wouldn’t ask this if I thought it beneath you.”

Draco looked away, jaw working. “It’s just until you find out what you need?”

“Yes.”

“And after that?”

Severus shrugged again. “Then you can return to your usual snide remarks and glares across the Great Hall, if that’s what you truly want.”

Draco hesitated a long moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. But I’m not going to like it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” He replied smoothly with a smirk.

Chapter Text

By the weekend, all Harry wanted was a quiet day to lounge around and do absolutely nothing. Hermione had already warned him she’d be holed up in the library most of the bright Saturday, and the cool, dim comfort of the Slytherin dorms made his bed feel like the coziest place in the world.

But it wasn’t to be.

His homework had piled up, and he had an important errand that couldn’t wait. So he skipped breakfast and trudged down to Hagrid’s hut, boots scuffing against the dew-slick grass. His muscles ached from a complimentary Friday night detention with Snape, where he’d spent two hours hauling cauldrons that felt like they’d been filled with lead. To top it off, he couldn’t help but feel the acid of worry eating away at his insides.

The first week of classes, Harry had hung out in the back as Hagrid introduced a hippogriff to the class. The tall birdlike creature had been regal in stature, and had made Harry’s headache flare with memories of non-broomed flight. Hagrid had called on Neville to give the class the proper meet and greet form for the beast before spending the rest of class as well as the second session going over proper care.

This week, classes had been on doxys; a small creature that ‘resembled a fairy’. Harry hadn’t noticed much of a resemblance, the small creature having an extra set of legs, large eyes, and covered in black fur. Quite vicious; Lavender Brown, Goyle and Zabini had been sent to the nurse for bleeding doxy bites. Hagrid had gone over care and non-leathal removal, teaching the class Flipendo, the knockback jinx. 

Two weeks with the large professor, and not once had Hagrid acknowledged Harry.

Now Harry gathered his courage; Hagrid was the first person who’d ever shown Harry kindness. If he didn’t want to be friends anymore- Harry stopped that train of thought, knowing the heartbreak would turn him into a sobbing mess on the front step. Raising his fist, he rapped soundly on the large door and waited. 

He could hear fang barking inside the structure as well as the shushes when Hagrid attempted to quiet the mastiff before the door swung open with its usual groan, revealing Hagrid’s broad frame silhouetted in the doorway. Fang barreled forward but skidded to a halt at Harry’s feet, sniffing him with frantic enthusiasm before pressing a drool-heavy head against his leg.

Hagrid looked down at him with eyes crinkling under his wild brows, though there was a hesitation there too, a wrinkle of guilt buried in his usual cheer. Harry wished a large hole would fall out underneath him and swallow him.

“‘Arry,” he said at last, voice gruff but softer than usual. “Wasn’t expectin’ yeh.”

Harry gave a forced smile and reached down to scratch behind Fang’s ears, waiting for the man to reject him. “Didn’t mean to ambush you. I just figured… we haven’t talked.”

Instead, Hagrid stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in, come in.” He gave the room a nervous glance as Harry stepped over the threshold. “Reckon I should’ve grabbed you after class or somethin’. Jus’… well, I wasn’t sure yeh’d want to come ‘round anymore.”

Harry blinked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Hagrid turned, setting the kettle on the fire haphazardly before shuffling around the room. “Because of… y’know. Slytherin.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. Of all the reactions he’d expected from Hagrid; cold indifference, anger, or even outright rejection… he hadn’t expected his friend to think Harry was ashamed of him. That was what contoured the worried lines in his face, Harry recognized. 

“You thought I didn’t want to be your friend anymore because I got sorted differently?”

Hagrid shifted, his shoulders rising and falling beneath his moleskin coat. “Not ‘cause I wanted to think it. Just… folks talk. Say things. I know them Slytherin’s aren’t the kindest folks. Thought maybe yeh wouldn’t want ter be seen round me no more, like you’d outgrown me or somethin’.”

Harry stepped closer to Hagrid, all of his earlier doubts disappearing. “I don’t care what house I’m in. You’re still Hagrid. You didn’t change.”

There was a pause as Hagrid busied himself pouring tea into mismatched mugs, one of which had definitely been glued back together more than once. “Neither did you, then?”

Harry took the offered cup and gave him a genuine smile. “Nope. Still me.” He lied, “Just greener.” That earned a laugh from Hagrid, a deep, booming sound that made Fang bark again and Harry’s chest feel lighter than it had in days.

“Good,” Hagrid said finally, eyes misting a bit behind his beard. “’Cause I missed yeh, yeh know.”

“Me too,” Harry said, and meant it. They spent the next several hours visiting about their summers. Hagrid had been shocked to learn that Harry had spent a portion of his summer in Diagon Alley, while Harry listened with horrified fascination to stories on the drama among the Acromantulas. 

Eventually, Harry remembered a mental note he’d made several weeks back. “Uh, Hagrid?”

“Mmm?” 

The large man was munching on one of his rock cakes, seated in his large chair by the fire. Harry clasped a large mug steaming between his hands, the handle long gone. He stared into the liquid as he asked. “Someone mentioned something about my parent’s friends… who were they?”

“Eh, your parents?” Hagrid seemed to contemplate the question, stroking his bushy beard free of crumbs. “They ‘ere friends with many folks. But I suppose, who ever you’ve been talkin’ with meant your Dad’s friends. Thick as thieves, them boys. Here…” He stood and walked into the back room. Harry could hear a bit of banging, followed by the crash of something glass, the chirp of something quite alive that Harry didn’t want to think about and a hushed curse before Hagrid reappeared, a slip of paper between his fingers. He promptly held it out to Harry, who gazed at it, more questions than answers arising. 

It was a photo, magically moving. His parents were smiling brightly as James stood quite smartly in a cream and gold kurta, Lily in a bright white wedding dress that clung luxuriously to every curve, her hands showcasing weaving henna designs that matched her fiery hair. At his fathers side stood three men; the first, dark long hair and laughing eyes slapped his dad on the back cheerfully. Sirius Black. The second held up two fingers behind the first’s head, bunny ears held by scarred hands. He was thin, nearly sickly with light brown hair and a scarred face. Remus Lupin. The last man was smaller, with wispy blond hair and a tentative smile as he gazed fearfully at the photographer. Harry flipped the photo over to read the elegant scroll.

Lily & James’s wedding, Sirius, Remus, and Peter.  

Peter Pettigrew.

“The person I talked to… said they and their friends weren't all that they seemed. What do you think they could have meant by that?”

“Not sure, but Professor Lupin would be more than happy to talk to ya.” A bone crushing hug punctuated the end of the visit; by the time Harry left he was much happier than when he’d awoken and felt as if a missing piece had been put back in its proper place. Even though none of his questions had been solved, he now had a new picture of his parents to add to the small collection he kept in his trunk.

Halfway up to the castle, Harry was shocked to see a very out of breath Zabini running in his direction. He was half tempted to look over his shoulder to see who the boy was after, but was even more shocked when he slid to a stop in front of him. Half bent holding a stitch in his side with one hand, the other holding up a finger in pause while he caught his breath. Harry looked around fearfully, because truly, the world had to be ending for a Slytherin to be searching him out.

“You're- needed- ugh-” the boy groaned before taking a deep breath, straightening and starting again, “you're needed at the pitch.” This news did make Harry turn to check behind him earning him an eye roll. “Don't be dense, Potter.” His Italian accent made the words that more biting. He promptly spun away, walking towards the quiddage field. “Come on. Better get going, they were arguing to start without you.” 

After the initial shock, Harry jogged quickly to close the distance between himself and Blaise Zabini. The other boy was taller, handsome with caramel skin that spoke of many days spent in the sun. His hair was cut short and he walked with a laid back confidence. Harry shook his head, frowning at his thoughts as they made their way down to the grassy field where the Slytherin team stood.

Marcus Flint, the only seventh year, wasn’t nearly as scary up close as he had been the previous year. Peregrine Derrick and Lucian Bole, the two sixth years, stood with their beater bats propped over their shoulders laughing. There was also a fifth year Miles Bletchley, their keeper, and Cassius Warrington a fourth year chaser, as well as Draco Malfoy who stood among the group looking bored. The group's now graduated chaser was absent.

“Took ya long enough, Potter.” Flint spotted them, walking forward with a green and silver uniform clasped in his hand. “Here, try this on.” he shoved the fabric into Harry’s hands.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not sure what's going on?” He did as bid, slipping the jersey over his head, struggling slightly as it caught on his glasses. He tried not to pay attention to the snickering as he righted himself, the jersey fitting perfectly over the top of his shirt. 

Flint grinned at him, not unpleasantly; Harry had always thought the crooked teeth made him look menacing, but there was no malice in his gaze as he patted the younger boy on the back. “Our new seeker!” He announced to the group, who whooped good naturedly.

Harry knew his jaw would have been in the grass if it could. Several moments of silence followed by Zabini elbowing him roughly in the side to jar him from his stupor. “But, but- isn’t Malfoy seeker?” He asked dumbly, his mind going so fast and yet so slow. He prepared himself for the backlash that was about to hit him from the blond, surely Draco would be as shocked as me about being replaced. But the explosion never came. Instead Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“I’m a better seeker than you, yes Potter. But unfortunately, since Gabbott graduated last year, we are in need of another chaser. A position I am quite comfortable playing, whereas you…” Grey eyes traveled the length of Harry’s body before landing on his face. There was a minute flinch before he looked away, the pained look not going unnoticed by Harry, but was quickly replaced by a wicked grin breaking across his face as he laughed. “Well, need I say more?”

“Now now, enough of that.” Warrington clapped a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder with a laugh. He met Harry’s confused look with a smirk. “The ‘Puffs might have cornered the market on loyalty, but when you wear that uniform, you’re on this team; treated just like the rest of us.”

“Right so,” Flint clapped his hands together, gathering everyone's attention. “Now that that's settled, let's get this practice underway.”

***

And that was how Harry found himself pinned between Warrington and Bole at dinner every day for a week straight following Saturday's practice. The team sat together and discussed quidditch tactics, which slowly morphed into debates about national teams, and was now Bole and Derrick arguing heatedly about the chances of Ireland getting into the world cup next year. The rest of the team had bowed out temporarily in favor of food; Flint was carving a massive hunk of roast beef, while Bletchley tried to summon more treacle tart without alerting a hovering prefect. Harry picked lightly at his mashed potatoes, more interested in listening than eating. It was simply the calm before they all were also dragged into the argument and took the appropriate side.

Appropriate side indeed , Harry mused. With every discussion eventually turning into an argument by the end of dinner, he had noticed an interesting pattern. When it came time to choose sides, the group always split down the middle. Harry, still unsure if he was really allowed to join in, usually stayed quiet. And then, without fail, someone would roll their eyes, mutter, “ We’re not curing dragon pox, move on, ” and the tension would break like a charm wearing off. When this had happened a few nights ago, during a conversation on Harpies vs Cannons, Harry had asked Flint after dinner why he was such a big Harpies fan. Flint had looked him dead in the eye and replied, “I’m not.” and had left Harry to contemplate the implications. 

Maybe it was a team strategy; keep the field even so no one got isolated. A kind of balance. In Gryffindor, when someone had an unpopular opinion, they were mocked until they either caved or stopped talking. Even now, no one had made the slightest attempt to bury the hatchet with him or Hermione, who were the odd ones out. But here in Slytherin, it was like they intentionally avoided ganging up on anyone.

Wonder if that's why the house's more stupid ideologies persisted . Harry hadn’t been confronted with the M word by any students yet, but he knew they wouldn’t have changed their opinions on muggle borns just because he and Hermione had entered their nest. He knew it was only a matter of time until it reared its ugly head. But over all, he couldn’t fault them for keeping inhouse bullying to a minimum with the tactic.

He flexed his shoulders, listening to the chatter. He knew he had a stupid smile on his face, but was happy to be stiff from the three days of practice they had had this week. Flint had really put him through his paces, but Harry had found the training to be well rounded even for the one off seeker position. In previous years, no matter how hard Oliver Wood had tried, most of his efforts had been aimed at the chasers and beaters. This was simply because there were more of them, and they tended to work in conjunction. Oliver, as the keeper, was able to design his own training outside of scheduled practices, which left Harry day dreaming in the sky more often than not.

While he previously might have disliked the structure, Harry found that with the concentration the memories had brought on a new feeling of motivation. He had happily risen to every challenge Flint tossed at him. While it hadn’t necessarily won him any points with Malfoy, the rest of the team had included him in their ‘good practice’ back slaps. 

On his way back to the dungeons after dinner Friday night, Harry felt two sets of strong fingers wrap around his arms, dragging him quickly into the darkened alcove behind one of the tapestries. He threw an instinctual elbow to the left, earning a satisfying grunt of pain and freeing his arm to spin around on the right with his fist raised-

“Oi Oi! Scrappy little snake you've become Harrikins!” Fred held up his hands in surrender and George wheezed on the ground beside him.

He looked down at his hands, wondering where he’d learned something like that. “Um, I guess. What are you two doing?” He eyed them cautiously. Or as cautiously as he could while fighting the overwhelming longing to hug Fred, spurred on by another headache. Both boys grinned at him mischievously as Harry helped George to his feet. 

“Just checking on our scaly brother is all-”

“And can’t we visit our favorite turncoat?”

“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been eaten alive by your new roommates.”

“Or hexed into a toad.”

“Or sacrificed in a ritual.”

“That was one time,” George muttered.

“Especially since he’s back on a broom-”

“Joined the rival quidditch team-”

“Very dangerous, Harrikins-”

He held up a hand to stop their monologue ( Is it a monologue if two people are talking? ) “What, should I have given up quidditch just because I’m no longer a Gryffindor?” Harry crossed his arms over his chest, finally voicing his own doubts that had had him guilt ridden for the last week. All his new feelings didn't help the blame and disgust he felt towards himself for leaving Gryffindor, and those feelings quadrupled when he thought of his old team. He knew they probably hated him, but he figured that joining the slytherin team would break the camel’s back in this instance. 

“Not at all,” Fred said gently. “You gotta play. We’d have chained you to a broom ourselves if you didn’t.”

“Players are traded in leagues all the time-” 

“But losing his best seeker to the good ol’ green and silver, Oliver will be heartbroken-”

“Heartbreak is when everyone who you thought were your friends disown you because of your house.” Harry interrupted, his voice raising as his temper flared. “To hear them scream traitor across the halls and to feel afraid to walk alone in the place that's supposed to be home. That is heartbreak.” His gaze hardened, holding on tight to the anger for fear he'd make a fool of himself and start crying.

The twins exchanged a look, their expressions shocked, before rushing forward to wrap Harry in a tight hug. “Yes it is, little brother. And whatever the reason you both decided to switch houses-” 

“We know it must have taken a lot of courage.” 

Harry finally exhaled the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a little bit of the tension he'd been nursing for weeks easing under their warm embrace. After a few moments, they finally let him go. “Now want to tell us about it?”

“I-” He paused, trying to sort himself out, “I want to, but I can't.”

“Very well-”

“We won't pry.”

Harry wasn't sure what to make of the two Gryffindor tricksters, “We're not blood, and I'm no longer a Gryffindor, why are you both being so nice to me? I figured I'd see the brunt of your pranks this year.”

George leaned in till his forehead brushed Harry’s, his voice going low and quiet. “I know better than most what it's like to be a snake in lion’s clothing.”

“You?” Surprise shot through Harry; while not the most Gryffindor-esque, he'd never doubted the twins' place in their house. But then, he hadn’t thought anyone would have second guessed the sorting hat before this year. And the hat had hinted at others who had picked a house instead of letting the hat sort them properly.

“That's why we don't discriminate-” 

“We prank everyone.” They both grinned mischievously, “Except for Snape, we don't have a death wish.”

“But dear Harrikins, you’re a brother to us, never doubt that-”

“Even if you and little Ron have had a falling out.”

Harry didn't know what to say, but warmth washed over him as gazed at the earnestness in their expressions. He decided on a rather lame, “Thanks guys, really.” 

“Come now, don't go getting emotional.” Fred teased.

“Never,” He grinned, “but is there a reason you two decided to kidnap me?”

“Well, um, yes, that is-” Fred’s freckled complexion started turning red as he seemed to fumble over his words. “I was, we were-”

George rolled his eyes, “What my most eloquent brother is trying to say is, since you’re able to get into the dungeons, we were hoping you could pass a note to Sadie Baldock?”

Harry chuckled, “A love note?”

“It’s not a love note,” Fred said with a scandalized look. “It’s… an expression of admiration , thank you very much.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” Harry teased, but nodded his consent and quickly tucked the note into his robes. After a quick farewell he slipped back into the now empty hallway and continued to journey down into the dorms.

Sadie had not been amused by Harry playing owl. As he’d approached her and two other Slytherin fifth years sitting in the common room, her golden fringe dropping into her eyes as a blush crept up her cheeks, she’d quickly snatched the note from him with a crisp, “don’t do that again”. 

That didn't stop her from discreetly passing him back a reply the next day.

***

What better way to spend the week of midterms than to practice sketchy spells and befriend merfolk? Honestly, Harry preferred both options over dwelling on his own emotional rollercoaster. Sure, he diligently studied alongside Hermione, which had earned him more than one bullying comment from Ron and his posse. Luckily, without Hermione’s nagging, it would have taken some force of great magic to convince the third-year Weasley to study in the library. And so the duo were able to avoid him easily.

The only problem was the boredom.

He was acing everything. Defense Against the Dark Arts felt like second nature now, and even Snape, though still sour-faced and unimpressed, had stopped sneering quite so viciously during Potions. After Slytherin's decisive win against Ravenclaw, where Harry had caught the Snitch cleanly and early, he’d earned a rare nod of approval from Draco and a round of handshakes from the rest of the team. It had been thrilling, yes, but fleeting. Victory didn’t keep his hands busy, or stop his mind from wandering, unwanted emotions and memories eating at his sanity.

Which was how Harry found himself wrapped in his cloak, trudging down the slope toward the lake with his wand tucked into his sleeve and a satchel of close to twenty old books shrunk down and bouncing against his hip.

The October wind had sharp teeth. It tugged at his hair and bit through the fabric of his cloak, but he relished the cold. It reminded him he was alive, awake, present. The sky hung low with pale gray clouds, casting the lake in hues of pewter and blue-green. The Forbidden Forest loomed behind him, quiet but watchful. Fallen leaves crunched under his boots as he reached the rocky edge of the shore and scanned the still water.

He’d meant to try out a few new spells in private, maybe a Shield Charm variant or some conjuration- to banishment- to re-conjuration that the sixth years tended to learn in Transfiguration with McGonagall. But as he knelt in the fallen leaves and set his satchel down, something tugged at the edge of his awareness. He turned to look out over the still lake, expecting a large eye or tentacle from the squid to be peaking up from the eerie black.

The surface of the lake rippled not from wind or a wayward cephalopod, but quick movements close to shore. Not fish, either. Something was watching him. Harry narrowed his eyes. Just beneath the glassy surface, three pairs of yellow, unblinking eyes stared back at him.

Merfolk.

They floated a few feet down, pale green skin dappled with lake moss and long silver-green hair waving like banners underwater. They didn’t look particularly threatening, but neither did they move away. One tilted their head.

Harry’s heartbeat quickened, a touch of fear in the presence of known predatory magical creatures. But also out of embarrassment; he hadn’t expected an audience. He sat back on his heels, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look; a half-frozen wizard boy, wrapped in his emerald wool cloak, wand half-out, gaping like a first-year. Then his fingers tightened around the wand.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, pulling a thin, age-warped book from his satchel. “Let’s give it a go.”

The spell was old and likely half-forgotten. Hermione had scoffed at it when she saw the footnote in Magical Linguistics and Lost Tongues, claiming it was experimental and only sometimes worked. But the book had enticed him with his inclination towards parseltongue, and so he’d been skimming it in his free time. And any spell that sometimes worked was better than never, he thought ruefully. 

Harry stood, pointed his wand gently at the water, and spoke clearly, “ Lingua loqui. ”

A faint shimmer lit the tip of his wand. The spell sank into the lake like a droplet of ink into parchment as it rippled outward in a pale, pearlescent wave. It didn’t go far, not touching the merfolk who were several meters away, but it continued to glisten as Harry waited expectantly with bated breath.

The merfolk stirred. One blinked. Another swam closer, just enough for Harry to make out its flat nose and a curious expression. It entered the magical field, looking at him as one would a bug under a microscope.

He swallowed nervously. “Can you… understand me?” The words came out in English, but in the water, something mirrored them. He could hear it from the surface, like an echo that didn’t sound like his own voice at all. It was lower, melodic, and foreign.

To his shock, the nearest mermaid responded. It wasn’t perfect. The sounds were distorted, and the cadence strange, but the meaning shimmered behind her words like magic itself. “ Child of the land. Why do you call us? ”

Harry blinked, before barking out a laugh, startled. “I wasn’t expecting a response, honestly.”

“ Few speak with purpose. Most throw stones. ” Their tone was clipped, but not unfriendly.

He lowered his wand slightly. He wondered at the creature in front of him. He knew merfolk, like centares, goblins and veela, were intelligent beings with cultures, societies and… magic. Their own magics that were not written in any book. An idea nagged at him, and he put it into words with a small prayer that he wouldn’t insult the aquatic person before him. “I want to learn. Understand. Maybe even befriend.”

The three merfolk exchanged a long look that he couldn’t hope to interpret. Then the one who had spoken turned back.

“ Return at dark, when the moon reflects on the water. Return with music .” Then they were gone, slipping back into the deep like shadows. Harry stood alone by the lake, wind rustling his hair, heart pounding. He couldn’t believe he’d just had a conversation with a merperson. Not that it’s odd when compared to my list of things I've spoken to, he frowned, remembering brief conversations with snakes. But then his focus turned to their request.

Music? What kind? He doubted they wanted some chortled verses from a Weird Sisters hit. Nor did he think they wanted him casting Cantis on himself, belting out a Christmas carol to fulfill their wish.

He turned to pick up his satchel, grinning despite the cold. Well, that was certainly more interesting than studying. Harry’s boots squelched against the damp earth as he hiked back up from the lake, fingers stiff with cold and mind racing faster than his legs could carry him.

Music. That was what they had asked for. Not parchment. Not potions. Music.

He’d half-expected them to vanish entirely, or worse, tempt him into the lake and drown him. Instead, they had spoken. Clear as day. Not in English, exactly, but in something beneath the language. A resonance that settled in his bones and rang with a strange familiarity. He couldn't shake the sense that he'd tapped into something older than any spell book. 

Slipping past the common room and into his dorm, he pulled a battered tome from the bottom of his satchel. Not the linguistic one. The other one, the one he'd snuck out of the Restricted Section last week under the guise of “independent study.” Its cracked spine read: Echoes of the First Tongue: Origins of Pre-Wand Magic . Much like the linguistics book, he had been drawn to it in hopes of learning more about parseltongue and where he may have picked up the unique trait.

He flipped past pages of faded ink and intricate diagrams until he found the section he vaguely remembered: "Magicka Vocalis: The Singing Spellcraft."

His eyes skimmed the first few paragraphs. According to the text, long before the advent of wands or Latin incantations, magic had been shaped by sound . Not words per se, but tones and rhythms . Vibrations of the earth, the rustle of wind through trees, the cries of beasts, and the rise and fall of water. Early witches and wizards hadn’t spoken spells. They sang them.

However, human language, especially structured language, had never made a good conduit for that kind of magic. Too rigid. Too full of ego. So as civilization grew, and control became the goal, the wand had been developed as an external focus to shape raw internal magic rather than the natural magics of the landscape. Language became a scaffolding to support the force of will from inside a wizard. Safer, cleaner, and oftentimes weaker.

As Harry read, a dawning of understanding had his mind racing; this was where the tones and cadence became particularly important in spell craft theory. This is why it's leviOsa, not levioSA. The emphasis on a specific sound helped guide the magic in practice. It was also what made wordless magic so difficult, and wandless magic nearly impossible for all but the most powerful of magus; no words meant no support and no wand meant no focus.

Harry ran his thumb along the edge of the page where the author mentioned some of the creatures said to have taught early magical songs to humanity: Merfolk, Serpents, Dragons, and Phoenixes . Each had their own types of songs and music. Similarly, they each had their own version of wild, beautiful, dangerous magics. Most wizards couldn’t replicate them, though it was noted that very few had tried.

But some listened. Some learned.

Harry let his mind wander as he stared into the glittering lake window that took up the entire wall of their dorm room. The merperson hadn’t asked for a wand or a spell. They’d asked for music. That wasn't a coincidence.

After dinner, the common room was quieter than usual. Most of the first and second-years had vanished into corners to cram last-minute revisions for midterms, their faces bathed in green firelight and anxiety. A few older students traded chocolate frogs over a game of Exploding Snap, and somewhere near the hearth, someone was plucking a harp with languid fingers. Not well, but not terribly either.

Harry sat curled up in the high-backed chair he’d claimed as his own over the last month, one leg pulled beneath him, chin resting on his fist. His Transfiguration revisions for tomorrow's midterm were open in his lap, ink still drying, but he wasn’t reading them.

He was humming. Softly. Aimlessly.

The melody came without effort, slipping past his lips like breath, like memory. It wasn’t from a song he recognized, not one he could name. It didn’t belong to the wizarding wireless or the Hogwarts choir. It came from… somewhere else. Something old and formless. Like he’d known it before he’d known words. A tune passed to him in sleep or carried in the hush between raindrops. He didn’t even notice when Draco dropped into the seat beside him until the other boy leaned in, smirking.

“Planning to serenade the Giant Squid, Potter?”

Harry blinked, a smirk forming in amusement at how close to the truth the blond had actually gotten with his taunt. “What?”

“That noise,” Draco said, twirling his wand between elegant fingers. “It’s either an obscure dying whale song or a very moody ballad. Should I be concerned?”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t stop humming. “It’s not for you.”

“Tragic,” Draco sighed, reclining with dramatic flair. “Here I was hoping for a love song.”

That got a small snort out of Harry, and even Draco looked vaguely pleased with himself for a moment. He didn’t push further, though, just glanced sideways at Harry; curious but not unkind. Eventually the blond moved back to join Blaise in a game of wizard chess, and Harry’s tune dwindled. As he let it taper off into silence, his head tipping back to stare at the vaulted stone ceiling.

He had no idea where that song had come from. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t even fully formed. But there was something… magnetic about it. Like it had been waiting for him to remember.

He reached for his notes and scribbled the rhythm down with rough marks and trailing lines. Not in any proper notation; he was sure Professor Navarro who diligently taught the music elective would be appalled. But his scribbles were just enough to trace the rise and fall of sound. Enough to take with him when he returned to the lake.

The mermaid had asked for music, maybe this would be enough.

Several hours after curfew, the lake was still as glass when Harry returned, the moon casting its light on the surface in veins of silver. The cold was biting, his breath wisping in front of his face. Frost covered the littered leaves, which reflected as glittering outlines under the waxing gibbous. His fingers were stiff as he plucked the crumpled parchment of his melody from his pocket by the lakeside. He walked to the water’s edge, boots crunching softly in the frost-kissed grass, and stopped just shy of the lapping ripples. The air smelled of moss and night and something faintly metallic.

They were already waiting.

Not just the three from before. There were more now; eight, maybe ten, their pale heads breaking the surface at odd intervals, yellow eyes catching what little light the moon offered. None spoke. They floated like driftwood, like predators mid-stalk, watching.

Harry swallowed and crouched, pulling his wand from his sleeve to cast the translator spell into the water. In the darkness, it cast a faint white glow upon its bubbled area, lighting up the merperson who promptly swam into the circle. He held still for a moment, parchment clutched in his hand like a talisman. Then shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began to hum.

The song came easier this time. The notes trembled at first, then steadied, flowing from him as though the lake itself had wound through his lungs. A low, strange tune; not pretty, not in his voice, but deep and haunting. Older than he was. Older than words. The melody tangled with the air and coiled out across the surface.

And then the lake… responded.

One of the merfolk surged upward, not the one in the bubble.

It rose higher than any he’d seen before, and Harry staggered back a step as its face cleared the water. Sharper and broader than he'd imagined. Its mouth parted in something like a grin, though the rows of jagged, pointed teeth killed any notion of warmth. Its eyes were ancient. Glassy. Full of secrets and cruelty.

Then it sang.

Harry flinched. The sound hit like a blade to the mind; high, shrieking, an ugly scrape across the inside of his skull. He gasped and clutched his ears. Pain flared behind his eyes.

The creature slid back beneath the surface with a hiss of bubbles, and the noise stopped. Harry was left panting, kneeling at the shoreline. A voice came, not aloud, but vibrating through his translation spell like a ripple inside his bones.

" Duck your head into the water, land-child."

He hesitated, heart hammering. “Will you attack me?”

They paused, head bobbing in the water before the soft reply, "No, tiny bird. You bring a song. "

That gave him little comfort. Still… the pull was there. The same tug he’d felt in the music. A thread of something vast and wild and unspoken. Harry crouched again. His breath trembled as he leaned forward and pressed his face toward the surface.

Cold rushed over him as he dipped beneath, instantly slowing his heart beat. It was chilly, almost painful, and he just barely kept from gasping. 

Everything changed.

Sound exploded around him in layers of harmony and rhythm, impossible melodies cascading and folding over each other in waves. The lake was alive with it. Voices not like human ones, but music: clicking, pulsing, sonorous vibrations that trembled against his skin. Soaking into him like a warming charm. He felt the magic vibrating with the ebb and flow of the sounds.

Through his pores. Through his bones. Through the spaces between thoughts.

Harry’s eyes widened as he looked out under the surface of the lake, the murky bodies gliding to and fro under the moonlight. He wasn’t breathing, but he wasn’t drowning either. He could feel magic in the sound, not summoned from within, but drawn from the deep places of the world. It didn’t obey. It invited. It remembered.

It was music made not for humans and yet something in him responded. In that moment, he knew: This was old magic. Before Hogwarts. Before wizards. Before language touched the human tongue. And somehow, it wanted him to listen.

Chapter Text

Harry sighed, stretching his arms over his head as he contemplated what to do next. He was alone in the quiet of the library’s back sections attempting to get ahead on homework and trying to avoid the Halloween festivities. It had never been his favorite day of the year, but since everything this last summer, he had a new found hatred for the holiday. Future me had a lot of anger towards a lot of things, he mused, flipping through his herbology textbook.

Instead of going down with the rest of the students for a candy-filled feast, he’d parked himself in the most secluded section he could find to avoid the wayward Ravenclaw or horny couples that dotted the aisles. Hermione had promised to come find him when she finished dinner to go over their charms homework, and he was eager to confide in her about his music. 

The notebook in front of him was slowly filling with rough transcriptions; scraps of melody and strange, looping phrases made of sounds that had no meaning in English but made his fingertips tingle when he wrote them. Learning this kind of magic wasn’t easy. It demanded a kind of listening that didn’t rely on ears, and half the time he was gasping for air at the edge of the lake, teeth chattering from cold and effort. He couldn’t breathe underwater, and they wouldn’t let him use spells to help. They said he’d learn to breathe when he learned the songs.

Despite the threat of drowning, something about it calmed the constant pressure in his head. The painful pounding of memories inside his mind subsided, the tightness behind his eyes, even the endless emotions. It all eased when he immersed himself in the merfolk’s music. More than that… it lit something in him. Magic stirred under his skin when he practiced. Stronger, stranger than before. As if this kind of magic didn’t just use power, it fed it. He knew Hermione would find it as fascinating as he did, even if he wasn’t quite sure how to work it yet. 

Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice anyone had found him until there was a small cough from the end of the aisle. Harry looked up, blinking. At the end of the aisle stood Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass, staring at him with frowns on their faces. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said, sounding far too casual.

Harry stared at him. “Malfoy.” Despite being on the same quidditch team, living in the same dorm room and being in the same house, they had only exchanged a handful of sentences in the last two months, with the exchange about his humming being the most pleasant. He knew Malfoy still thought him pretentious, only because he’d overheard him in the hall a few days ago. Which was fine, since Harry still thought Malfoy was a prick, despite the memories saying otherwise.

While Harry had hoped to give him the benefit of the doubt at the beginning of the semester, all generous thoughts had faded each time he’d step in between the blond’s stinging hex and an unsuspecting Gryffindor. The red and gold never knew the difference, but Draco would simply roll his eyes before moving on. Harry turned the other cheek.

Greengrass glanced at Draco with a faintly annoyed expression, then turned her gaze to Harry, unimpressed. Neither of them moved any closer. I wonder if she was expecting a romantic rendezvous, Harry mused. There were very few reasons to visit these library sections on a holiday night, and he was pretty sure he was the only one still present whose motive was PG.

“Are you hiding back here?” Draco asked, taking a slow step forward. “Thought you'd be at the feast. It’s Halloween, after all.”

Harry frowned, not sure where he was going with that line. “The library's quieter.”

Draco hummed like that was an interesting philosophical point. “Suppose that’s true. Not much company, though.” He glanced at the empty chair across from Harry. “Expecting Granger?”

He shrugged but didn’t answer, instead watching the couple closely. Greengrass gave an impatient sigh. “He’s not biting.”

Draco ignored her. “Look, I just thought-” He faltered slightly, then smoothed his voice over. “You’ve been rather lonely looking as of late. It’s starting to get pathetic to watch, so I thought we might have a friendly chat. About… I don’t know. Quidditch?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, truly curious now. “You think we’re going to have a friendly chat about Quidditch.”

Draco shrugged, smiling tightly. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Name one,” Harry looked him straight in the eyes.

For a moment, the air between them was tense, uncertain. Slowly, Draco’s smile cracked, the dark rings under his eyes becoming more prominent in the flickering candlelight. “You know what? Forget it. Should’ve figured you’d be too much of a basket case to hold a normal conversation.”

“Draco,” Greengrass said under her breath, already turning away.

But he wasn’t done, taking two more steps towards the table. “Honestly, Potter, for someone who’s so famous, you’re shockingly bad at people. Maybe that’s why you’re always alone.”

Harry stood up slowly, his chair scraping the floor. “You done?”

Draco held his ground, but the smirk was gone. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’m done.” He turned sharply and stalked off. Greengrass gave Harry one last bored look before following.

Harry stayed standing for a few moments after they’d gone, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t quite name. There was something strange about the whole thing, almost as if Malfoy had been wearing a mask two sizes too small, and it had cracked at the edges.

He sat back down, but all thoughts on homework and music were gone. The herbology book still lay open in front of him, but the words didn’t look quite the same anymore. Instead his mind thrummed with the thought of interhouse politics. 

Malfoy was right, he’d always been bad at people. The magical community made him feel uncomfortable, praising him as a hero for things he couldn’t even remember. The muggle world was the opposite end of the spectrum, with little to no attention paid to him at all, he had no real reference point on how to talk to people or make friends. But surely that hadn’t been him attempting to be my friend? He replayed the conversation over in his head. 

Certain he couldn't concentrate anymore, and definitely couldn't go back to the common room, Harry decided to go for a walk to clear his head. Gathering his things into his bag, he wrote an apology to Hermione and grinned happily when the new charm he'd learned turned the slip of paper into an origami crane that fluttered off to find the witch. Next he pulled his invisibility cloak from the depths of his bag, unfolding the fabric and wrapping it around himself before departing the library.

Dinner was still in full swing and the halls were quiet. Left, right, left; Harry turned without much thought of where he was going as he was trying to piece together some sort of plan for the future. He knew his magic was getting stronger, but not as quickly as he thought it should be. He was doing well in his classes, excelling in everything except potions. But with no end, he wasn't sure what to focus on. His new found music was calming, but what use did he have for a magic he could only perform underwater. He only knew that he didn't want the same future that the memories had come from-

He pulled up short. The hood of his cloak slipping from his face in shock.

He found himself in the hall leading to the Gryffindor tower, a large black dog stopped in his path. The memories bombarded him anew, the wanted man, slipping through a dark veil, a gut wrenching mourning that had him on his knees in an instant, hood falling back. Tears streamed down his face as the word “Padfoot” slipped unconsciously from his lips.

The dog turned, cocking its head as if it couldn't believe what it had just heard. It's ears were pinned back, and its stance shifted into a weary crouch as Harry attempted to collect himself. He had no clue where the name had come from. He did know he should probably be running in the opposite direction; this was his grim after all, at least if Divination was to be believed. And the mangy black beast was definitely connected to the man who was out to kill him. All that in mind, he knew he would love it, and had loved it. And somewhere deep inside him wherever his future self sat in his subconscious, still loved it and the man from the posters. So Harry reached out his hands from the cloak, palms flat and empty.

This gave the dog pause, as it looked into his face. It gave a small sniff before approaching cautiously, smelling his outstretched hands. A small whimper escaped the beast before it gave in, laying it's muzzle into his outstretched palm. It was sweet, the dog closing it's eyes with a tired sigh, and Harry gave it a scratch behind the ear as he waited for his own emotional fiasco to subside.

Tears drying, Harry knew he needed to get the dog out of the hallway before someone caught him. This was not an approved owl, cat, or toad. 

“Come, come on, huh? Boy?” He couldn't tell through the mass of fur, but decided to take a guess. The dog gave a sneeze response that Harry assumed was a ‘duh’. Standing, Harry chuckled, deciding to slip his cloak back into his bag which left him in his favorite sweater and black uniform pants. He tried to remember where the nearest empty classroom was, and wandered through the halls for a minute with the dog trotting along his side. 

He eventually found an old classroom that had been the home of Conjurations classes fifty-some years ago. No longer a subject taught at Hogwarts, the abandoned room was dusty. Extra desks and chairs were stacked against the wall, and the chalkboard had decades of signatures graffitied on its surface. 

“This should do,” Harry looked around, pulling a chair from the side to transfigure into a dog bed. The large purple pillow he created seemed to amuse the pooch, who's eyes seemed to say ‘ really?’ . 

“At least it's something, beggars can't be choosers.” Harry huffed, trying to think. “You'll be needing something to eat.” His train of thought bubbled out of his mouth. “I'll run down to the dining hall and try to grab a plate. Don't move- please don't move.” He asked nicely, just in case the dog was sensitive to such things. Padfoot ( for that's what the dog had answered to so that would be his name, Harry decided) seemed to give it a long thought before huffing, laying himself down on the pillow.

Nodding, Harry slipped quickly from the room to run down the hall praying that dinner hadn't ended. He was in luck, since it was a holiday night and not yet curfew the tables were still packed with students and food. Unfortunately, that included Malfoy, who noticed him promptly.

“So Potter, finally descending from your podium of superiority to grace us with your presence?” The other boy sneered.

His temper flared, constricting in his chest; but instead of snapping back Harry ignored him, shoving some food onto a plate. He had more important things to focus on than relighting the conversation from earlier. He kept his head down, trying to remember if dogs could eat cookies, but also missed the elbow Nott threw into Draco’s side.

A harsh whispered conversation followed where the blond's complexion became paler than the meandering ghosts. Nott cleared his throat, “Um, everything alright there, uh, Harry?”

Harry paused, as did the rest of the third year Slytherins gathered around this part of the table. Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode had an interesting game that looked like four way chess, set up with candy pieces that were actively trying to stab each other. From the looks of it, the boy’s armies were losing miserably. Nott and Malfoy were on the edge, each with a bowl of ice cream. Feeling awkward at being the center of the six others calculating gazes, Harry gave a clipped nod before escaping out of the dining hall with his plate.

He slowly made his way back to the empty class room, passing students that were taking their time to find their dorms, high on sugar and laughter. He himself was quite pleased with the night's events, no trolls or or giant snakes trying to kill him made for a rather pleasant Halloween. As he entered the classroom, a soft smile spread across his face. Padfoot lay sleeping, curled up around the orange puff of Crookshanks.

***

Theodor Nott was not a boy of many words; He rarely spoke unless spoken to, preferred books to the company of others, and floated through Hogwarts rarely bothered by anything. But where many assumed it was a side effect of a cunning nature, the reality was less fascinating. He was lazy. He would have happily admitted it if anyone ever bothered to ask, but being a slytherin afforded him some eccentricities. 

Now this didn’t mean he wasn’t smart, nor did it mean he couldn’t form his own opinions. He’d simply learned he’d rather not waste the energy voicing them. Especially when voicing them had earned him severe punishments at the wrong end of his fathers wand.

So he watched and listened, but kept Draco’s nightmares to himself. Kept Pansey’s razor blades to himself. Kept Greg’s bad shower poetry to himself. He kept so much to himself for the fact that it would simply take too much energy to talk to anyone else about it. So why was Harry Potter different?

From the start, it had been a shock to everyone when Gryffindor’s Golden Boy had abdicated his throne to live in the dungeons. If that had been his intention being resorted, it was unclear, but the rest of the school had not taken kindly to it. And still Theo had watched, watched the dark haired boy pick himself up jinx after jinx, watched him grit his teeth against every insult, and watched him for the last two months adapt to a new life in the dark.

The rest of Slytherin watched too, cautiously biding their time to determine if the boy who lived would be friend or foe. Not that Theo had cared, he was simply bored of watching everyone else. Or that had been his reasoning, until the dumb ass stepped between him and the fifth year Gryffindor. Because, who did something like that ? A Gryffindor would, that's who. The thought as repulsive as the gesture should have been. There was no tact, no cunning in placing yourself in direct danger for someone else… So why had it fascinated him?

Unsure, Theo continued to watch, taking mental notes of the very peculiar being that was Harry Potter. At first he noticed the fires. Geez, why did no one else notice the fires! Sparks to paintings, tapestries, bedding, book bags, parchment, and at one point Seamus Finnigan’s quill. All quickly extinguished; he’d assumed Harry was doing it on purpose, a young pyromaniac in the making. But then he’d found the rage, anger burning in those emerald eyes that hadn’t been there in previous years.

Looking back on their first two years of shared classes, Potter had always seemed like a laid back pawn. A boy whose fame had gone to his head, keeping a close knit group of friends to do his bidding and believed that he was above learning like the rest of them. But there had never been much emotion behind those green eyes.

Now Theo could see there was more to him, and what had changed over the summer had left a very angry boy in its wake. Which he surmised was the cause of the fires, not because he wanted to set them, but because his magic got away from him under such strong emotions. While Theo had read about it, he couldn’t say he’d ever had the problem himself. 

Next he’d noticed the food… or lack thereof. He hadn’t seen Potter eat a full meal all semester, and you could tell. His personal clothing may have been charmed to fit his slight frame, but his uniform hung loosely after two months of barely eating. Is everyone blind? Or did they truly no longer care about the Boy who Lived after he’s ‘forsaken the light’? The thought had sparked Theo’s own anger, because he knew better than anyone that his house wasn’t evil. We’re just… broken. A dark house for those who’ve survived the darkness.

The final straw, however, had been the tears. Something had happened for Harry to walk into the dining hall with salt trails dried to his cheeks. Theo placed the blame squarely on Draco’s shoulders, who had spent the last hour regaling them with ‘Pompus Potter’ after meeting him in the library earlier. But blame wouldn’t fix anything. Hell, talking about it wouldn’t fix anything either… right? But Draco had blurted out some thoughtless line, his own hurt preventing him from seeing Harry’s jaw clench, preventing him from seeing the tears. Hurt people hurt people. But Theo had had enough.

“What are you doing?” Theo hissed through his teeth, elbowing Draco sharply in the ribs.

“Ow, what?” Draco rubbed his side, shock blanketing his sharp features. It was rare that Theo put in his two-cents, so he had Draco’s undivided attention as Potter grabbed a plate.

“You were the one trying to talk to him earlier, remember? All that ‘maybe we could be friends’ tripe?” 

Draco paled; he clearly hadn’t intended for Theo to hear him talking to himself in the bathroom mirror in an attempt to gain confidence for the exchange. “That was…he wasn’t supposed to…”

“Wasn’t supposed to what? Show up at dinner?” Theo’s tone sharpened, low and cutting. “You blew it. Again.” They all remembered first year, Draco had ranted for months about Potter snubbing him for a Weasley.

“I didn’t mean -” Draco’s voice faltered, his eyes darting to the dark haired boy.

“So you thought calling him a self-righteous git in front of the entire table was a good way to fix that?”

Draco looked away, shoulders tight. “He made me look stupid earlier.”

“So you made it worse. Congratulations.” Theo paused, watching Harry, his shoulders hunched and jaw clenched tight. “You don’t see his face, Draco. Something happened. He’s not okay.”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again. The color drained further from his cheeks as if it was only now hitting him. “I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t bother to look . ”

He turned from the blond, making a snap decision. He was lazy, but so was everyone else. No one would ever put the effort in to step between him and his father’s wand. It wasn’t self preservation, it was laziness. No one would ever step between him and a bullies jinx. It wasn’t self preservation, it was laziness.

But Harry Potter had taken that step, just once; so Theo could ask the question, just once. “Um, everything alright there, uh, Harry?”

The nod wasn’t a real answer, but he didn’t think he needed one. Harry left without a word. 

“It’s time for us to talk.” Theo’s voice was low, but everyone listened, each nodding as they rose. Their chess game abandoned, the six slytherins made their way down to their dormitory. 

It was tradition, since year one, that they meet together to discuss anything anyone needed to. Draco had called the most meetings, usually ranting about Potter, but all nine slytherins in their year had taken advantage of calling a meeting at one point or another. It was like a support group for the generation that was too young to trust the darkness blindly, yet too old to really go against it. So they called meetings for study groups, to vent about their problems, or to simply sit by the fire together knowing they weren’t alone. 

Millicent ran ahead to gather the others, and that's how they found themselves in the farthest corner of their common room, an almost full moon glistened through the murky lake to create a greenish-blue light rippling along the castle stone. The group sat on the couches and chairs tucked into the quiet alcove. It was far enough back that they would be undisturbed, and looped around the corner from the main entrance so Harry or Hermione wouldn’t see them if they went to their dorms.

“What’s up?” Blaise grinned, sitting on the arm of one of the leather couches. ”Milli said Theo wants to talk? That’s not like him at all.”

Draco sat stiffly at the edge of a leather armchair across from Theo, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “We need to talk about Potter,” he began, his voice clipped. “He doesn’t belong in our house.”

A pause followed as they weighed their own thoughts. No one spoke immediately.

Blaise finally broke the silence, a dark eyebrow raised in disbelief. “That’s what this is about? You called a war council over Potter? Again?”

“He didn’t call it, Theo did,” Pansy pointed out, glancing at the boy in question. 

“Draco pushed him,” Theo sighed, already regretting putting in the effort; but I won't let it rest on my conscience, knowing what I know. He leaned against the stone wall, arms loose at his sides. “So maybe sit back and let me say my piece.”

Draco looked like he wanted to argue, but Theo pressed on. “I’ve been watching Potter since September. Really watching him. He doesn’t eat. He barely sleeps. He flinches when people come too close. And when he gets mad, really mad, things burn.”

Tracey blinked. “Burn?”

“Spontaneous magic,” Theo said. “I’ve seen him set textbooks, book bags, and quills smoldering without a wand in sight. And it’s not on purpose; it’s his magic reacting to something he’s not controlling.”

“That’s dramatic,” Pansy muttered, pulling her legs up beneath her.

“It’s real ,” Theo shot back, sharper than usual. “He’s not the same person who waltzed through these halls for the last two years draped in red and gold, a spoiled hero living off fame. He’s angry. He’s alone. And he’s surviving.”

“Which proves my point,” Draco snapped. “I tried to befriend him tonight, he wants to be alone. He’s not like us. He doesn’t think like a Slytherin. He’s reckless and emotional. He belongs in Gryffindor where he can play the hero and get everyone else killed in the process.”

“You weren't exactly the most… tactfully,” Daphne murmured, looking as bored as she had in the entire night as she filed her nails, not looking up.

“You mean like how he tried to talk to him, then insulted him in front of everyone?” Millicent asked, her tone flat.

Draco flushed. “I made a mistake.”

“Yeah, you did,” Daphne drawled, before sighing, setting her emery board aside to address them all fully. “But Potter didn’t. He hasn’t hexed you. He hasn’t tattled to Snape or Dumbledore about the cheap shots he takes in the hall every day. He just keeps trying .”

“Trying what?” Crabbe asked, confused.

“Trying not to be hated,” Millicent said quietly. “And we’re making it harder.”

“He's a half -blood. I agree with Draco, neither him nor Granger should be here.” Pansy sneered.

“Oh save it, Pans,” Blaise rolled his eyes, “You know no one here is going to be sneaking back to your parents for you not towing the company line.”

“My opinion doesn't matter. Need I remind you that if any of us are caught being friendly towards them and it gets back to our families…” Her haughty expression shifted to true fear, and all of them understood why. While the Zabini, Davis and Greengrass families were more neutral, they all knew how extreme some families could be when it came to blood purity and who you associate with.

“We play it off, we play the long con,” Theo was quick to cut in, lest his own fear overcome him. “You all know my father is the worst, but if he asks, I've not befriended the boy who lived. I am leading a lamb to slaughter or some other dumb expression that will appease him. Make up an excuse, any excuse.”

“He doesn’t eat,” Tracey repeated, softer now, her gaze becoming distant as she thought back. “I hadn’t noticed. But now that Theo said it…”

“He gave me half his sandwich in Herbology last week,” Daphne murmured. “Said he wasn’t hungry. I thought he was being nice.”

Theo nodded. “It’s more than that. His robes hang off him. He’s cold all the time. I don't know why. Hell, maybe he’s afraid to eat.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Pansy spat. “Why would he be afraid?”

“Because he’s Harry Potter,” Theo replied simply. “And he left Gryffindor.”

Goyle frowned. “He shouldn’t have. That’s what this is about.”

“No,” Theo said. “What this is about is deciding whether we’re going to be the same as everyone else, cursing him for being a snake just like us, or whether we make space for someone who needs it.”

“You’re saying we make him one of us?” Draco said, pulling a disgusted face that had everyone fooled. Everyone except Theo. He’d seen Draco’s reaction in the dining hall, and knew that he was- for whatever reason- attempting to be Harry’s friend earlier that day. Draco was holding up his half of the discussion, but Theo wasn’t sure that he was genuine in his opposition. 

“I’m saying he already is. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Another beat of silence. Draco, Pansy, Crabb and Goyle. Theo, Millicent, Daphne and Tracy. The two sides stared at each other in stalemate.

Then Blaise Zabini sat up from where he’d been lounging back, long legs sprawled over couch cushions. His face was unreadable, but his voice was clear. “If everything he says is true, I think we should give Potter a chance. Theo wouldn't tempt his father's wrath for nothing, and we-” he gestured to the group, “know what it's like to suffer alone. That is why we are so loyal to each other. He would be a good ally to have. Dark, light, families and blood are all superficial to what we are building for our future. Harry plays the long game. He hides his pain. And he hasn’t cursed anyone in retaliation yet, which is more restraint than I’ve ever seen from any of us. It's something we could use.”

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other in confusion. Pansy huffed, but didn’t speak.

Theo blinked, a pleasant warmth growing in his chest. “You’re siding with me?”

Blaise shrugged one shoulder. “He’s not a saint. But he’s not weak either, we've seen that over the last two years. But if he has the guts to claim Slytherin, that makes him one of us. Whether Draco likes it or not.” Blaise slyly referenced the sorting hat: each one of them had been asked, knowing how harshly Slytherin was looked down on by the other houses and the rest of the wizarding community. The hat had told them where they belonged, but hadn’t forced any of them, only asking if they really wished to be sorted into the house of snakes. Each of them had chosen for themselves. And apparently so had Potter and Granger.

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Fine. If this hits the fan, it’s on your head.”

Theo’s gaze didn’t waver. “If anything happens, we’ll handle it. Together.”

A quiet agreement passed between the group. No formal vote was needed, Slytherins didn’t vote. It was simple Arithmancy; odd numbers held all the power. Every argument, disagreement or discussion of any value should always have an odd number of participants. If the odd one out could not be swayed to one side or the other, or abstained for any other reason, then the matter was not considered important and thus was forgotten. But a group always had to be split down the middle to be a true discussion. Slytherins didn't gang up on one another, there was far too much of that coming from outside of their house. But that last person, the one who waited to take a side, held the power. Zabini had been the ‘odd’ number, and so they were in agreement. Not an oath, not a bond, but the silent acknowledgment of a choice made.

Theo stretched and yawned, suddenly exhausted from the effort it had taken. But that didn’t stop the secret pleasure from seeping through his soul. It was far from over, and he was sure there would be bumps, but he hadn’t sat by and he was proud of himself for that. 

None of the young snakes knew how much this would change their future; that for once, Harry Potter wouldn’t have to survive alone.

Chapter Text

The werewolf lesson had been interesting, Snape’s dramatic flare even more so. Harry had spent the lesson wondering if the harsh professor had ever seen one himself, only because of how vehemently he was pushing the need for caution around the ‘dangerous’ creatures. Harry wasn’t so sure a human who was only a beast once a month should be considered a monster, but kept his opinions to himself… not that it had prevented him from earning a detention anyway. He hadn’t needed to read the text, having already finished this text book cover to cover, and had instead started outlining his assignment with quotes from the Snape’s lecture.

“- and that will be another detention, Mr.Potter, for day dreaming.” Pulled Harry’s attention from his work. He heard giggles from Gryffindor’s side, and hushed whispers from the Slytherin side. Harry’s own anger began to boil, and he felt Hermione’s painful grip on his leg, urging him to keep his cool. He gave a nod of acknowledgement, and Snape turned back to teaching.

Hermione slipped him a note, charmed to look like a blank sheet until Harry’s fingers touched the parchment. 

‘ You might look like you’re paying attention if you had the book open.’

Harry rolled his eyes, opening the book to a random page before scribbling a short reply.

‘ I am, I’ve already read it. ’ 

Another pause. He kept working, paying just enough attention so that Snape wouldn’t catch him off guard again. Then another scrap of parchment floated into view, hovering just on the edge of his desk:

‘ Want to meet at the library?’

Harry stared at the note for a moment longer than necessary, heart tight in his chest. He realized then with an ache that took him off guard, he hadn’t talked to Hermione in weeks. Not really. Not without tension curled up around the edges. She had been swamped with her classes, and any time they met was to work on assignments or study. And he’d missed her, the only one who would understand.

He didn’t know if she missed him too, but… maybe they were both a little lonelier than they let on. He continued to seek… Something. Diving head first into his music, his studies, his quidditch practice had worked for a while to fill whatever was driving him these days, but he was starting to feel worse. Anger, guilt, sorrow; emotions seeping from memories and tainting the present. The more he tried the worse it got. Even his music teacher, a merfemale named Zaxila (add a few hisses and bubbles for emphasis), had commented on his melancholy tunes, and how they would only draw him to deeper water and drown him. He needed to stifle these feelings, lock them away somehow. He imagined a bottle in his mind, a tight stopper over everything as he took a deep breath.

He nodded and passed the note back with a small check mark on the bottom.

After defense had been double potions, three hours straight with Snape had nearly been his undoing. Worse still, Snape had taken it upon himself for a new seating arrangement which had displaced all the usual pairing. He hadn’t mixed houses, but Hermione was now paired with Pansy Parkinson, and Harry with Draco. 

Suffice to say, his mood was quite dark by the time they sequestered themselves among the books. They found a table tucked away in the quietest corner past the Muggle studies section and just behind the towering books on magical theory. It had always been their favorite spot in first year. Back when Ron would groan dramatically and Hermione would insist they needed “just five more minutes.”

Harry hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Now the space felt too large. The silence between them even larger. He hadn’t gotten around to telling her about the merfolk, the dog on Halloween, or the problems he was having with himself. There was just too much to put words to. Instead he pulled out the potions assignment, his muscles tense as if he might need to make a run for it.

Hermione was already pulling out a stack of books, but her eyes kept flicking toward him, lips pursed like she was holding back words by sheer force of will. He flipped through the potions text without seeing it, lost in thoughts that had started growing darker by the day. Even the consistent quidditch practices weren’t boosting his mood enough to keep him from feeling as if he was drowning. Every few seconds, he caught her watching him. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

“Harry,” she said softly, “what’s going on with you?”

Harry kept his eyes on the page, his mind's eye on the imaginary bottle. “Nothing.”

“That’s not true. You haven’t been eating. You look like you haven’t slept. You’re… not okay .”

“I’m fine,” he said too sharply, too fast. “Can we not do this right now?”

“I’m trying to help!” Hermione snapped in a whisper, her voice tight with frustration. “But you won’t talk to me, Harry. I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything, why must you always pry?” he muttered, regretting it instantly but too angry and exhausted to take it back. A leaky cork on an imaginary bottle.

“That’s not fair.” Her voice trembled. “We’re in this together. We’re both missing Gryffindor, how things used to be…”

“That’s the thing, Hermione; I’m not!” His voice cracked despite the whisper. “I don’t know where I am anymore. Or who I’m supposed to be. And every time I try to figure it out, it just… It’s so hard having two versions of myself inside.” He cut himself off, breathing hard. Cracked glass on an imaginary bottle.

She stared at him, stunned. “You could’ve told me that.”

“I don’t know how!” He slammed the book shut, startling a few dust motes into the air. “I don’t have the words. Every time I try, it just feels like screaming underwater.” No more seal on his mind’s bottle, and his emotions taking over. Somewhere in another aisle, he heard someone give a yelp, distracting him as he tried to breath.

Hermione's face softened, but the silence stretched, taut and painful. “I wish you’d let me try to help,” she said quietly.

Harry shook his head. “You can’t fix this.”

“I know I can’t fix it. But I could help carry it.” He didn’t answer, knowing she had her own memories to shoulder. More guilt started to grow as he knew he’d said too much, trying harder to put a stopper on everything wrong with him. They fell into silence, each turning to their own work as the gap between them cracked even wider. When he finally left the library, it wasn’t with a sense of relief or clarity. Just another new ache in a growing list of hurts he didn’t know how to explain.

Deciding to check on Padfoot after his disastrous study session, Harry slipped into the quiet class with a sigh. The dog lay relaxed on his over size bed. The first day he’d showed up, the mutt had growled at him, apparently very displeased with Harry’s non-invisable self. It had taken a minute to convince the fluff that he was still the same person from the night before, but once the hackles had lowered he’d only seemed irritated as Harry had practiced some spells. 

In truth, Padfoot was ninety percent fur. Every time Harry pet him he could feel bones protruding sharply from thin skin, so he’d taken to bringing the dog as much food as possible, even going so far as to sneak down to the kitchens to grab extra so he wouldn’t seem suspicious taking food from the great hall. The dog stuck to the room during the day time, lounging around in the sun from the large windows. At night, he tended to disappear, which left Harry curious how he opened the doors with no thumbs. But then he remembered ** magic** and shrugged it off.

Now, Harry decided to sit on the cushion beside him, laying out his notes and text book. The hour spent in the library hadn’t gotten him any further in his potions essay, so he was attempting to focus on his work in the stillness. But despite the lack of distractions, he wasn't productive as his mind continued to wander. His conversation with Hermione kept eating at him. 

It was at his third huff of irritation that Padfoot laid his big head on Harry’s thigh, staring up at him with sad eyes. Harry huffed again, tossing his quill down beside his notebook. His hand curled into the dog’s thick fur, fingers flexing absently.

“Not me upsetting you too…” he mumbled, eyes stinging. 

Padfoot blinked up at him, tail thumping softly against the edge of the bed. Harry let out a bitter laugh, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses with the sleeve of his robe. “And yet you’re still better company than most people lately.” The dog didn’t move, his dark eyes watching Harry raptly. No judgment, no criticism, just soft fur and quiet breaths.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His eyes went to the window, not really seeing. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I’m angry all the time. Tired, even when I sleep. And I miss things… not people , just… the feeling of how things used to be. Before I had to think about everything all the time. Before I started feeling like I was broken.”

Padfoot nudged his hand with his nose, drawing his gaze back to his trembling digits. He wondered , not for the first time, if there was something wrong with him. Despite knowing his future self was the cause of a lot of his problems, he wondered if maybe he really was cursed…

“I didn’t mean to yell at Hermione,” Harry said quietly, stroking the curled fur along the dog’s neck. “I just… I couldn’t explain it. Not without sounding crazy.”

What does it matter if a dog thinks I’m deranged… He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, voice cracking as he tried anyway. “It’s like there’s two of me now. One that’s trying to hold it together, and another that just wants to scream until everything falls apart. And every time I think I’m doing better, something happens. Hell, someone looks at me wrong and suddenly I’m back to square one.”

Padfoot whined, pawing gently at Harry’s wrist. His fingers combed through the dog’s fur again, needing contact. “I don’t know how to talk about it,” he admitted. “Not to her, even if she’s the only one who knows all of my secrets. Not to anyone. I’m scared that if I start, I won’t be able to stop. That it’ll be too much… and she’ll leave.”

He tried to swallow the tightness in his throat. He’d never felt this way, even as a child by himself in his cupboard. “I hate that I feel so alone, even when I’m not.” He wasn’t crying, not exactly. But something inside him loosened, like a knot untangling itself just a little. He breathed deeper this time. Slower.

“You get it, don’t you?” he whispered, folding over to bury his face briefly in the dog’s shoulder. “You don’t need me to explain everything. You just let me be quiet.” Padfoot didn’t answer, of course. He just stayed pressed against Harry’s side, warm and steady.

And for the first time in days, Harry didn’t feel like he was drowning.

-Tattered black cloaks of wispy smoke, circling like vultures as the wind knocked him about on his broom- 

-A man, edge of a lake, being attacked by the wraiths-

-Standing beside an older Ron, side by side, the redhead’s vindictive grin lit by a bright patronus-

-Face to skeletal face, lightning and rain, falling-

-So many screams-

Harry bolted up right, rubbing his eyes as he tried to remember where he was. An empty class, a large pillow, rain tapped on the windows. He shook his head trying to clear the fog as his heart hammered in his chest. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but it must have happened for the nightmares to have woken him. No, not nightmares. More memories? He wasn’t so sure what would have spurred on the slideshow of dementor themed dreams, but he was definitely glad to be awake.

He looked around; Padfoot was gone, and the sun was lower in the sky. Then a sudden surge of panic hit his chest.

“Oh no- oh no no no-” He scrambled upright, snatching his bag off the floor and digging wildly for his timetable. There was a Quidditch match today. Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff.

“Dammit!” He bolted upright, knocking over a bottle of ink. “Padfoot, why didn’t you wake me?” He grumbled at the empty room, casting shrinking spells on his supplies before stuffing them into his bag, pulling it haphazardly over his head before bolting from the room. The castle hallways were half-empty and echoing with distant cheers from the direction of the pitch. Harry raced down the corridor, muttering apologies to portraits he passed too closely. His stomach twisted, something nagging at his brain. He knew if he had a remembrall it would be smoky red right now.

He rounded a corner at a dead sprint and slammed directly into another body. Bags hit the stone as Harry stumbled backward, his shoulder catching the wall as Draco Malfoy let out an audible oof , crumpling to the floor with surprising lack of grace.

“You- what the hell, Potter?”

“Sorry!” Harry reached to help him up instinctively, then hesitated. Draco smacked his hand away and stood on his own, brushing imaginary dirt off his robes.

Harry glanced at him as he picked up his bag, breath still catching. “You’re going to the match?”

“Obviously,” Draco drawled. “Not that it’s any of your -”

He trailed off, noticing the way Harry’s eyes had narrowed. “Never mind. Yes, I’m running late. Tutoring Goyle in the library took longer than expected.” he snapped, defensive now as Harry continued to stare. “What are you looking at?”

Harry pointed, too tired to pretend not to be amused. “Your fringe is singed.”

“What? No it’s…” Draco reached up, fingers patting at his hair. “Wait. What? ”

He spun toward the nearest window, trying to catch his reflection in the glass. “Bloody hell, what did you do to me?”

Harry laughed before he could stop himself. “ Me? You think I did that just now by running into you?”

“You’re the only one whose magic randomly explodes when you’re emotional!” Draco hissed, still tugging at the burned edge of his hair.

“It wasn’t me. But thanks for the compliment,” Harry said dryly, having no clue what the blond was on about. “Maybe you got too close to someone else’s ego.”

Draco blinked, eyes widening slightly. Then, to Harry’s absolute astonishment, he let out a sharp, surprised laugh. It echoed in the quiet hall. Harry blinked, a half-smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Did… did you just laugh?”

“No,” Draco said quickly, face twitching as if trying to smother it.

“You did.”

“Shut up.”

They both stood there for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, breathing a little fast, awkwardness settling back in like dust. But the tension didn’t feel as sharp this time, not as volatile as usually was when there were witnesses. Just strange. Warmer somehow.

Footsteps echoed around the corner, and the rest of the Slytherin team appeared behind Malfoy with looks of surprise. Flint’s surprise spread into one of his sharp grins. “There you are,” he grunted, eyeing the pair. “What happened to your hair, Malfoy?”

“Don’t,” Draco growled, reaching up to fuss with it.

Harry just smirked as they all turned to head toward the pitch. The world hadn’t stopped spinning just because he’d taken a break, but he definitely felt better for having done so. Now the rest of the team’s excitement was contagious. Harry quickly caught himself smiling without effort. While the other Slytherins were going under the guise of ‘learning enemy strategies’, Harry knew that it was a smoke screen; the entire team loved watching quidditch, it didn't matter which team was playing. Harry was excited to see some of the moves Fred and George had bragged about all week. 

The nice morning had shifted quickly into rain, the sky dark and angry as red and yellow jerseys circled the pitch. Harry's eyes caught on the heads of bright red hair flying together. The twins had bragged about Ginny making Gryffindor seeker, and how much it had upset Ron. Harry hadn’t seen the girl since after the chamber of secrets, and while he caught her in twinges of memories, he hadn’t really thought about her aside from being grateful Oliver Wood had found his replacement.

He could tell her brothers were giving her the usual pep talk, and turned his attention to finding a spot in the stands. Harry found himself pinned between Malfoy and Pansey, which was awkward. Hermione was sitting in front of him, giving him a cold shoulder which dampened his mood slightly. But cheering and chattering kept him from having to think too much. There were several heating charms going at once, keeping the stands toasty despite the pouring rain, and a green and silver tarp tented over the stands to keep them dry. Draco continued to pick at his bangs, going cross eyed to see the black tinge.

“Greg get you with another spark charm, Draco?” Pansy teased, looking around Harry’s shoulder. Draco huffed but didn’t reply, causing her to roll her eyes as she pulled out her wand. “Let me just-”

“Oh no you don’t!” Draco scooted further down the bench, bumping into Lucian on his other side. “Last time you turned my roots purple for a week!” 

“That was one time!”

“And what about the perm you gave me last year?!” He snipped back, appearing insulted simply for having to bring it up.

“I’m getting better!” She wined, “Just come here-”

“Oh will you two stop your bickering,” Hermione growled from in front of them, turning to flick her own wand before anyone could blink. A pregnant silence followed as everyone within earshot waited for Malfoy’s reaction. Harry tensed, ready to step between the two while Hermione turned back around to watch the kick off.

To everyone’s surprise, no vile oaths or tantrums were to be had. Draco’s singed hair quickly fell to the ground, replaced by new growth as if nothing had happened. Though he continued to pick at it, he seemed pleased with the results, which in turn irked Pansy.

“You’ll let her fix it but not me!” She shrieked. Malfoy shrugged, ignoring her as she grew angrier.

“It’s just hair, Pans.” Zabini patted her gently on the shoulder, trying to calm her. “Let it go.”

“I will not! Give me those!” She pulled Harry’s glasses off of his face before he knew what was happening. 

Water from his damp hair dripped into his eyes as he squinted, trying to swipe them back from her blurry form. “Hey! Give those back.”

She swatted his hand away, “Hold on.” He could hear a whispered incantation, paired with the vague movement of something he thought might have been her wand. Then the glasses were shoved back on his face, though different than they had been a second ago. They were clearer, and the mist from the rain vanished instantly instead of sticking to the glass or fogging. He could see all the way to the pitch, and clearly make out the other players for once rather than just knowing them by jersey or hair color. “There, no need to thank me.” She gave him a dazzling smile, clearly proud that she’d fixed something even if it was for him. 

“Uh, thanks, I guess.” He pulled the frame off, looking it over. He could feel the texture of a charm but wasn’t quite sure what she had done. They still looked the same.

“I’m better with charms on things than people; clothes mostly, but eye wear is the same concept. Though they are still hideous.” She shrugged as if to say ‘you can’t win them all’, before turning to Zabini to give him a piece of her mind about personal space; he still had his hand on her shoulder.

The game was already well underway, and for once, Harry could see every detail. The enchantment on his glasses made the world sharper, crisper. He could see the determined furrow in Ginny’s brow as she leaned low on her broomstick, streaking across the pitch after a glint of gold. He could see the tense way Cedric Diggory’s jaw moved when he barked commands to his team, the way Fred and George flew in perfect sync to defend one of the hoops. The cold drizzle had intensified into a steady downpour, but it barely mattered. Harry could actually follow the plays for once, feeling like a true spectator rather than a half-blind guesser.

He found himself leaning forward, chin propped on one hand, watching the blur of red and yellow jerseyed figures duck and weave between bludgers. The game was fast-paced, evenly matched, and surprisingly brutal. Hufflepuff played with an intensity that Harry hadn’t expected. The crowd roared each time a goal was scored, and even the Slytherins beside him shouted at particularly daring maneuvers, forgetting for the moment which house was which.

But then something shifted. The sky that had been gray since the start now turned an ugly, oppressive shade of slate. Clouds lowered over the stadium like smoke pouring in through a chimney. The air grew heavier, the moisture clinging to skin, fog crawling at the edges of the pitch. Harry’s glasses still showed everything clearly, but the world beyond the lens had grown strangely muffled.

A flash of light. Thunder cracked once, sharp and close.

Harry flinched, blinking as another bolt of lightning lit the sky above the towers. He turned his head just in time to spot Madam Pomfrey in the staff section, her white apron visible even through the rain. She was waving her arms in agitation, clearly shouting something at Professor Dumbledore, who stood calmly beside her as he watched the match below. The headmaster turned instinctually, his cold blue stare meeting Harry’s curious gaze. A hum played in his ears causing him to break away quickly, fear flooding his system.

Another crack of thunder.

Then screaming.

Not the fun kind that came with high-stakes Quidditch; these were shrill, terrified, splintering the hum of excitement like glass underfoot. The players faltered mid-flight, one of the Hufflepuff chasers dropping their bat and nearly toppling off their broom.

Harry sat upright, his body stiff with unease. Around him, the Slytherin students had fallen quiet. A low buzzing was building in the pit of his stomach. He felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the rain seep through his robes and settle deep in his spine.

“What’s that?” Daphne asked, voice low from behind him.

The clouds had begun to move against the wind, tendrils of inky black smoke coiling like fingers across the pitch. They slithered toward the players in the sky, obscuring the hoops, the center line, then the players themselves. One by one, figures began to fall. Not diving or descending, but dropping like flies to the hard pitch below. Harry’s heart lurched as a red figure spiraled toward the ground, broom spinning out behind them.

“Someone fell!” Millicent shouted, standing.

Another dropped.

Then the screaming reached a crescendo as the shadows descended fully. Harry knew them before his mind fully processed what he was seeing.

Dementors.

He shot to his feet, fists clenched. “No,” he breathed. But it was like he was in one of his dreams, but a spectator rather than the focus. He knew then, that if he had still been in Gryffindor, he would have been one of the ones to fall from his broom. Knew that he had, in another life.

The monsters swarmed the pitch, pouring out of the mist like water spilling from a broken dam. The crowd panicked. The cheering turned into chaos as students shoved back from the stands, some bolting for the stairs. Teachers were shouting spells, Patronuses bursting to life in streaks of silver and light. Cats and a deer and even a phoenix billowed out to meet the dementors head on. One of the wraiths slammed into a tower post and spun away, gliding upward.

Harry staggered backward as three of them peeled off, heading straight for the Slytherin box. Gasps rang out around him as the cold surged inward like a tide, charms broken.

The light dimmed further.

“Get back!” he yelled, pushing Pansy behind him without thinking. The stands were high, too narrow, too many bodies pressed together. He could feel Draco at his shoulder as the blond pulled Hermione from her seat, stiff with tension, and others began to backpedal. 

One of the dementors reached the edge of the box. Its cloaked shape hovered only a few meters from them, face hidden but the darkness beneath its hood clawing at Harry’s lungs. His breath caught in his throat. Pain twisted in his chest. He couldn’t move.

And then the screaming started inside his head. Screams of a woman, his mother he knew. More, screams of death, of wars. The memories in his head seemed to double the sounds, echoing like a shrill choir in the empty halls of his mind.

Harry dropped to one knee, clutching at his head. He could hear the others shouting, Zabini’s voice loud and panicked, someone casting a Shield Charm. But it was no use. The cold was inside him now, the memories rising fast and choking. He couldn’t breathe. His wand hand trembled.

He needed to fight. He knew what to do. The first time, and yet for what felt like it had to be the thousandth time, he whipped his wand to the sky, searching for a memory, any memory. With a roar, the spell fell thickly from his lips, “ Expecto Patronum!”.

It wasn’t enough, the warm memory he’d chosen wasn't enough to produce a full patronus. The melancholy he’d been feeling for weeks still had its claws in him, but it was something. A bright blue shield encased the seats; While weaker than a true animal patronus, it held off the darkness all the same. Around him, students ducked down, unmoving as they watched the specters bounce off of the light coming from Harry's wand.

Silver light rushed toward the dementors from behind and the darkness recoiled as animals of all shapes and sizes drove them off. Harry gasped, blinking wildly as the chill broke. The hooded shapes retreated, slipping through the fog as quickly as they had come. Harry was left shaking on his knees in the rain, eyes wide and unfocused, surrounded by stunned silence.

Chapter Text

“That was quite a show Mr. Potter.” Remus Lupin sat at the edge of the hospital wing cot as Harry lay with a pounding head. Warding off the dementors had earned him a new migraine; the gut wrenching effects of the monsters paired with the unpracticed magic had left him faint, and he didn’t quite remember the trip to the hospital wing. Now Madam Pomfrey bustled between his bed and the beds of injured quiddage players, the med-witch quite irritated.

Harry turned his attention to the professor at his feet, his focus going to the large angry red lines on the man’s hands and neck. They looked like freshly healed scars, and Harry knew that they hadn’t been there last week when he’d last seen the man in class. “What do you mean Professor?” 

“To defend your classmates from several dementors, to produce even an incomplete patronus is a feat you should take pride in. When did you learn that spell?”

“I’ve been practicing," he lied, shutting his eyes against the harsh light. “Kinda needed to.”

“What do you mean by that?” Harry could hear the frown in the man's voice, causing him to smirk as he peaked one eye open to meet the professor's hard stare.

“Have you not noticed? I tend to attract them,” He thought back to his summer readings, “‘-attracted to a darkness of mind, a history of unhappy experiences, or memories of death and mourning-’ I believe is how Mr. Scamander put it in his Dark Creatures Compendium. I fear I’m afflicted by a bit of each.” He shrugged, shutting his eye again. An understatement, if his future memories were to be believed.

There was a pause, the faint echoes of the other students' pain slipping from beyond his curtain filling the silence. Lupin finally cleared his throat “I’m sorry to hear that, truly. If you ever would like to talk… Well, I was good friends with your parents. It’s unfortunate that we haven’t gotten a chance to meet before this year, but I’m here if… if you need anything.” He ended lamely. Harry didn’t reply, and he felt him shift off the bed, hovering for a moment before leaving. 

Once Lupin had gone, Harry lay still, his eyes fixed on the sterile white ceiling above him. The white curtains around his cot filtered the flickering candlelight into soft shadows. Every sound from the other side; the moan of an injured player, the low murmurs of Madam Pomfrey, the squeak of her shoes. It all seemed so far away. Distant. Unimportant.

Harry wasn’t sure how to feel; between everything that had happened today he was quite overwhelmed. The addition of Professor Lupin dangling information about his parents like bait waiting for him to bite. What stuck with him was Lupin’s voice. I was good friends with your parents…

He’d already known the frail man had been their friend, it wasn’t new information. But it burned, that simple sentence. Not because it hurt but because it hinted at something he hadn’t realized he still craved.

A connection. Someone who knew them. He should have known, having already made the connection between Sirius Black and the professor back on the train. If he knew Black as Harry’s memories suggested, and Black knew Harry’s parents, it would make sense that Remus Lupin would have also known them as well.

Harry had read quite a bit in his first year about James and Lily, in books, in obituaries, in old Daily Prophet clippings. Always tragic, never real . He didn't want heroic stories anymore. He wanted the mundane, the normal. Did his dad get nervous before Quidditch matches? Did his mum snore? Had she ever lost her temper in class? Who could tell him how his father laughed or how his mother tucked her hair behind her ear when she was annoyed. Who could speak of them as real people and not ghosts or martyrs or legends frozen in time.

He realized that the pit in his stomach was also new, another wound added to his collection that he’d never bothered to examine before his new emotions; He wanted a family. Not the kind that pretended to tolerate him from behind locked doors, or the distant reverence the wizarding world offered. A real one. People who didn’t look at him and see either a boy to be worshipped or pitied. Just… warmth.

His throat tightened. That dangerous pressure behind his eyes threatened to crest again, and he rolled onto his side, curling slightly. The infirmary bed felt both too big and too small. He gripped the blanket tighter and tried to breathe.

He didn't get long.

Footsteps approached his bed, the curtain rattling slightly. Then came familiar voices, bickering under their breath.

“-you could have just handed me the note. You didn’t have to come with me.”

“Well I did come with you, so now we both have to suffer through this. Stop fussing.”

“I’m not fussing. You’re fussing.” Draco’s voice rose in indignation. The curtain swept open. Theo Nott entered first, arms crossed and expression blank, a book held tightly in one hand. Beside him stood Malfoy, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Harry stared at them both from his hospital bed, brow furrowing.

Draco held up a folded slip of parchment like a peace offering. “From Snape.” Harry blinked, then took it. It was short and precise, as all things from Snape tended to be:

  ‘Detention postponed to Monday. Try not to die before then.’

Harry let out a snort, “Charming.” Reaching to place it on the bedside stand, he found a whole chocolate bar, leaned up against a mug of water. He frowned at the sweet, knowing it hadn’t been there before Lupin left.

Theo gave a dramatic sigh and sat on the edge of the bed next to Harry’s feet as he flipped his book open, eyes turning to the pages in his hand. “We argued for a solid ten minutes over whether or not we had to be the ones to bring that. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Draco stayed standing, fussing with his sleeves. “We didn’t argue. I said it was stupid, and you agreed with me.” Theo shrugged, apparently not willing to put in the effort to argue again.

Harry rubbed his eyes. The pair tended to bicker a lot, in the quiet of the common room when they thought no one listened. It was generally the only occasions Harry had seen Nott bother with complete sentences. “Do you two ever stop?”

“No,” they said in unison.

Harry chuckled quietly. The sound surprised him, light and hoarse. It didn’t fix the tightness in his chest, but it helped. Just a little.

Theo glanced at him sideways. “You alright?” Harry shrugged, definitely not ready to get into that can of worms, not with them. 

Draco raised a brow. “Well. You look like death. But I suppose that’s nothing new.”

“Thanks,” Harry said flatly. “Your bedside manner is improving.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Theo muttered, kicking Draco lightly in the shin.

“I came all the way up here in the rain,” Draco huffed, plopping down on the cot beside Harry’s. It was ungraceful, very un-malfoy-like. “I could’ve left the note with a first year and gone back to warm tea and my very expensive hair product.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Didn’t know your hair could be more of a priority.”

Draco looked genuinely scandalized. "Of course it is! You should know, since you ruined it.”

“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” He shook his head, confused. “But it shouldn’t matter, Hermione fixed it, remember?”

“Magic is no excuse not to use conditioner,” He sniffed, then his eyes wandered to Harry’s hair, “Though a good combing also helps.”

Harry rolled his eyes, self-consciously running his fingers through his own unruly hair. “Won’t help, nothing does.”

“Anyway,” Theo interrupted with a smirk, knowing full well Draco would take Harry’s hair as a challenge if he didn’t step in. “We figured you could use some company. Before Pansy comes up and starts fluffing your pillows.”

“Oh, Merlin, no. ” Harry groaned, flopping back against the mattress. “Tell her I’m contagious or cursed or something.”

Draco smirked. “Cursed isn’t far off.” Harry chuckled again, the statement not that different from his own recent thoughts.

Harry let the silence drag for a minute, looking between the two boys and realizing the way looked mirrored how he felt. Draco had large bags under his eyes and was paler than usual, while he could see a strain around Theo’s eyes, one fist clenched tight as he skimmed the pages of his book. Harry remembered the feeling before he’d gotten his patronus up, the darkness and screams. He hadn’t been alone in those stands. Perhaps I wasn’t alone in the darkness… 

Breathing in deeply, he decided to take a leap of faith. “The dementors; I… hear screams.” He didn’t look at them as he quietly broke the silence, unwrapping the chocolate. “My father telling my mother to run. My mother… before she died.” He broke off a piece of chocolate for himself, before passing it to Draco.

The blond swallowed thickly, looking as if he was going to be ill. It took a minute, but eventually he too broke the silence, whispering. “My parents, yelling, screaming as they cast curses back and forth. He hurts her. I ran into the room, pillowing her head in my lap… I can hear the gurgle of blood as she gasps for breath… She survived it. But… that’s what I hear, the blood.” He broke off a piece for himself, holding the last third out to Nott.

Theo stared at the outstretched candy, hesitating before reaching out to take it. He shut his book, fiddling with the wrapper as the other two boys waited patiently. Finally, his voice hoarse and breaking, “My screams. I hear my own screams.” He paused, grasping for even a single thread of courage, his hands shaking. By the time he finds the words, a wet trail has streaked down his cheek. “Bone breaking curses hurt, but there's a reason Cruciatus is an unforgivable…” A shocked silence bracketed his words, all three boys staring at the softening chocolate in their hands, feeling the weight of their heavy confessions.

Harry didn't move. Didn't speak. His heart was thudding in his chest; not fast, but thick, like it had grown too large for his ribs. He hadn’t expected them to answer. Not like that. Not with such brutal honesty. He lifted his eyes slowly, taking in the other two’s presence and support. There was no rivalry, no arguments or bickering to be had. The air in the room had shifted, gone solemn, yes- but not unbearable. Not suffocating like the silence had been earlier by himself.

It was shared now.

“I thought I was the only one,” Harry murmured, voice rough around the edges. “That it was just me.”

“You’re not,” Theo said quietly, still staring at his hands.

“None of us are,” Draco added, and for once his tone held no bite.

The curtain swayed slightly in a soft breeze from the window. The cool, rain-scented air brushing against their faces. Harry reached up to scrub at his face with his sleeve, the soft cotton of his robe coming away damp. He hadn’t even realized.

“We’re all messed up,” he said finally, a crooked, broken kind of smile tugging at his lips. Theo gave a laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. Draco managed an eye roll, but his expression softened at the edges.

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered. “I’m perfectly functional. Just... cosmetically damaged.”

Harry snorted. “Your hair is fine!”

That got a proper snicker from Theo. He unfolded his legs and let them dangle off the side of the bed, kicking at the air idly.

“I don’t want to go back out there yet,” he admitted after a moment.

Harry didn’t ask where “there” was, he felt the same. The castle. The common rooms. The expectations that they put their masks back on. “Me either.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Let’s just… sit a while.”

They nodded in agreement; Harry and Draco sitting up against the headboards of their respective cots, Theo laying back across the foot of Harry’s mattress, book forgotten. They munched on their chocolate pieces as the darkness descended outside. It was comfortable, even as no more words passed for a while. The three of them simply existed . Quiet, shaken but surviving.

After some time, Theo turned to his side, licking chocolate from his finger tips. “So are you going to tell us how you learned that patronus?”

“Haven’t exactly been practicing it,” Harry shrugged. “I just figured it would be better to be prepared, since they find me so attractive.”

“What do you mean?” Draco also turned, frowning as he crisscrossed his legs on the cot.

“Remember the train stopped in September? A dementor boarded in search of Sirius Black, got distracted with me. I’ve read up on the theory of casting a patronus, but obviously need some more practice.”

“Would you- maybe sometime,” Malfoy looked like he was about to choke on his words. “Show us?”

“Yeah, I’d rather not go through that again,” Nott added, and Harry could understand the sentiment.

He blinked at them, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Of course. We can practice together and figure it out as we go.”

Theo gave him a small, relieved smile. Draco looked away quickly, but not before Harry caught the slight nod he gave. It wasn’t friendship, but it was an olive branch that Harry didn’t take lightly.

Before any of them could say more, the curtains burst open with a sharp clatter and Madam Pomfrey swept in, wand in one hand, a steaming potion bottle in the other. She paused in the doorway, eyes narrowing as she took in the three boys sprawled across the cots.

“I should’ve known,” she huffed, setting the bottle down with a sharp clink . “I leave for fifteen minutes and it turns into a tea party in here.”

“We didn’t have any tea,” Theo said helpfully.

She didn’t laugh.

“Out,” she said instead, pointing at the door. “Both of you. Out. My patients need rest and you lot need to not be snacking on chocolate that wasn’t cleared by me.”

Draco stood first, brushing nonexistent lint off his robe with what dignity he could salvage. “You wound me, Madam Pomfrey. I was offering emotional support.”

Theo grinned, rolling off the bed and stretching. “We’ll go. We’ll see you tomorrow, Potter.”

Harry didn’t say anything, just gave a faint nod as the two boys started toward the exit. At the curtain, Theo looked back. “Don’t forget you promised to show us.”

“I won’t,” Harry said softly.

Madam Pomfrey gave an exaggerated sigh and went to fluff his pillow with more force than necessary. But Harry didn’t mind. He was still tired and aching, but his mind was calm. After downing the potion of dreamless sleep, he quickly slipped into unconsciousness.

***

“I was right, wasn't I?” Lupin leaned back against the stone doorway outside of the hospital wing, his voice hushed. Snape shut the door softly behind him as he joined the wolf in the darkened hall. It took everything in his power not to scowl at the other man. Indeed it had been an unpleasurable shock to have Remus knock on his door this evening after dinner. Amplified by his distrust of the werewolves true nature, he’d almost sent him packing… almost. But when Remus had asked to discuss Potter, his interest had been piqued.

“Yes, the remnants are there.” Severus replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How did you know?” Finding traces of illegal compulsion magic on a minor was appalling to say the least. When Remus had asked him to double check something sinister, he’d wanted to tell him no. That type of magic, dark in nature, wasn't common to begin with. Potter wouldn't have had a chance to be around that sort of magic, and who would compulse a child. But, like most things that had to do with the boy who lived, it didn't add up, and so Severus had followed the wolf to the Hospital wing in the middle of the night to check. A quick incantation over the sleeping child had told him everything he needed to know.

The sharp jagged edges of the broken magic still hovered around him. While it was unlikely to cause any effects now, the magic had definitely been cast when he was very young, growing with him and attaching to him so that even when the spell was broken the remnants remained. It felt like a nasty piece of work; impulsiveness, loyalty, and acceptance seeming to make up the majority of its components. All key ingredients in making the perfect puppet, and sneaky enough that no one had ever caught it. And who would ever look? A boy who was last seen as an infant shows up, no one would assume his personality had been tampered with. Severus sure hadn’t.

Unfortunately, with a broken spell that old, Severus wasn't able to trace back the signature of who may have cast it. One thing he knew for certain though; the caster wouldn't be happy to find their puppet had cut its strings.

”I smelled it.” Remus tapped his nose with the tip of his finger. “With the full moon yesterday, I still have a bit of hypersense going.” He sounded casual, even offhanded about it, but the remark only served to remind Severus why he hated the man. Remus cleared his throat, drawing Severus back to the conversation at hand. “Should we inform Dumbledore?” 

They both hesitated. Whatever the wolf’s reason Severus couldn't say, but he didn't trust the old codger as far as he could throw him. He himself carried a mild tracking spell, “gifted” to him for his safety. Even now, if he flexed his magic he could feel it settle around him like an itchy cloak. A collar for Albus’s loyal dog. 

He shook his head, “No point, the spell is gone.”

“I'm curious who might have cast it.” Remus frowned, accentuating the scars on his handsome face. 

“I'll be keeping an eye on him, if anything changes. But it might be best to keep this between you and I.” He hated to say it, hated to put his trust in anyone, let alone Remus Lupin. But he was grateful that the man came to him with his concerns rather than going straight to Albus. He could keep this in-house as he continued to snoop into Potter's life. Severus would take this matter seriously; both to satiate his curiosity with another piece to the puzzle that is Harry Potter, but also to care for his young snakes. Even if the one in question dressed in red and gold.

Remus nodded, standing away from the wall to stretch his arms high over his head with a yawn that was far too casual for the topic they'd just discussed. His shirt pulled taut across his torso as he moved, the soft cotton molding to the lean muscles of his stomach and chest. The cuffs were rolled up to his elbows, displaying sinewy forearms dusted with dark hair and crisscrossed with pale scars. Remnants of his beastly half, no doubt. As the shirt lifted, Severus caught a glimpse of a faint trail of hair beneath his navel, vanishing beneath his waistband.

He looked away sharply, disgusted with himself.

It was involuntary, nothing more than a biological misfire. Years of self-denial, a dry spell verging on drought, that was all. Certainly not him. Not Lupin with his mild voice and easy manner, with his stupidly long eyelashes and that irritatingly calm way he always seemed just a little tired, a little too understanding. Severus ground his teeth and forced the heat crawling up the back of his neck to smother itself.

“I appreciate you taking the time,” Remus said, his voice gentle as ever. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye-”

Severus gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk.

“-but I would like to be kept in the loop,” Remus continued, unfazed. “If anything feels off with Harry, I want to know. Even if it’s just a feeling.”

“And if I require your help,” Severus said silkily, “I’ll be sure to find you during working hours.”

Remus gave a small huff of laughter, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Fair enough.”

And still, he didn’t leave. The werewolf lingered, rocking slightly on his heels as if trying to decide whether to say more. Severus could feel the air shift into an infuriating flicker of warmth between them, conjured not by magic but something far more treacherous. 

He needed to leave. Now.

“If you’re quite finished,” Severus snapped, already turning. “Some of us have things to do beyond loitering in dim corridors.”

Remus blinked, brows rising in mild amusement. “Right. Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your evening.”

Severus didn’t grace him with a reply. He swept away with his usual flair, robes billowing behind him with dignity carefully stitched into every step, fury tamped down beneath years of practiced composure. He didn’t look back.

Only when he rounded the corner, out of Lupin’s line of sight, did he allow himself the quiet hiss of air between his teeth.

Utterly unacceptable.

***

“Why Harrikins, you wouldn’t by chance know anything about Ron’s shoes being two different sizes?”

“Or having small holes in the left sleeves of all his shirts?”

“Or his toothpaste having an every-flavor-bean effect every time he goes to brush?”

Harry found himself once again in a hidden alcove, sandwiched between Fred and George. It had been two weeks since the disastrous quidditch game; Fred had had to spend the night in the infirmary alongside Harry, his leg shattered from a fall despite the cushioning charms on the field. Both twins had been in a rage after learning that Cedric had taken advantage of the chaos and snatched up the snitch to win Hufflepuff the game. 

Harry had to admit, it took real nerve to keep playing while teammates dropped from the sky. Cedric had stayed focused and caught the Snitch. A ruthless move, but effective. He would have shaken the older boy’s hand if his loyalty to Gryffindor, and fear of being pranked into oblivion by the twins, didn't hold him in check. Since then, Digery’s hair had been a new color every time Harry had passed him in the halls, and he knew the culprits were now holding him hostage in the stairwell.

“You guys know I don’t have access to Gryffindor tower anymore right? And that if I wanted to torment Ron I would have enlisted the world's two greatest pranksters to aid me?” The flattery worked, as they both beamed at Harry as if he was the wisest person they’d ever known. In truth, Harry had no clue why Ron might be the target of someone's pranks, but it did explain why his ex-bestfriend had taken to glaring at him from across the room every chance he got.

“Good choice young apprentice!”

“See, this is why you’re our favorite little brother!” Harry grinned at the praise despite himself, relaxing slightly. 

The two weeks after the attack had been draining; winter had set in with full force, ice coating windows and snow blanketing the grounds. This made it difficult to get to the lake late at night, and it was even colder when Zaxila insisted he start swimming to practice his magical music. Luckily the other merfolk had taken a liking to the skinny human, using their own magic to warm the water around him as he practiced proper breath control. But it was still painfully frigid getting in and out of the icy lake.

Snape’s detentions had multiplied;the one he’d earned during the werewolf lecture, as well as two more for being caught sneaking in after curfew by a prefect and for being sassy during potions. The time spent with the potions master had consisted of several grueling hours of relabeling ingredients while meticulously checking expiration dates. He’d taken to reciting the ingredient’s uses like weird flashcards to keep himself from falling asleep from boredom. 

Quidditch practice had been canceled while the school and the ministry came to terms on the dementor situation. Every time he’d attempted to get Draco alone to talk about learning the patronus spell like he’d promised, the boy had quickly disappeared with some excuse. Theo was no help either; whenever Harry asked him when they should, he’d replied with “ask Draco.”. Hermione was still ignoring him while the common room had become some magical no man’s land as she and Pansy had started a cold war over their Potions midterm project. 

So the small bit of normalcy the twin offered was a blessing.

“All that aside, we have a gift for you!”

“Think of it as an early christmas present-”

“Since we heard you’d been barred from Hoggsmead-”

“And we don’t want our little brother missing out-”

Harry hadn’t really thought much about the missed trip itself, rather the unfairness of having to rely on his hateful relatives to sign the permission slip in the first place. He’d been tempted to forage Vernon’s signature, but in the end his conscience hadn’t let him. Now, Fred pulled a bit of old parchment from his cloak, and Harry had a flash of deja vu as George’s voice echoed with a memory.

 “This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said George, looking mournful as Fred handed the square over to Harry. It was blank, but Harry could feel the magic woven into the fibers.

“It’s a wretch giving it to you, but we do have it memorized. Since your need is greater than ours we figured we’d bequeath it to you.” Harry felt as if something deep within him held a key, like the first time he opened the chamber of secrets, he knew the words deep in his memories somehow. I solemnly swear I am up to no good, he thought, humming lightly as he ran his hand over the page, ink rising to meet his finger tips.

“Blimey, it's not supposed to open!”

“There you go breaking our favorite toy!” Fred pulled it from his grasp, flipping it this way and that as ink spread over the pages. Harry could see little footprints with names beside them as they moved through the halls. The redhead opened it wider, checking to make sure it was still intact before finally sighing, “I guess it must just like you. It’s usually locked up tighter than Gringotts unless you know the incantation.” He pulled out his wand, closing it up with a mischief managed , then opened it with the same phrase Harry had thought of in his head.

“What does it do?” Harry took it from him again, looking over the inky passageways. 

“Why its a map-”

“Of Hogwarts-”

“It will show you anybody-”

“Any time-”

“Anywhere.” He could see the names of other students and teachers. Flipping the page over he could see the tiny script that indicated what rooms he was looking at; Luna Lovegood was in the astronomy tower, Flitwick was in his office, and Hermione was in the library. 

The twins gave him a brief explanation on how they’d come across such a treasure, bragging about sneaking it from Filch and how they’d figured out the password. They then took the time to show him their favorite passage ways in and out of the castle, and which ones went where.

“This is bloody brilliant! Thank you!” Harry grinned, giving into the impulse and hugging them both around the neck.

They each returned the brace. “Use it wisely, and don’t get it confiscated.” They smiled before slipping past the tapestry, leaving Harry with the map. He spent the rest of the day memorizing the passages for himself, learning the ins and outs of the castle. He skipped dinner to explore one of the hidden passages when his curiosity got the better of him. Finding his way to the abandoned girls' lavatory, he peaked around the empty stalls. Myrtle was nowhere to be seen.

Pulling out the map, the ink quickly rose to the surface. He could see himself, the halls and corridors of the third floor, but no secret snake tunnel. A hiss of parcel tongue broke the echoing silence, the sinks pulling away to reveal the entrance to the chamber. Harry peaked again at the map, and sure enough, it now showed intricate passageways in green ink, bisecting the black lines of the known castle walls. Opening up the parchment, he could see that this wasn’t the only passageway, nor was the chamber the final destination. Which makes sense, Harry thought, closing the sink. Why would Salazar Slytherin build a big empty chamber for his pet snake and nothing else. The green ink slipped away as quickly as it had appeared.

His eyes strayed to the slytherin common room and froze, reading the names before pocketing the map and breaking into a sprint.

When Harry ducked through the stone archway into the Slytherin common room, he was out of breath from running the four flights. His eyes darted as he quickly scanned the room in front of him.The fire was roaring, but the air in the room was cold in a different way; sharp, still, and tense. Conversation had died. The few faces that were present had turned toward the far end of the room.

Towards them.

Hermione stood with her back straight, chin lifted, wand in hand and eyes locked on Pansy Parkinson like she was dissecting her with pure will alone.

He slowed, heartbeat skipping oddly in his chest.

There was no nervous twitching of hands, no flustered babbling, no desperate scramble for logic or rules. The version of Hermione who tugged at her sleeves and overcorrected professors was nowhere to be seen. In her place stood a witch carved out of firelight and unspoken fury.

Her curls were pulled back into a low twist, exposing the sharp line of her jaw. Her robes were replaced by her everyday wear, dark jeans and a V-neck tshirt. But the muggle attire wasn’t what had all eyes on her. No, her presence alone had the gravity of a curse about to go off. She was beautiful and powerful like lightning or the edge of a storm.

Pansy was already sneering, but even she seemed unsure now, a flicker of hesitation in her stance. They both stood with wands raised, bodies coiled like striking cats. The atmosphere vibrated with unspent magic.

He could taste it.

“If you want to embarrass yourself, Pansy, go ahead,” Hermione said, her tone quiet but surgical. “But at least do it with a proper duel instead of those childish parlor tricks.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Hermione sound so… cold. Not cruel. Just done. There was no anger in her voice, just the promise of swift and methodical consequences. But that was just it; he’d never heard her like this, but a memory flashed into his mind, a powerful witch in purple wizengamot robes, commanding the attention of the wizarding world. It wasn’t his Hermione, a girl of thirteen, who stood ready to cut down any obstacle. This was who she was always meant to become, a powerful unstoppable force.

There was a beat of silence. Then Pansy’s voice slithered through the room, venomous.

“Oh? Is the Mudblood trying to act brave now? You're in the wrong house for that.”

Everything stopped. Harry's stomach dropped, rage flaring fast and dizzy in his chest. The word scraped through the air like rusted metal; no shame, no whisper. She used her words as a weapon, and Harry had no thoughts other than the anger that seemed to suck all of the air from the room. His wand was suddenly in his hand, the fire seemed to burn brighter and larger than before, and someone had taken hold of Harry’s shoulder to prevent him from stepping in.

Hermione didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised. Pansy’s eyes flashed warily to the fireplace, before returning to her target.

“I’d watch your mouth, Parkinson,” Hermione said coolly, tilting her head. “You’re about to need a Healer for more than your split ends.”

Someone gasped. Draco choked on something that might’ve been a laugh. Pansy let out a furious shriek and fired the first hex, but Hermione was already moving.

The duel wasn’t the clumsy kind Harry had come to expect outside of the official dueling club. It was a storm. Pansy hurled a Blasting Hex that cracked the stone floor where Hermione had just been. Harry could see that she was just as powerful as Hermione, but she was reacting with emotion, her anger driving her movements with less precision, wand arm making wide arks leaving her open to coming attacks. She pushed forward, throwing an ineffective Immobulus. 

Hermione responded with a swift, precise Disarming Charm that Pansy barely blocked in time. Then came a volley of stunners, jinxes, trip hexes. A stray spell bounced past onlookers that made the lamps shudder and burst. All through it, Hermione didn’t yell or grandstand. She didn’t lose control. She commanded it.

The room had gone breathless. Even the portraits had fallen silent. Harry was grateful that only a few of his fellow third years stood in attendance. They all had to have known that this was coming with the snide remarks and cunning jabs that each girl had been throwing the other in the last week, and thus were less likely to step in or throw in a sly cheat to side against the muggleborn girl. He wasn’t sure that the older students would have done the same. 

Pansy was flagging, wand arm shaking. Hermione’s hair had come loose, wild around her face, but she stood straight, one foot planted behind the other in textbook-perfect form. 

“You talk a lot of nonsense for someone who can’t even shield properly,” her words were casual, but still cutting, provoking her enemy into a miss step. Pansy screamed something incoherent and flung a spell that was easily flicked to the side, cracking the fireplace mantle. Hermione sent a jet of gold light into the other girl’s wand hand, wrenching it sideways with a yelp. The wand flew. A follow-up hex sent Pansy crashing into a green velvet chair, dazed and panting.

“You’ve proven your point,” Hermione sighed as if disappointed before turning her back on the other girl. She gathered her things from the nearby table as the others all stood in shock. She caught Harry’s eye, giving him a nod that had his heart swelling with pride before brushing past him and exiting the common room. 

“Wow,” He heard Blaise whisper, his hand still firm on Harry’s shoulder.

That was when someone muttered it again, low but loud enough to carry. 

“Mudblood.”

The word hit Harry like a slap, sharp and unwelcome in the aftermath of Hermione’s triumph. His spine went rigid as he turned, slow and deliberate, his gaze sweeping the group of third-years still loitering in the common room. No one claimed the word. No one met his eyes.

“Who said that?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Silence.

His fists clenched at his sides. “ Who. ”

Still, no answer, just shifting feet and eyes darting anywhere but at him. Blaise let go of his shoulder, wisely stepping back. Draco had moved to Pansy’s side, and from the set of his shoulders Harry had no doubt that he’d spit that slur. But none of them gave him up, and their complacency made them just as guilty.

“You all just watched her win. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cheat, didn’t stoop to any of the crap Pansy pulled. She fought like a true witch. And you-” his voice broke with anger as he stepped forward, forcing the small knot of third-years to part. “You still have the nerve to say that ? After everything?”

His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears in a vibrating hum. He felt pure cold rage. He could still see Hermione’s silhouette leaving through the portrait hole, head high, victorious. “You think blood makes someone better? Stronger?” He scoffed, bitter. “Hermione Granger could out-duel any of you on your best day and she didn’t need a pureblood name to do it.”

The guilt in their expressions was immediate, but it didn’t soothe him. Not enough. Not this time.

“She’s better than all of us,” Harry said, his voice rough, trembling. “And you should be ashamed.”

He turned on his heel, stalking toward the portrait hole, the others quick to shuffle out of his wake. He stopped when he passed the looming oil painting of Elizabeth Burke, her face turned down in condescending judgment, as always. She had been a vindictive witch in life, and now spent her afterlife urging the young slytherins to hurt muggleborn and half-bloods. Harry had spent the past several months biting his tongue, avoiding the portrait that cursed the sight of him in her presence.

Harry stared at her. The fire in his chest twisted, sharpened. The insult still echoed in his head. Mudblood. The same words the older students muttered behind their hands, the one the portraits sneered at when they thought no one heard, Pansy and Draco’s voices echoing in his head. How was he supposed to change the future, when they were so set on hating him?

Something in him snapped.

He lifted his wand.

“ Incendio .”

A blast of flame erupted from the tip, engulfing the edge of the frame. Elizabeth shrieked, her face twisted in outrage as the canvas blackened and curled.

Gasps erupted behind him, but he didn’t care. He let the fire burn for two long seconds before extinguishing it with a swish. The frame smoldered, paint warped and cracked, the portrait irreparably damaged. The oil witch hadn’t been able to escape her frame quick enough. Her face forever frozen in terror as the spell was broken on her keepsake, no longer magically moving.

The room was silent.

He looked over his shoulder, gaze sweeping the crowd one last time. “Next time any of you say that word,” he said coldly, “you’ll be dueling me. ”

Chapter Text

After having slept in the abandoned class with Padfoot, Harry was feeling stiff and irritable. He was sure that he didn’t want to go back down to the common room with the other slytherin’s for fear his anger would make him do something stupid. Or stupider. He knew he’d earned himself a detention for his pyrotechnics yesterday, but couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Instead, stretching, he made his way back to the third floor girls' lavatory, doing a quick wash in the sink alongside a teeth cleaning charm. Myrtle gave him a wide berth, floating towards that highest windows to moan about the weather to herself.

Next, he checked his new map before heading towards the library in search of Hermione. It was a frigid Saturday, and a howling wind had chilled the corridors despite the castle’s warming magic. After checking the map a final time and seeing Hermione alone in the library’s back left corner, Harry pocketed the parchment and stepped lightly through the heavy wooden doors. It was her favorite spot when she didn’t want to be found, and there was a neat little ‘notice me not’ spell woven between the shelves. 

Not a classic disillusionment charm, this spell was formatted so that anyone else would have passed her by without noticing she was there unless they purposely turned down the aisle. He could feel the spell, waxy in texture, making a thin wall between her and the rest of the world. He liked that feeling over some of the other magics; since working with the merfolk, he’d learned that a lot of the spoken magics laid down texture that he hadn’t noticed before. Despite spending some time researching it, he hadn’t found any mention from the academic’s making such an observation. 

The library was mostly empty, just a few overachievers and Ravenclaws buried in their midterm revision. As he approached, he saw her hunched over an open text, quill tapping rhythmically at her lip. Her eyes moved quickly, scanning line after line, but Harry could see an edge of exhaustion in her usually sharp focus.

He pulled the chair beside her and slid into it. “Morning,” he muttered, trying not to sound too irritated at the bright sunshine around them.

Hermione blinked once before offering a tired but genuine smile. “You look awful.”

Harry huffed, waving at the stacks of books and pillowed sweater on the table where she’d obviously spent the night. “Didn’t have the luxury of sleeping on three Transfiguration texts and a moral high ground.”

Her smile widened, teasing, “Does Draco snore?” Harry flinched, remembering that she didn’t know he had followed after her the night before. 

“Like a dying lawnmower.” He lied, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his temple. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set her quill down and folded her arms on the table, resting her chin there. “I don’t know. Tired, mostly.”

He nodded slowly, then said, “What made you do it? Draw your wand? I know she’s been asking for it for the last couple of weeks… but still.”

Hermione exhaled, long and slow. “I think I’m just... done.”

“Done?”

“With pretending I don’t hear it. With letting them talk around me like I’m a stain on their robes. I used to think if I kept my head down and just… proved myself, eventually they’d see. But it doesn’t matter how many classes I ace. I’ll still be the girl they call a Mudblood. Even with the memories I can see that.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t shake. But it had an edge; a clean, worn-sharp edge that Harry hadn’t heard from her before. And she wasn’t wrong; it was the same conclusion he’d come to in his rage. Worse still, he didn’t know how to fix it, if he could fix it. They had hoped to change the minds of the world, to change the future by joining slytherin. And looking at the other teens around him, he knew they had good in them. 

His team that he’d once considered scary, were loyal and hard working. The other third years, on average, were good people.Theo had started slipping him chocolate when he felt his emotions getting out of control. He had no clue how Theo knew when it was happening, but he appreciated the small kindness. Daphne was helping him with his Divination homework, his worst subject even with his knowledge of the future. Blaise had cast a warming charm on Harry’s table when he’d caught Harry shivering while studying. All of them had good in them, they were just stupidly bigoted.

“I’ve got two weeks of backlogged Arithmancy readings, I’m still behind on Spell Theory and half the girls in our house think I’m ‘uppity’,” She did finger quotes for emphasis. “So, when Pansy said it again, after spending the last two weeks tearing down any progress I tried to make on our Potions finale, I just... snapped.”

Harry said nothing, just sat with it. The tension. The honesty. The low hum of the library. After a moment, she added with a small shrug, “Maybe I overreacted. Maybe I’ve just ruined the progress we made with the others.”

He frowned. “You didn’t ruin anything. If anyone’s to blame for that, it’s me. I set a bloody portrait on fire.”

Hermione gave him a sidelong glance. “You did what?”

“Burke’s, and threatened everyone who was there last night to a duel,” He gave her a grin, tired but sincere. “Think I earned my Gryffindor points back?”

“You were never short on courage, Harry.” She sat up again, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Just... sometimes low on impulse control.”

“Says the girl who cast a hair-growing jinx mid-meal.” He reminded her of the retaliation she’d cast on Ron last week when he’d upended a bowl of mashed potatoes over three second-year slytherin girls.

Hermione looked mock-scandalized. “That spell was entirely proportional to the crime.”

He chuckled, before turning back to the topic, seriousness taking over. “You didn’t over react; I think we might have been going too easy on them these last few months. We agreed to try and ease our presence on them, to grow on them by keeping our mouths shut and working hard. But the truth is that we are here whether they want us or not, and we’re not going away. Maybe it’s time they were hit with their new reality; we are worth just as much as they are.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her fingers picked at the fraying corner of her sleeve, her brows knit with a quiet storm of thought. When she finally spoke, her voice had softened, but the edge hadn’t dulled completely.

“I just… don’t know if we can win them over,” she murmured. “Maybe we were stupid to think we could. We came in like a challenge. A disruption. People don’t like being told they’ve been wrong all their lives.”

Harry watched her carefully, then leaned forward, elbows braced on the table between them.

“Yeah,” he said. “They don’t. Especially not when it comes from two Muggleborns who should’ve ‘known their place.’” Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain. “But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Harry went on. “We shouldn’t be trying to play nice. We were trying to change something . It was always going to be hard. We knew that going in. And they are children. I mean, we are too, but we have one up on them. We know the future, kind of. We know that they will be hunted for simply being who they are. Much like Voldemort hunted muggleborns for who they are. Neither side is right. ”

She exhaled slowly, folding her hands together on the table like she needed something to anchor herself to. “Maybe I just thought… if we worked harder than them, if we didn’t give them any excuses, they’d have to accept us.”

“They were never going to give us that,” he said, voice low but steady. “We could be perfect. Flawless. And they’d still find a reason to sneer, because it’s not about what we do . So we change their minds by showing them we can’t be walked on. And the same should go for the rest of the houses. No more quietly brushing off the jinxs in the halls. I will defend myself and you, and anyone else who needs it. No one should have to put up with this.”

Hermione's mouth trembled at the corner; knowing it was an entire school against them, not just one group, not just one house. They had singled themselves out on all fronts. “Then what’s the point, Harry? If they won’t change, if they’re just going to keep tearing us down…”

“We make them look. We make it impossible to ignore us.” Harry said bluntly. “We didn’t come here to beg for scraps. We came to change the system from inside. And that means we stop pretending we’re guests in their house. We live here.” He leaned back, jaw set. “You didn’t ruin anything. If anything, you reminded them we can play just as ruthlessly.”

Silence stretched for a beat between them, but it wasn’t a strained silence. It was something settling. Hermione’s shoulders, so often tight with worry, slowly dropped. Her fingers loosened. She met his gaze and gave a small nod.

“Alright,” she said, quieter than before, but steadier. “Alright.”

He nudged her ankle with his foot under the table. “Next time Pansy calls you uppity, hex her hair off again. I’ll back you.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “What happened to ‘we’re not here to start fights’?”

Harry smirked. “I said we’re not here to beg. Fights are optional.”

They both chuckled, tension cracking just a little. A beat of silence followed as she turned back to her notes. He watched her turn the pages in the text, writing quick notes on the edges. Finally, he took a deep breath, “I’ve been meaning to talk with you, but with how busy we’ve been, and of course after my last blow up, I just haven’t been able to find the words.”

Hermione tilted her head. “You’ve been different lately.”

Harry hesitated. He could still hear the merfolk’s music in the quiet places of his mind, could still feel the cool tingle of magic lingering beneath his skin. And Padfoot, the strange comfort of him, his personal ominous grim of death. He hadn’t told anyone. Not even her.

And maybe… maybe he liked it that way. Having some things to himself didn’t make him a bad friend.

“Yeah,” he said finally, shrugging. “I’ve just got a lot on my plate.”

She watched him for a moment longer, like she knew there was more he wasn’t saying. But instead of pressing, she simply said, “Well, you’re not the only one.”

Harry smiled faintly, grateful. He fiddled with the edge of a torn page sticking out of her textbook. “Honestly, I was hoping I could ask for help. Sort of.”

Hermione raised a brow. “With what?”

“Potions,” he muttered. “Remember I’m partnered with Malfoy.”

Her eyes widened, then cringed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t exactly forget but…”

“I know, don’t worry about it.” He leaned his head back and sighed. “I told myself that it would be character-building, though I honestly think it’s Snape punishing me for breathing near his office too loud.”

Hermione snorted. “Well… character-building or not, how’s that going?”

“It’s not. He’s been avoiding me since the dementors. Then last night, with everything…” He rubbed his hands over his face. “He’d made it back onto my ‘stipid-git’ list, to say the least. Even now I can’t even think about looking at him without wanting to rearrange his perfect white teeth.”

“Harry…”

“I know,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I know. Violence isn’t the answer… probably. I need to be sly and cunning. The whole point we decided on slytherin.”

Hermione gave him a look over her steepled fingers, half amused, half exasperated. “Are you at least trying? He’s not exactly the easiest person to get along with, but… I don’t know. It’s not like me with Pansy. You both seem different this year. I know why you are, but maybe we’ve changed the future enough that he’s worth trying to kind of befriend?”

Harry didn’t reply immediately. Maybe, if he apologizes… Harry thought, remembering the night before, anger flaring. The boy was still a prat, and deserved his ire for mistreating Hermione. Hell, he was thinking of borrowing a page from the twins’ book with the hair coloring jinx they’d used on Diggery.

The part he couldn’t admit to himself, much less say out loud, was what he was thinking: that Malfoy’s friendship had never been the worst possible outcome. Something in him appreciated the blond, and he was sure it was something his older self had found in the future, because he definitely hadn't seen it himself. A couple half-assed attempts at friendship between the blow ups had had him wondering what it would be like if things were different. And worse, Harry was starting to wonder if part of him wanted to be friends with Draco Malfoy. Keep your enemy-friends closer than the rest or something like that?

“I don’t trust him,” he said instead. “But I think I could convince him to trust me. It would help us, having all of them on our side.”

Hermione’s nose scrunched in disdain. “After last night, I don’t think I’m winning any popularity contests with that bunch,” Her expression turned thoughtful as she nodded slowly. “But you might, you’ve been doing good so far with quidditch and all. Just… don’t let Draco walk all over you to prove a point.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, a bit dryly. “I plan on making the potion and the point at the same time.”

She chuckled, a warm little sound. “Well, when you decide to be the bigger person, I have about six brewing enhancement charms you might want to review. Draco’s smart, good at potions and on Snape’s good side, so you won't flunk the project. But you're smart too.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Come on. Let’s figure out how to survive your next lab session without bodily harm.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not already planning for it.”

They sat much more comfortably in each other's presence than they had in a week, she studied in the early morning light while he hummed lightly, thumbing through a Magical Theory book. They eventually found their way down to breakfast. They sat in the middle of the table, ignoring the cold shoulder they got from the other third-years. Harry chatted excitedly with Lucian and Peregrine about the upcoming practice since the quidditch ban had been lifted, while Hermione listened quietly from the side. Luckily, none of the other Slytherin years appeared to know about the conflict from the night before, and treated them much the way they had before, at arms length.

The Great Hall was quiet for a Saturday morning, filled only halfway with sleepy students and the low clatter of cutlery on plates. Above them, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the outside sky; thick, gentle snow drifting down in slow, mesmerizing spirals that vanished just before touching the floor. It softened the light from the floating candles, casting everything in a golden, snowy hush.

Across the room, Peeves was wreaking his usual chaos. He’d enchanted a large tureen of porridge at the Hufflepuff table to explode every time someone dipped a spoon inside. It was on its third victim now, coating a second-year in cinnamon and oats. The rest of the table was shouting in outrage, and Professor Sprout was trying to bat the poltergeist away with her napkin like he was a particularly vicious garden gnome.

Harry snorted into his pumpkin juice, nudging Hermione. “Look at Sprout. She’s going to hex him into compost.”

Hermione looked up, a bit bleary but amused. “Serves him right. He rearranged the first year's potion ingredients last week, there were no less than six simultaneous explosions.”

Across the Slytherin table, Lucian and Peregrine were deep in discussion about Chudley Cannon strategy, both speaking so fast Harry could barely keep up. He let them chatter while he polished off a bit of toast, feeling for a brief moment like a regular student again.

Until the owl post came, and a single letter fluttered down in front of him with an all-too-familiar loopy script:

Potter. My office. Immediately after breakfast. ~Snape.

A peek at the head table showed that the professor in question was not in attendance. Harry groaned, pushing his half eaten plate away. “There goes the weekend.”

Hermione glanced over at the note and sighed. “Be polite. Don’t antagonize him.”

“I don’t need to,” Harry muttered. “My face does it for me.” He pushed back from the table, standing with a stretch, “might as well get to it.”

“But you haven't finished your breakfast?” He didn't need to look at it to know what she saw; a small helping of eggs sat beside two sausages, untouched. Only the toast was missing. Too fat, too selfish, ugly little boy just like your mother. Petunia's voice flitted through his mind.

He shook his head vigorously, “it's okay, I'm not that hungry.” He turned away from her frown and quickly left the hall, completely missing Theo’s scowl and the other’s looks of guilt.

The trip to the dungeons was quick, and Harry soon found himself knocking once again on Snape’s door. At this point, he was surprised there wasn't a worn out dent where he’d been knocking. He’d had more detentions this semester than any other, and it had to be some conspiracy to convince him to go back to Gryffindor. He was sure of it.

Snape’s office was too cold and too dark, as usual. What few candles he had burned low in their wax, casting only a faint glow that didn't reach far. The torches along the stone walls flickered but gave off little warmth, their light casting long shadows across the rows of strange ingredients in jars that lined the bookshelf behind his desk. Harry's eyes skimmed the containers, noting that some contained floated masses while others held twitching innards. The room always smelled faintly of burning herbs and something bitter and earthy.

Snape didn’t look up when Harry entered, merely pointed to the high backed leather chair in front of his large carved wood desk. He continued marking an essay for several minutes to draw out the suspense, quill moving quickly over parchment with venomous slashes of red ink. After several agonizing moments, he set his quill aside, raising his head to look down at Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp. “Tell me, did you decide to set fire to the painting of Elizabeth Burke last night in the common room?”

Harry didn’t flinch. “I did.”

Snape’s eyes seemed to darken slightly, unreadable. “Explain.”

“She calls Hermione and I mudbloods,” Harry said, jaw tight. “Loudly, any chance she gets. And tells the others to hurt us and anyone with ‘bad blood’. Everyone hears it, no one does anything about it. She’s been doing it since September. I had enough.”

The flame of the nearest candle guttered slightly. Snape’s lip curled, not into the usual sneer, but into something contemplative. His fingers tapped the desk once. “That particular opinion,” he said slowly, “has lingered too long in the décor.”

Harry blinked.

“I would have preferred a more subtle method of removal,” Snape added, “but I am not entirely displeased to see her gone.”

That was... not the reaction Harry had expected. He gave a cautious nod. “Alright then.”

“But,” Snape continued, voice dropping to a harder register, “that does not mean you are absolved of all wrongdoing.” Harry tensed.

“Explain to me,” Snape’s voice slicing into the dark like a scalpel, “why I am hearing reports that you stood in the common room last night and issued a public duel challenge to six of your peers.”

Harry stiffened, anger flaring at the memory. “Because they deserved it.”

Snape’s brow lifted slightly, doubt written clearly on his face. “They sat there and watched it happen,” Harry ground out. “They didn’t say a word. Hermione’s been doing everything she can to be part of this house, and they just let Pansy tear her down. Or attempt to, I'm just glad she's strong minded or it might be a different story.” He shrugged, taking a deep breath and trying to hide his rage. He tried to picture his bottle full of emotions again, larger, with a stronger stopper… it was still leaking. He didn't share about the duel Hermione had won, not wanting to get her in trouble. “She called Hermione a mudblood, again. And Draco, after Hermione had left, and not a single one of the others said a word in her defense. So yes, I challenged them.”

There was a flicker of candlelight across the walls, the flame rising suddenly and sharp, like a wind had passed through though the air remained still. Snape’s eyes narrowed, gaze flicking briefly to the flame before returning to Harry.

“You think you can take on the entire world, Potter?”

Harry glared, “If I have to. If they come for my friends? I will.” The silence that followed was taut. The candle nearest Harry flared higher, then settled as if nothing had happened. He didn’t seem to notice. Snape did.

The professor leaned back slightly, folding his arms. The man’s visage flickered with the ghost of adult-Harry’s memories; “Your arrogance is astounding.”

“It’s not arrogance,” Harry snapped, his head throbbing. “It’s conviction.”

For a long moment, Snape stared at him. Then, to Harry’s surprise, he gave a short, dry breath that might’ve been the wisp of a laugh. “Your mother said something similar. Once.”

Harry froze. “You knew my mum?”

Snape’s expression shuttered. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Long ago.” Snape waved a hand. “You may go. I’ll speak to the involved parties regarding the duel. But if you issue another public challenge under my roof, Potter, I will respond accordingly . Understood?”

Harry stood. “Understood, sir.”

“And next time,” Snape added, almost as an afterthought, “perhaps make sure there are no witnesses before you commit arson.”

Harry blinked. Then, despite himself, gave a small, incredulous smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, Professor.”

***

The door creaked open, and Harry’s stomach dropped. After his meeting with Snape, he had spent the last four days holed up in the abandoned classroom with Padfoot, using every spare moment to work on his potions project alone. He froze mid-motion, fire seeds poised over the simmering cauldron. A sharp plume of noxious fumes rose from his third attempt at the Antidote to Uncommon Poisons. Padfoot, curled beside the desk, gave a low, warning growl that barely cut through the bubbling hiss.

Luna Lovegood drifted into the classroom like mist, her wand tucked behind one ear and her eyes unusually bright, as if she could see something neither of them could.

“Oh,” she said dreamily. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Harry stared, heart thudding at having been caught. “Luna. What are you doing here?”

“Following the Wrackspurt trails,” she replied serenely, her eyes drifting over the dust covered desks and shelves of random materials. “They always lead somewhere interesting.” Her gaze landed on Padfoot. “And look, you’ve brought a dog. He’s handsome. Slightly damp with guilt, but otherwise very loyal.”

Harry stepped in front of Sirius, just slightly. “He’s… he’s not mine.”

“No, he’s his own person,” Luna agreed, her hand waving the idea out of the air like a bad smell. “But you should still apologize.”

“I…what?” 

She tilted her head. “You haven’t spoken to me all term, even though you remember me. Even the ones who don't remember me take the time to say hello. That hurts, Harry. Just because I’m not in your house or year doesn’t mean I don’t notice things. There might be more to you now, but we're still friends. That smoke looks rather nasty though, might want to have someone take a look at that.” Her voice took on an ethereal tone, her eyes unfocusing as she stared over his head. He looked at Padfoot, who seemed to give a weary shrug, still watching the girl with rapt attention.

Harry blinked. “I’m not sure what you're talking about?”

“Time doesn’t always go in one direction for everyone. And we’re still friends. Just because you’ve forgotten what comes next doesn’t mean I have. It’s like dreaming backwards.” She said, as though that explained everything. It didn't, but he couldn't help the feeling like she knew more than he did.

Padfoot huffed.

Luna squatted down to eye him thoughtfully. “Did you know Animagi have to bond with a magical focus? It’s not just about the potion or the meditation. It’s about surrender. You have to let part of yourself go to become something else.” Of course Harry knew about Animagi transformations, it was the material for the following semester in Transfiguration and he’d already read ahead. The mention of a focus was, however, new information that wasn’t in the text book.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then looked helplessly at Padfoot who had frozen to stare into Luna’s bright eyes. After a second the dog gave a sneeze before curling back into a ball and falling asleep.

Luna straightened with a faint smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. You’re not the only ones with secrets.” She paused, looking at the cauldron Harry had quite forgotten. “Though if you’re going to stir it counter-clockwise, you should really switch to a brass rod. Pewter dulls the edges.”

And just like that, she drifted out again leaving Harry staring after her in a very confused state.

***

Two weeks. Harry had done his best to ignore every slytherin third-year he came in contact with for two weeks. He’d returned to sleeping in the dorm, but made it a habit to be up before his housemates, disappearing into the corridor’s secret passages to avoid them in the halls. He stayed in the library up until curfew, practicing a tune that made him unnoticeable to the other students, and used his cloak to sneak to the lake late at night. 

Not that the other slytherins were jumping into his path to begin with, but his obvious displeasure with the group had made quidditch and classes awkward. He’d caught Draco staring at him at the dining table several times before turning to whisper to Blaise, who had somehow injured his hand and had it wrapped. Being partnered with the blond boy made Double Potions a quiet affair. Tense, but quiet.

With just this week left until Christmas break, Snape had assigned the entire double period as a study lab, giving them access to restricted ingredients and several reference texts. This was all in service of their final project: the Antidote to Uncommon Poisons. Most student pairs had already finished their projects, heads bent over bubbling cauldrons for the last two weeks, flicking through dense books with increasingly frantic eyes. It wasn’t a fast potion to make, taking at least three days, and the extra time was provided for when they inevitably messed up and had to start over completely. Out of the seven pairs and one group of three, five vials sat on Snape’s desk ready for grading. Those that had finished were able to leave class early.

Harry and Draco, of course, hadn't even started. Not that they were speaking. Harry worked in silence, grinding scarab beetles with unnecessary force, the pestle striking the mortar hard enough to make nearby students glance up. He didn’t care. Draco hovered just out of reach, awkward and uncertain, flipping through the antidote manual with the stiffness of someone who didn’t dare speak first.

Harry laid out the rest of his ingredients in meticulous rows; ginger root, armadillo bile, and newt spleens. Ignoring the way Draco opened his mouth once, twice, then shut it each time without a word. A part of Harry registered the rare silence from his usually vocal companion. No snide comments, no digs at Hermione, no fake bravado. And no courage. 

Harry hummed to himself, chopping the ginger and boiling the spleens until they had a pudding consistency. Time ticked by, painfully slow, and still Draco hadn’t said anything. He made no attempt to save their grade, and Harry had to wonder if the blond’s hatred of him had overcome his need to excel. 

Hermione hadn’t been joking about Malfoy being smart. The other boy excelled in potions by his own right, not because he was a favorite of Snape. And it wasn’t that he was a prodigy, since he spent a lot of his down time studying nearly as much as Hermione. Harry could easily imagine either of them having been sorted into Ravenclaw over any other house. So Harry couldn’t fathom why his lab partner sat by, silently watching the preparation of the wrong ingredients.

Not even as a joke.

Harry could see the other two groups working quietly. Milliencet had gotten paired with Crabb and Goyle, and was obviously carrying the brain trust. They sat to the far right of the class room near the ingredient pantry, their cauldron bubbling angrily in response to Goyle sneezing at it. Ron and Neville were the other last minute contenders, sitting as close to the exit as possible without actually leaning out of the door. Neville looked confused as he weighed sections of Chizpurfle carapaces while glancing at the text repeatedly. Ron appeared to have already checked out, and was staring at the doorway longingly. Harry and Draco took up the back bench in the middle row, Harry’s cauldron set to a simmer on the magical burner.

About half way through the free period, Snape disappeared into the back room with the vague instructions that no one blow anything up. Ron seemed to take this as his cue to bolt, patting Neville on the shoulder with a “you got this bud,” which left Harry rolling his eyes. Had he always been blind to Ron’s laziness, or was it a side effect of not having Hermione to guilt him? Either way, tried his best to ignore the redhead, not wanting another headache inducing memory.

 A whisper came from the seat beside Harry.

“Quite the Defense lecture,” Draco paused, as if gauging Harry’s reaction before continuing. “Didn’t realize Grindylow were quite that ugly.” A strained laugh followed the attempt at conversation.

Harry didn’t answer, his temper once again pooling at the edges of his mind. While Harry no longer had the urge to rearrange the blond’s teeth, he’d learned the haircolor charm and wasn’t afraid to use it. Taking the forced small talk as his cue, he began bottling the newt goo from his cauldron. The silence dragged as Draco seemed to flounder. 

Fingertips grazed Harry’s shoulder, and here was a small popping sound from Ron and Neville's cauldron, followed by cursing from the lone boy. But Harry paid it no mind, instead turning his icy green stare to the boy next to him. Draco’s face conveyed several emotions at once; contrition, guilt, and a flicker of shock at Harry’s quiet hostility. 

“Potter, wait, just-” Draco’s voice cracked, unsure. His hand dropped as quickly as it had touched.

Harry stared into silver grey eyes ringed by dark circles, “What?”

Draco looked… uncomfortable. Not arrogant, just a normal boy fidgeting as he tried to find his words. His mouth twisted in a way Harry hadn’t seen before, like he was trying to say something genuine but hadn’t used those muscles enough to make the shape right.

“I was going to say I’m sorry,” Draco muttered. “For what I said. What I did. That night. I… didn’t mean for it to come out. I didn’t mean it.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. There was no smirk. No sneer. Just a nervous tension like Draco wasn’t sure what answer he was hoping for, while the set of his shoulders showed that he was expecting a violent response. Reasonable, since last year Harry might have jinxed him out of spite; but the blond’s wand was set away from him at the end of the table. A white flag if he’d ever seen one.

Harry sighed, turning back to fold the ginger slices into a small velvet square, tucking it beside the pink vials of goo.

“You want to apologize?” Harry said quietly, jaw clenched. “Start with Hermione.”

He felt Draco flinch like he'd been hit. Harry scooped the beetle dust into a drawstring bag, placing it and a flask of armadillo bile beside the other ingredients. He cast a side eyed glance, “For once, I’m not the one you humiliated in front of the whole common room.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just slung his bag over his shoulder as he stood.

“Wait! What about the project?” Draco called, his voice panicked. “This is the last work period before it’s due, we haven't even started.”

He didn’t answer, walking to the front of the room. He could feel the other’s eyes on him as he stepped up to Snape’s prep table. With a silent prayer that no dog hair had found its way into the concoction, Harry pulled a cobalt blue glass flask from his robe pocket, setting it beside the others. A clean label, perfectly printed:

Antidote to Uncommon Poisons – Group 3

He stepped out of the classroom without looking back; for once not having the urge to slam the door behind him. He took a deep breath in the empty hallway, pleased that he had held his temper in check. 

Walking up from the dungeons, Harry wrapped his scarf around his neck as he began making his way towards the nearest courtyard, craving some sunshine. The other classes were still in session, so he walked through the corridors unfettered. A few seventh years that had a free period were shoved into alcoves and window sills working on their semester papers or studying for N.E.W.T.s. And of course his own classmates who had finished their potions were around, but he didn’t see any of them before he stepped out into the snow covered ground.

The air smelled clean outside, the courtyard was quiet with any sounds dampened by the thick layer of snow. The sun casting bright light across the flagstones; the clouds had cleared, leaving the sky a bright blue with a weak breeze. A few seventh years studied near the fountain; a pair of Ravenclaws passed by, whispering over a shared parchment. Normal enough.

Until Harry heard raised voices.

He followed the sound around the yew hedge that bordered the walkway and froze. Ron, Seamus, and Dean had Pansy Parkinson cornered against an old statue. They weren’t hexing her, not yet, but their voices were sharp, words dripping with mockery.

“Didn’t know Slytherins came out in the daylight,” Seamus sneered.

“Thought your lot only crawled out when there’s mud to roll in,” Dean added.

Pansy crossed her arms and tried to hide how small she looked, chin up in practiced defiance. “Oh, careful boys,” she said, “If you think too hard, one of you might burst a vein.””

Harry quietly edged closer, still out of site as Ron pulled his wand and stepped too close to the girl for his liking. Ron sneered. “We’re just giving you a taste of what it’s like to be powerless, Parkinson. All that pure-blood pride and nothing to show for it but a big mouth and a family name no one respects anymore.”

“I haven’t done anything to you,” Pansy snapped, but her voice wavered. Harry was already moving forward, mouth open to say something, wand in hand when another voice cracked through the courtyard like lightning.

“That’s enough.”

Hermione stood at the edge of the path opposite Harry, hair wild from the breeze, eyes aflame. Ron turned, caught off guard. “Oh look, another snake,” he muttered. His voice was sharp, but the venom had cooled with the addition of a witness.

“I said that’s enough.” Hermione stalked forward, robes flaring behind her like the train of a furious goddess. She stepped directly between the boys and Pansy, arms crossed tight. She held her head high, her presence just as commanding while defending Pansy as she had been fighting her.

Ron looked at the witch like she’d betrayed him all over again. “What, did the hat finally put you where you belonged? Figures. Knew it was only a matter of time before you started looking down on us too.”

Hermione’s lips curled, not in anger but something colder. “I don’t need to look down on you, Ron. You’ve never once reached my level.”

That did it. Ron’s wand was out before anyone could stop him, fury flashing across his face as he cast a hasty hex. “ Locomotor Wibbly !”

This wasn’t a duel, not like it had been with the slytherin girl. No form, precision or rules. This was an embarrassment disguised as magic. Hermione easily batted it away, looking bored as she cast her own. 

“ Oppugno Avis !” A flurry of conjured birds exploded into the air between them and immediately dived at Ron, pecking and clawing at his face and arms. He stumbled back, cursing, trying to swat them away. Dean and Seamus stepped up, ready to cast in their lot with the redhead. The loyalty was to be commended, but two against three wasn’t fair even if Hermione could disarm them all without batting an eye. The boys drew their wands, but Harry was faster.

He stepped in beside Hermione, wand pointed and steady, his voice calm but deadly serious. “Don’t.”

They froze. One look at Harry’s face, and neither of them moved.The conjured birds disappeared on Hermione’s unspoken release, feathers drifting lazily in the stunned silence. Ron stood there, red-faced and livid, eyes darting between Harry and Hermione. For a long second, no one moved.

Then Dean muttered, “Come on,” and tugged Ron’s sleeve. The three turned and stormed off, Ron trailing last, still wiping blood from a shallow scratch near his eye.

Hermione and Harry turned to look at each other, paused, then burst out laughing.
“Good job with the birds!” Harry wheezed, just as Hermione gasped, “You’ve-you’ve got-the evil eye down.” That sent them both into another round of breathless, wheezing giggles, hands on knees and shoulders shaking.

“Ahem.” They turned, having forgotten their rescued target. Pansy stood behind them, arms folded across herself defensively , one perfectly manicured brow arched high. She was tapping her foot with the air of someone thoroughly unimpressed, as she waited for them to collect themselves. Finally, “I could’ve handled it myself, you know,” she sniffed, chin lifted, waving a hand in the air as if to push away a bad smell. “Didn’t need some bleeding-heart rescue squad.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but caught sight of the slight tremble in her frame, the way her hands were clenched tightly against her rib cage. She wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted to look. Hermione caught it as well, but she didn’t miss a beat. Her posture straightened, ready to do battle. “I don’t like bullies,” she said simply. “Doesn’t matter what house they’re from.”

The reminder had Pansy looking away quickly, jaw tight with embarrassment. “…Well. Don’t expect a thank-you.” But the venom had dulled. Her tone was more habit than hatred, and for the first time, Harry thought he saw a crack in Pansy’s armor that wasn’t bitterness. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hermione replied dryly, but not unkindly. Pansy rolled her eyes and started toward the castle, her steps were steadier now. 

Harry watched her go, then nudged Hermione with his elbow. “You always make such an entrance.”

Hermione smirked. “I get it from you.”

Chapter Text

Christmas season had finally arrived. No more classes, the stress of semester finals had subsided to make way for merriment. Mistle toe, garlan, and enchanted snow decorated the halls. The student body of third-years and up had started making their way down to Hogsmead about twenty minutes ago, and Harry felt an excited thrill of getting to see the ‘marvelous’ place Fred and George had been gushing about.

“I’ll bring you a treat when I come back,” He promised padfoot, who whined sadly at the boy. “Oh come now, I won’t be gone long, just popping in to see what all the fuss is about. And without all the students this will give you free range of the castle, I’ll even leave the door cracked for you.” This seemed to cheer up the mutt, and as Harry donned his invisibility cloak he walked over to nudge his head against Harry’s hand. He gave the dog one last pat before pulling the hood over his face and slipping into the corridor, careful to keep the door cracked like he promised. He knew the Padfoot was able to get in and out by himself, somehow, but he felt it might be easier.

Making his way to the Gunhilda statue on the third floor, Harry’s mind turned to more serious matters. Christmas was in two weeks, and Hermione was planning to go home this year. They’d talked it over after their Herbology final, and she’d confided in him that none of her adult memories held her parents. She wasn’t sure if they died, disowned her… or if she had somehow decided to abandon them. Whatever the reason, the knowledge had left the thirteen year old girl heartbroken and Harry had agreed that she should be spending the time with them.

With that in mind, Harry needed this time to purchase something for her for Christmas. How? He wasn’t sure, since he planned on staying invisible. Maybe I can pick something out, and make the twins pick it up for me? He tapped the hump on the one-eyed witch with his wand, whispering “ Dissendium ” to open the passage.

It was a quick trip, and far less cold than it would have been the normal way. Once out of the cellar, he was able to weave his way through the crowd of excited students, escaping from Honeydukes without getting caught. He took a deep breath, a wide grin spreading across his face. He was free, even if it was only for a few hours. 

He wandered the streets, peaking in windows at the variety of small shops dotting the streets. Gladrags, Ceridwen's Cauldrons, and Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop briefly held his attention, but he knew Hermione likely had all the school supplies she could need. He was feeling quite useless by the time he sat on one of the now covered benches; we’ve been friends for three years, surely I can figure out one present.

He caught sight of her walking further up the street, and was about to turn back when he caught sight of Malfoy trailing after her. The blond, upon seeing the curly haired witch, shooed off Crabb and Goyle who promptly scuttled back to Honeydukes for sweets. Suspicious, Harry stood, quickly making his way to the blond’s side without him noticing… though Draco turned his direction several times with a frown on his face as if sensing Harry’s presence. By the time they’d caught up to Hermione, she’d made it to the shrieking shack.

“Oi, Granger.” Malfoy called out. Harry could see her shoulders stiffen, and she quickly whipped around. She wiped her cheek with a green woolen mitten, but not before both boys saw the tear glistening off her chocolate skin. “Are you crying?” 

Ah yes, Malfoy, ever tactful. Harry rolled his eyes, but didn’t move from the other boy’s side for fear he’d notice the tracks in the snow. He kept his wand at the ready, not sure what the blond’s intentions were.

Hermione turned fully, her spine straightening like a rod as she yanked her mitten away from her cheek. “No, I’m not crying,” she snapped defensively.

Draco raised a pale brow. “You shouldn’t lie. You’re awful at it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And you’re awful at minding your own business. What do you want, Malfoy? Come to kick me while I’m down? Far warning, I’ll drop you like I did Pansy.” While Harry knew the threat was real, he could see the bravado she was putting on. She didn’t want to fight today, and he wished he could drag Draco by the hair back down the street to give her the solitude she’d obviously been seeking.

Malfoy looked momentarily thrown, gaze flicking to the snow-covered path behind her, then back up to her face. “No. I- I come in peace.” He raised his hands, wand nowhere in sight. His tone had shifted, stripped of its usual venom. He scratched the back of his neck, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. “I came to… apologize. For what I said.”

Hermione blinked, thrown off balance. “What, exactly, are you apologizing for? You’ve said a lot over the years.” Harry of course had told her about the incident after her fight with Pansy, as well as his talk with Draco during potions. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him, her own cold stare pinning him in place. 

He shifted again. “All of it,” he muttered, his eyes shifting to his boots before quickly darting back up her face. She didn’t budge, fisting her hands on her hips. He finally sighed, “For… calling you… words. Making fun of your hair… and your parents.” He seemed to grow frustrated at himself as he repeated, “All of it.”

“You think that fixes it?” she asked, voice low and tight.

Draco shook his head, gaze dropping once again to the snow. “No.”

There was a silence then. Cold wind stirred the air between them, tugging at Hermione’s scarf and the edge of her curls. The snow started to fall once again, puffs of white billowing around them. From beneath the invisibility cloak, Harry’s brow lifted. He had to hand it to Draco, he truly did look remorseful. He hadn’t been sure the other boy had heard him when he’d told him to apologize, much less that he would actually do it. 

Hermione looked at the blond for a long moment, equal parts confused, wary, and something quieter beneath it all. She folded her arms across her chest like armor. “You really are bad at this.”

“Thanks,” Draco deadpanned, clearly regretting every second of this encounter.

But Hermione’s voice was a little softer when she replied, “You’re lucky I don’t hex people for being socially incompetent.”

He actually cracked a faint, crooked smirk. “You’d have to hex Potter first.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Are you done?”

Draco hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Yeah. I’ll… see you around, Granger.”

Hermione watched him a second longer. Then, without another word, she brushed past him and began walking back towards the main street the way she’d come, scarf whipping behind her. Her footsteps were brisk, but not rushed. However, Harry didn’t miss the way she tugged her sleeves down over her hands or the slight tremble in her shoulders.

Draco stood frozen for a moment, having turned to watch her go. He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, arms crossed as if he could contain the discomfort knotting in his chest.

“Well, that was tragic.”

Draco jumped back a step, eyes wide as he turned to find Harry settling himself casually on the stoop of the Shrieking Shack, arms draped over his knees. The invisibility cloak puddled around him like snowmelt with its dark material looking like any other cloak. Harry was quite pleased to see the effect of his jump scare on the other boy.

“Potter?” Draco hissed, eyes darting around, clearly spooked by his random appearance.

Harry grinned lazily. “Nice touch, following her all the way out here to… what was that? Offer the world’s most awkward apology?” He tilted his head. “Really heartfelt. I almost shed a tear.” He knew he was being a dick, but his mind urged him to push, not to wave off the interaction.

“You were spying on me?” Draco’s voice pitched high with offense, but he looked more rattled than angry. He stepped forward, coming to stop where his boots barely brushed Harry’s worn sneakers.

Harry shrugged, unconcerned by the close proximity. “I was going for a walk. You just happened to be… suspicious.” He leaned back on his hands, looking up to tease the other boy. “Personal growth. I’m proud of you, Malfoy.”

Draco bristled, his fists clenching as if he was just barely holding back taking a swing at the bespectacled boy. “It wasn’t for you.”

“I would hope not, since I already got mine.” Harry studied him for a beat, his smirk fading just slightly. “You really meant it, didn’t you?”

Draco’s lips twisted, like the truth tasted sour. “Doesn’t matter.” 

Harry didn’t reply right away. The wind whistled low around the Shack, ratting the shudders against the windows. The laughter and chatter could be heard from the distance, softly muted on the layers of snow that covered everything. He knew he could continue to tease him, getting a rise out of him and continuing the stale mate they’d formed over the last two weeks, but something inside him wanted to make amends. Stupid adult thoughts…

“Maybe not to her; after everything you've put us through I wouldn’t be expecting her forgiveness… ” Harry said eventually, eyes narrowing. “But it should matter to you.”

Draco looked at him, for a long second. Harry’s green eyes met silver once more, and he could see a deep tiredness in them that he didn’t remember there being. Finally, a whispered reply, “It does.”

“Good, then give it time. She’s not one to hold grudges.” Harry stood with a grin, brushing against a too-close Draco who quickly stumbled back. He brushed snow from his cloak, draping it over his arm to look around for an escape route. He didn’t want to give away his secret to Malfoy, but couldn’t exactly get back to Hogwarts the way he’d come. A small cough drew his attention back to Draco, standing a few feet away now, back to looking awkward with a pink rising up his neck. 

The other boy didn’t look at Harry, “and you?”

“Me what?” Harry frowned in confusion, drawing a puff of frustrations from Draco.

“Hold grudges. Do you hold grudges?” He shuffled, unable to meet Harry’s gaze. Harry had to take a second to contemplate his answer before finally shrugging. 

“I might have, in a different time. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt this once.” He answered sagely, before smirking, “Of course, you can consider us even for whatever grudge you're holding over your hair.”

“So you admit you did it!” 

“I still have no clue what you’re talking about,” He answered honestly, walking forward to wrap an arm across Draco’s shoulders. The other boy stiffened considerably, obviously not expecting the physical contact. “Doesn’t mean you’re not holding a grudge over something I didn’t do. Now call us even and get over it.”

Draco rolled his eyes, “Alright fine.”

“Excellent!” For the first time in weeks Harry was appreciative of the overload of emotions that had invaded his psyche, as he felt a new sense of happiness and warmth flood him. No sadness, loneliness or anger in sight. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and instead began pulling the other boy back towards the streets. “Now, you wouldn’t by chance know a good Disillusionment charm to get me back to the castle, would you?”

“What?” He sputtered, before realization dawned, “That's right, you're not supposed to come to Hogsmeade. Didn’t get your slip signed?” He shifted his feet to hold his ground, forcing Harry to stop as well.

“Nope,” Harry shook his head, causing the accumulating snow to fall lightly to the ground.

“And now you expect me… How did you get down here yourself?”

Harry’s smile widened, “Magic.” This earned him another eye roll; he was surprised Draco’s eyes hadn’t rolled right out of his head with the number of times he’d pulled the exasperated expression. “What? I need to pick up some Christmas presents, I can’t do that from the comfort of the common room. But if you don’t want to help, I guess I’ll see you around,” seeing the other boy wasn’t budging, he turned to head back to the Shack. A few steps away, he heard a groan.

“Fine, come here.” Draco drew his want, waving it with a flourish and a clear “ nullum corpus ”. He felt the crack of a chilly egg over his head, the gooey spell running down his body. Harry looked down to see, or rather not see, his hands. Their outline barely visible as he turned them front and back. 

He gave a spin, “How do I look?”

“Shut up, and give me the cloak. It didn’t stick, I'm guessing because you’re not actually wearing it. Which is stupid, it’s freezing out here.” Harry didn’t say anything, only taking a deep breath before passing his keepsake to Draco. I hope I don’t regret this. Harry thought as Draco draped the cloak over his arm, turning back to head towards Hogsmead. “Come on, that spell will disappear if we get too far apart.” 

Harry followed meekly, keeping an eye on the others passing him in the street. No one seemed to notice him, but he stayed on Draco’s heels just in case. As they rounded the corner where the Hogs Head jutted out angrily into the street, a flash of gold caught his eye. The sign said ‘Fastidio’s Curios’; an ugly yellow shop with a glittering silver sign overhead hanging at a crooked angle, occasionally flickering between fonts. The crooked little shop squatted between a bakery and a wizarding photography studio, its narrow windows fogged from the inside. It looked like it had popped into existence solely to cause mischief. Or at least give Harry the idea of mischief.

Harry yanked Draco by the sleeve, dragging him through the door before the blond could protest again.

“What are you- Hey wait, no! I wouldn’t be caught dead going in there,” Draco snapped in a harsh whisper, heels skidding on the step. “This place looks like a cursed wardrobe exploded.”

“That’s the spirit,” Harry muttered, giving one last tug which pulled Draco over the threshold. The moment they stepped inside, a bell above the door let out what sounded like a sneeze.

Draco blinked. “Did that bell just insult me?”

“No, I think it has dust allergies,” Harry said, his face hurting from the grin that had yet to fade. “You two should get along famously.” Draco cast a withering glare at Harry’s outline as he brushed snow from his shoulders.

Shelves lined with enchanted knickknacks stretched toward the ceiling. Some twirled gently in place. Others blinked. One rather ominous plush toad tracked their movement with glassy eyes. It reminded him of one of the second hand shops Aunt Petunia would drag him into as a small child, forcing him to sit still and quiet while she shopped for small collectable spoons.

“I hate it here,” Draco said flatly, plucking a cobweb off his sleeve. “And for the record, this wasn’t part of the deal. I was meant to escort you back to Hogwarts, not join your... bizarre scavenger hunt.” His eyes turned towards a whirlybird shaped like a griffon.

“I told you I still needed to get my shopping done,” Harry said, his invisible form ducking beneath a dangling charm that honked as he passed. “Relax. I’m getting something for Hermione… And maybe something cursed for Ron.” He muttered as an after thought, a flair of irritation as he caught sight of the redhead outside. Yesterday, his ex-bestfriend had sent Hermione to Madam Pomfrey with a teeth growing jinx; a spell that had earned the boy a detention with McGonagall but apparently had not prevented his Hogsmeade trip today.

“Tempting,” Draco muttered, also spotting the boy through the window. “Get him one of those ghastly self-writing quills. If it explodes ink on him, it’s a bonus.”

Harry snorted. “Look at that, team spirit.”

Draco smirked in his direction, “And I thought you said you didn’t hold grudges.” He pulled a remembrall from the shelf, which promptly turned red before he hastily placed it back in its velvet lined box with a frown.

“Case by case, I’m afraid.” Harry flipped his invisible hand in the air. They stopped in front of a shelf where a cluster of snow globes was rattling like they had opinions. One showed a miniature Professor Trelawney arguing with a reindeer. “I think this one’s possessed,” He whispered, peering into it as the tiny figure’s arms flew up in frustration.

Draco leaned in to look at one with a mini centaur encased in its own snowy world, then abruptly recoiled. “It just winked at me. I’m not buying anything that flirts.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It winked at me first.”

“That’s worse.” As Harry reached for a peculiar pendant encased in a dome of swirling smoke, Draco folded his arms, watching him like someone observing a toddler near a fireplace. “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

Harry looked over. “Buying a gift?”

“Yes. That. You shop like a niffler, latching on to anything shiny.”

“Helpful input. Thank you.” He placed the pendant back on the stand, "Unfortunately I haven't had much experience.” he said as an after thought. 

Draco cast him a long glance before sighing, then reached for a small box tucked near the back of the shelf. “Here. It’s a charm that turns pages to the reader’s favorite part automatically. Subtle magic, and thoughtful for someone who reads all the time.” Inside the box held a thin metallic ribbon, a bookmark with the image of several flying seahorses fluttering within the fabric.

Harry blinked. “That’s… actually really good.”

“I know,” Draco said with exaggerated pride. “My taste is impeccable. You’re welcome.”

Harry smirked. “Does this mean you’re officially on Team Christmas?”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t push it, Potter.” Harry laughed before passing the box and several gold into Draco’s hands. “Hey, what do I look like, your house elf?”

“I’m invisible, remember? The whole point is so no one catches me.” Harry gave him a shove towards the back, where an extra small house elf was manning the counter. She was dressed in a delicate pink dress, a large nametag pinned to the lapel with ‘Penny’ written over the face. It was a quick exchange before they were back out in the snow, Draco carrying his cloak and box with a deep scowl. 

The temperature had dropped considerably while they were inside, and now most of the shoppers had either found shelter at the Three Broom Sticks or were facing the trek up the hill in calf deep snow. Harry was already shivering, and he could see that Draco was in a similar state. Making a snap decision, he reached out to tug on the boy’s sleeve one more time.

“W-hat?” He whispered with a glare of displeasure, teeth chattering.

“Lets go this way,” Harry pulled him in the direction of Honeydukes.

Draco huffed, but followed without complaint, most likely dreading the walk to Hogwarts as much as Harry. They entered the warm shop, both sighing with pleasure at the smell of sweets and temperature. The crowds had cleared out, and the few students left didn’t pay Draco any mind. Harry looked around, quickly spotting the doorway into the cellar where he’d come in. It was unmanned, and he quickly pushed Draco in that direction. 

“What are you doing,” He hissed, stiffening once more from Harry’s hands on his shoulder, steering him down the steps.

“Think of it as a reward for being a good sport,” Harry whispered in his ear. “Down we go.”

Once in the cellar, Harry hummed two notes lightly; one of the few things he’d mastered with his musical magic, a tune that removed charms and spells. The gooey Disillusionment charm fell way, and he smirked at Draco’s shocked expression. “How’d you do that?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” He lied as he shifted towards the back of the cellar, opening the secret passage behind one of the crates. It was a dark hole, and Malfoy scoffed.

“You don't expect me to follow you in there, do you?”

“If you feel like taking an icy walk back to the castle, by your leave. I'm sure it's very refreshing, but I’d much rather avoid the freezing-to-death part of this adventure.”

Draco cast another doubtful look down the passage, his nose crinkling in disgust. Finally he groaned, “I hate you,” He shoved Harry’s belongings into the dark boy’s arms before climbing into the hole. 

“And just think, this is only day one of being on my good side.” Harry teased, following after him.

***

The castle was hushed in the soft quiet of Christmas morning. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays, including the Slytherins and Hermione, who had left Crookshanks in Harry’s care with the parting words, “He likes salmon. And don’t let him bully you.”

Harry had woken up alone in his dorm, bright green light filtering in from the lake window. He was excited to find a neat stack of gifts at the foot of his bed, wrapped in everything from shimmering green foil to the unmistakable brown paper of Hagrid’s lopsided packages. At the very top was a hand-knit jumper from Mrs. Weasley, green with a bold gold H stitched in the center. He grinned at it, feeling an odd warmth settle into his chest. 

He knew from Fred and George that their mother didn’t “appreciate” his switching of houses, and he was sure Ron had been feeding her nothing but complaints since it happened. But he hoped this was a sign that he wasn’t completely forsaken, as he still cared about the family in general.

"Suppose this counts as house unity," he muttered, amused by the reference of Gryffindor gold paired with the dark Slytherin green. It was soft and he quickly pulled it on before shrinking everything else, stuffing them all into his pack before hauling his treasures up to the unused classroom he'd claimed for himself, Padfoot, and Crookshanks.

The room was aglow with enchantments. Snow drifted past the high windows, piling along ledges and blanketing the grounds in white. A tall pine stood proudly in the corner of the class, transfigured from a broken desk, its branches now draped in strings of silver stars and shimmering icicles that tinkled like bells. The air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and a bit of burnt tinsel from a failed spell two days ago.

Padfoot was stretched out on his bed, looking quite pleased with himself. Crookshanks lounged atop the back of a conjured fluffy armchair like a smug, ginger gargoyle. Harry plopped down beside Padfoot on the purple cushion that Harry was sure continued to grow in size every time he left the room. 

“Alright, who’s ready for carols?” he said brightly. Both animals appeared to give him a doubtful look causing him to grin. He cleared his throat and attempted the haunting tune of the Winter Solstice song the merfolk had taught him; complete with elongated vowels and a bubbling cadence of what he had begun to call ‘squidish’ since the giant squid of the lake tended to make a similar sound every time he got too close.

Padfoot whimpered and put his paws over his ears. Crookshanks’s tail puffed out like a bottlebrush. Harry broke off with a wheeze of laughter. “Alright, alright, tough crowd.”

He picked up two gifts. One, wrapped in blue with floating paw prints, was tossed toward Padfoot. The other, a crinkling little bag tied in gold string, he set reverently before Crookshanks. “Merry Christmas, you spoiled monsters.”

Padfoot barked and tore into his parcel to reveal a squeaky broom-shaped chew toy laying atop a large red tartan blanket, while Crookshanks rubbed his squished face forcefully into his catnip with surprising ferocity.

Harry leaned back, smiling, then reached for his own haul. Chocolate frogs from Theo, a new broom-polishing kit from Hermione, socks from Dobby with tiny snitches, and a small glass orb from Luna that glowed with soft pearly light. He unwrapped a metal tin, peaking to find several familiar shaped snacks.

“Treacle tart!” he announced with glee, brandishing it at Padfoot. “Want a bite?” The dog turned towards him, sniffed the tart, then froze. His fur bristled, and a low growl rumbled from his throat. He snapped once warningly at the treat, hackles up. Harry blinked. “Suit yourself. More for me, then.”

He took a generous bite. The tart was perfect; sweet, warm, and familiar.

Then the room tilted. Stars fell from the ceiling. Crookshanks’s meow sounded like it was echoing down a long tunnel. A dark haired man appeared in front of him, calling out his name from what sounded like miles away. The half-eaten tart slipped from Harry’s fingers as darkness swallowed everything.

Chapter Text

Severus had endured many indignities in his life. Sharing breathing space with a festive werewolf ranked disturbingly high among them. He stood stiffly near his fireplace, staring at Remus Lupin who had dressed in a hideous Christmas sweater, images of bowtruckles in red bows dancing across the neckline.

The conversation had remained civil at breakfast, Remus discussing finals and students at him with little need for response. He had been sure that the only reason the wolf had attempted conversation at all was because Severus was the only option at the high table, and so had resisted the urge to hex the man out of civility. But the discussion had followed him back to his quarters.

Something deep in him didn’t hate the idea of the man sitting in his chair, and so he’d let him stay for tea. A terrible decision.

Now Lupin was sipping it as if he belonged there, cradling the warm mug in both hands like some sort of windswept romantic, his sweater even worse in the firelight. Severus couldn’t look directly at it without his vision twitching.

“You know,” Lupin said, glancing up at him with that faint, maddening smile, “I thought about getting you something practical. But this felt more... seasonal.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package. Severus hesitated. It was too light to be anything useful. Likely something absurd, or worse… sentimental.

“A token of thanks,” Lupin added, a little softer, “for tolerating me.” 

“Is that what this is? Tolerating?” Severus said coldly. In truth, he’d been tolerating the wolf quite a bit. Since the dementor incident Remus seemed to be everywhere. The potions lab looking for ingredients Severus knew he already had, the halls going the wrong direction to his classes, and steadfast in sitting next to him for evening meals, even if they didn’t speak. Even on the evenings when Severus had to deliver his wolfbane’s potion, more often than not the werewolf would trap him in some conversation or another that would end up occupying his thoughts long after escaping his company. He eyed the offered package as though it might bite. “I assumed it was pity. Or some misguided attempt to civilize me with holiday cheer.”

Lupin’s smile faltered. “Ah. Of course.” He set the present on the table instead of offering it again, gaze lowering just slightly. “Well. Consider it a failed experiment, then.”

The words landed heavier than expected. Damn it . He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but something knotted in his chest like guilt. Severus’s mouth opened, but the apology lodged like a bone in his throat. It had been a joke. Mostly. A defense. The man was being nice, too nice, and his instinct had been to slice at it before it grew teeth.

“I-” He looked away, shifting. His fingers curled around the edge of the mantel as if he could scowl his way through the rising tide of discomfort. “I didn’t mean…” Another twitch of his jaw. “You shouldn’t have brought something.”

Lupin looked back up at him, his smile dimmed into something thinner, more careful; not quite wounded, not yet forgiving. “That’s alright,” he said gently, though his tone carried a note of distance. “I knew it was a gamble.”

Severus didn’t answer. He fixed his gaze on the fireplace, on the flames licking up the charred logs. The silence between them stretched out, taut and fraying, until it hummed in his ears like static. He hated this feeling; like he’d dropped something fragile and then stood there, too proud to bend and pick up the pieces. The memory of the last time he’d felt this way still lived like a dark stain on his soul, the last time he’d seen his best friend, tear filled green eyes filled with hate.

“It’s not…” he muttered at last, unsure why the words felt like gravel in his throat. “It’s not hideous.”

There was a pause. “Pardon?” Lupin asked, blinking at him in mild surprise.

“The… bowtruckles,” Severus said stiffly, flicking two fingers toward the offending sweater without looking. “They’re… festive.”

For a second, there was only the pop and crackle of the fire. Then Lupin gave a sharp laugh, a genuine sound that startled Severus more than any spell could have. “Oh, no, they’re awful,” Lupin said with a groan, tugging at the edge of the sweater as if it would somehow change into something less hideous. “I gagged the first time I saw it.”

Severus turned to him, startled out of his carefully constructed indifference. His expression slipped into curiosity, disbelief, something softer flickering beneath the usual scowl. “Then why,” he asked slowly, “do you wear it?”

Lupin’s fingers stilled. The humor drained from his face like color from a dream, leaving behind something raw and unfinished. His gaze dropped as his hands curled around the teacup, the firelight catching the threads of grey in his hair. “It was a gift,” he said, voice quieter now. “From Lily.”

Severus flinched, visibly, his face turning away before he could stop himself. The pain bloomed too quickly, too close to the surface. It always did where she was concerned. Across the room, Lupin’s smile had vanished completely. In its place was something similar; grief tucked gently behind his eyes, like a photo worn soft from being touched too often.

“I only bring it out at Christmas,” he added softly. “She said the bowtruckles looked like they were trying to fight off the cheer. She thought I’d appreciate that.”

Severus swallowed. His throat felt tight. He didn’t know whether it was guilt or memory that did it. He shifted his weight, every instinct screaming at him to retreat into coldness, to shut the moment down, to rebuild the wall Lupin had quietly stepped over.

A bark drew their attention.

Remus shot from the chair, his tea cup clattering to the floor as he drew his wand. Severus's wand slid into his hand reflexively, the prickle of unease tracing up his spine like cold fingers. 

The bark came again; low, forceful, right outside the door. Both men moved swiftly across the room, raising their wands high as if preparing for an ambush. Eyes meeting, Severus gave a minute nod before Remus flung the door open.

Harry Potter was standing there.

But something was off.

His eyes were vacant, unfocused, as if staring through them. One hand clutched the ruff of fur at the neck of the black dog beside him. Its ears lay flattened against its head, lip curled in warning, a soft growl reverberating deep in its throat.

Lupin inhaled sharply. “Padfoot.” The name slipped out in an instinctive whisper, intimate, but laced with years of pain. The dog’s growl softened at the sound, but didn’t vanish. It looked too Lupin cautiously, ears twitching.

Severus glanced at him sharply. “You know this mutt?”

Lupin didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the dog with a storm of emotions swirling behind them; shock, fury, fear, and something else akin to love. The seconds ticked by, his hesitation creating a flurry of questions in Severus’s mind.

Lupin’s focus shifted to the boy, and he inhaled sharply. “Harry?”

The boy didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch.

Severus lowered his wand slowly, eyes narrowing. “This is a staff-only corridor, Potter. Though clearly, rules are still a suggestion where you’re concerned.” His tone was icy with irritation, which would usually elicit a scowl from the teen.

Still nothing from Harry. No blink. No flicker of recognition. His pupils were dilated, face pale, lips slightly parted as if mid-thought… or mid-spell. The dog stepped forward at his biting comment, putting itself between Severus and the boy. Its growl deepened, muscles taut with tension, but its gaze flicked to Lupin. It gave a low, anxious whine and nosed at Harry’s leg, as if urging him toward the werewolf.

Severus muttered under his breath, scanning Harry’s posture, his glassy green eyes, the taut lines of his fingers where they clung to fur. “Something is wrong,” He said grimly. “And if you don’t stop gawking and get the boy inside, I swear I will hex you both.”

Lupin didn’t reply, he was already reaching for Harry with a trembling hand. He guided Harry in gently, one hand on his shoulder, though the boy didn’t seem to register the touch. The dog followed, brushing close to Lupin’s leg, protective of the boy. Severus shut the door with a snap of his wand, wards going up strong enough to keep even Dumbledore out.

They settled Harry into a worn leather armchair by the fire. He didn’t resist, didn’t blink. His arms lay limp at his sides, eyes open but unfocused. The mutt gave another soft, uneasy whine, and lowered itself to the floor near Harry’s feet. Severus ignored it, instead turning his attention to the boy.

“He’s been struck by a confundus, ” Lupin murmured, crouching beside the chair. “Or, something like it.”

Snape didn’t answer. He was already moving, sweeping bottles off a shelf with practiced precision. He uncorked a small pewter vial and returned to Harry’s side, pressing the edge to the boy’s lips.

“Wit-Sharpening Potion,” he muttered. “If there’s any awareness left in him, this should rouse it.”

Lupin held Harry’s head steady as Severus tipped the contents in.

Nothing. Severus’s jaw tightened.

“Well?” Lupin asked softly.

Snape drew his wand and gave it a sharp flick. A shimmer of light passed over Harry’s form, then recoiled, like a net snagging on thorns.

“The compulsion charm,” he said flatly. “It has been repaired, and there’s been a second layer added.”

Lupin straightened. “Repaired?”

Severus narrowed his eyes, flicking his wand again. This time the shimmer peeled back to slowly reveal traces of the older spell: sharp, splintered lines like broken glass, pink in color still clinging around Harry’s form. Between the fragments, what looked like thick spider webbing of silver clung to the edges. It pulled taught between the fragments as if trying to pull the old compulsion back into place. 

“The original was delicate, light enough that no one would notice. No one would suspect that the boy was acting out of any will but his own. It looks as if someone is trying to weave it back together slowly. It would make sense; Potter has been a completely different person this year. If he were to go back to how he was before, people might start asking questions.”

“And the second?”

The potion master’s expression turned grim. “The second is new. And cruder.”

A thin mesh of magic tangled around the older shards as if someone had thrown a net over barbed wire. It pulsed faintly with magic, glowing a putrid yellow under Severus’s inspection. From what he could tell, instead of targeting specific behaviors, the spell had blanketed Harry’s mind entirely.

“Sloppy,” He muttered, voice low and dark. “Amateur work. It wasn’t tailored. It’s like forcing a locked door with a hammer; no finesse, no restraint.”

He gestured sharply, illuminating the network so that Remus could see what he saw. “This is what’s reduced him to this state. They didn’t just influence his will. They overwhelmed it.”

Lupin’s voice was tight. “Can you undo it?”

Severus didn’t answer immediately. He moved closer, wand drifting slowly across the mesh, muttering under his breath. The light shifted, flaring red near Harry’s temple. “Someone tried to bury him,” he said, almost to himself. “Whatever commands were meant to be planted… they never stuck. The spell backfired. His mind’s too strong, or it resisted too long. So instead of becoming suggestible…”

“He shut down,” Lupin finished, horror dawning in his voice. “Like a defense mechanism.”

Severus gave a curt nod. “Yes. Whoever cast this didn’t understand how to layer a compulsion. They brute-forced it, and now Potter’s caught in the backlash.” He flicked his wand once more, a slow, spiraling motion that pulled a tendril of the magic upward like a loose thread. It hissed in the air, sparking faintly before snapping back into the weave.

He growled in frustration. “It’s entangled with the older spell work. If I pull too sharply, I might damage his cognitive function, or what’s left of it under this mess.”

Lupin knelt again beside Harry, brushing a hand gently through the boy’s hair. “He followed Padfoot,” he said, voice low. “Even like this… something in him sought help.”

He didn’t respond; His focus remained on the network of tangled enchantments, brows drawn in a hard line. “I can unravel it,” he said eventually. “But not in one go. And not without risk.”

“How much risk?”

Severus looked at him, eyes black and cold. “Memory loss. Magical trauma. Potential disassociation. If the older compulsion charm was reinforcing passivity…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Lupin swallowed hard. “Do it anyway.”

Severus hesitated. “If this was done to him on school grounds, there may be more to uncover than just spells.”

Lupin looked back at Harry. “Then we start with this.”

He gave a sharp nod, raising his wand again.

***

Sirius sat on the carpet by the fire, chills racking his body as another nightmare filled night ticked by. Harry had awoken to his godfather's yells, padding barefoot down to the library where the older man had sequestered himself. Harry sat beside him, attempting to offer what little comfort he could as lost eyes watched the flickering fire.

“It was my fault…” Sirius’s gaunt face looked almost skeletal in the flickering shadows, his whispered confession breaking over the crackle of the flames. “It was my fault Peter got away, I let my anger get the better of me. I couldn’t see the damage it would cause, but he knew, had always known. The only one of us with a temper worse than mine was Lily, and I played right into his hands.” He voiced his regrets like final words before an execution, knowing they wouldn’t change anything but an attempt to lessen the guilt. He was still living in the past, and would continue to live in the past until the day he died.

Harry couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t relate. He’d never felt the need for vengeance, nor the strong emotions of rage or grief. The loss of Cedric had left him more hollow than usual. He’d shed the tears, questioned himself and his abilities. But something had soothed him as it always did, as if to say ‘what is one more loss in a war full of casualties.’ Even now, his arm ached from it’s new scar but his mind was calm.

His godfather sought absolution, and so he gave it. 

The memory shifted, where Harry sat alone in front of a different fireplace. The light flickered through the glass of brandy in his hand, prisms of light shining on his skin as he watched the dancing flames in the same fashion Sirius had all those years ago. He felt it now. Knew the shadows the other man had sought to escape. 

The stillness was gone, had slowly faded over the years. He’d seen a healer and had been shocked to find the remnants of several compulsion charms draped over his person. The caster, long dead, but the consequences of which left Harry shaken to his very core. Every single emotion he’d always lacked now bubbled under his skin, making him volatile. And as he stared into the fire all he saw were the eyes of ghosts, family and friends he might have been able to help had he not been bespelled. 

A knock sounded at the door, but he didn’t bother turning. Ginny opened it without a care, her bags set beside her booted foot. “You’re weak. The savior of the wizarding world and all you can do is let them walk all over you. If you just gave him a chance you’d see he’s right.” Her voice was cold and full of venom. “They deserve to be hunted for what they did.”

“What did they do Gin?” He felt no love for the woman who was the mother of his children; any feelings he’d had for her had died when he’d learned of the love spell, coiled neatly with the rest. He hadn't asked her, hadn't wanted to know if it was her handiwork or someone elses.

“My brother is dead because of their choices, because they chose the wrong side. Don’t make the same mistake.” She swept away, the door slamming behind her. Harry shot to his feet, slamming the glass into the fire, glass shattering into a thousand pieces around him. He looked down at his hand where a shard had ricochet, blood seeping down over his Potter Lordship ring. Gold and blood glistened in the firelight. His eyes lifted to the mirror above the mantle. The image of an aged man, dark tanned skin, hair loose and wild, green eyes hidden behind glasses seemed to flicker. It gave way to the image of his younger self who watched the memories through the older man's eyes. No stubble or age lines marred his face as it contorted in anger to reflect his adult feelings.

“Don't make the same mistake.” His own voice echoed back at him as Harry’s mind slipped into darkness.

***

“-why I specialized in potion work!” The yell sent a shock through Harry’s mind.

“I’m not belittling you, Severus, you’re doing as much as you can!”

Harry felt as if he were underwater. The voices bled through the fog in his mind like distorted echoes, distant and murky… And he couldn’t breathe.

A sudden rush of panic tore through his chest. His arms flailed blindly, hands clawing at the air, at anything as he gasped, trying to break through the invisible surface above him. His lungs screamed, and his breath heaved from his body with a strangled, desperate wheeze. He was being held down, he kicked out with all of his strength. Warmth shifted over his legs, and a heavy weight tumbled from his feet with a surprised bark.

Harry jerked upward, his mind trying to process. Heart pounding in his chest, his breaths coming in short panicked bursts, his eyes darted at his blurry surroundings.

“Harry!” The word was distant, then nearer, sharper. A flash of movement crossed his vision.

“Potter, stop thrashing!” Snape’s voice, irritated and controlled, but edged with urgency.

Harry’s eyes blinked, wild and unfocused. He was sitting up in a bed, a charcoal blanket tangled around him, his skin clammy with sweat. A familiar black shape loomed beside him. Padfoot whined low, ears pinned back in concern.

Harry tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasp.

Lupin was at his side in an instant, crouched down beside the dog, his eyes wide with worry. “Harry, it’s alright. You’re safe.”

“Breathe, Potter,” Snape added, standing at the end of the bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if warding off concern. “You are not dying. Merely regaining access to your higher brain functions.”

Harry sucked in a shaky breath, then another. The world began to settle around him. He couldn’t see well without his glasses, but he could make out a wardrobe and a dresser, gold picture frames sitting atop it glittering in the candle light. There was a soft rustle of robes as Snape turned to disappear in the other room. A fire burned low in the hearth, warmth radiating through the room.

“You were shouting,” Harry said hoarsely, licking his dry lips.

Lupin winced. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yes we did, who knew that would be the key to our success.” Snape called through the doorway.

“You didn’t. I was drowning.”

“You were not drowning,” Snape reappeared with a steaming floating mug and a sneer, though he stepped forward and waved his wand with brisk efficiency. “Your body is simply reestablishing equilibrium after having its will overridden. You may feel... lightheaded. Disoriented. More incompetent than usual.”

Harry glared, but it was too weak to have real effect. He looked to Padfoot instead, who had climbed back onto the bed, half on Harry’s lap, half on his feet again, tail thumping softly against the cushions.

“Where am I? How did I get here?”

Both men hesitated.

Snape’s lip curled faintly, motioning to the dog “He brought you to my door in quite a state.”

Lupin cut in gently, “We don’t know exactly what happened yet. But yes, he brought you to us.”

Harry swallowed hard and scratched behind Padfoot’s ears. “Good boy.” This seemed to displease Professor Lupin, who stood to lean back against the wall. Padfoot huffed and buried his nose in Harry’s leg as if he sensed the man’s displeasure and wanted to hide from it.

Harry scooted back against the headboard, breathing more evenly now, though his muscles still trembled with lingering tension. Padfoot’s weight was grounding, but so was the silence between the two men standing over him.

He glanced up, voice still rasping. “What... what was wrong with me?”

Snape exhaled sharply through his nose. “An enchantment. Two, in fact. One old and broken, but being repaired, while the second was newer.”

Harry frowned. “Newer?”

Snape’s eyes darkened. “A crude rushed compulsion charm. Sloppily cast. It was designed to make you suggestible. I’d say it overshot. Flattened your will. Turned you into something halfway between a puppet and a portrait.”

Lupin added softly, “You were awake, but... gone. We couldn’t reach you.”

“Except for the fact you stumbled to my door,” Snape cut in, gaze flicking to Padfoot, “Do you remember anything?”

Harry shook his head. “We were celebrating, opening presents. I took a bite of a Treacle Tart… then nothing.”

“We?” Lupin raised a questioning eyebrow,

“Hermione’s cat Crookshanks, myself, and…” He looked down at the mass of blackfur, “And Padfoot.”

“You know who he is?” This seemed to both shock and enrage the professor, though he kept a tight lid on his emotions. Harry was almost envious of his control, though he wasn't sure what the pooch had done to deserve the man’s ire. He nodded, but kept his lips sealed. He couldn’t very well tell him that he knew the dog’s name from dreams and visions of the future.

“A more important question,” Snape interrupted, drawing Harry’s attention, “Do you have any of that tart left?”

“Yes, there’s a whole tin left.”

Snape's eyes glittered with something unreadable as he turned toward Lupin. “Then we’ll need it. For analysis. Do you know who sent it to you?”

Harry pushed himself up a little straighter. “Someone mind-whammied me, and you think I know who?”

Lupin’s expression turned grave. “That’s what we were hoping you could tell us.”

“Someone had access to you. And motive,” Snape said coldly. “Did the tin not come with a card?”

“I don’t know!” Harry threw his arms up. “Could be anyone, it’s not like I have many allies here. Have you met me?”

Snape snorted, folding his arms tighter. “A fair point.”

“Very helpful,” Lupin muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

A sudden, monstrous grumble from Harry’s stomach cut through the tension like a slicing hex. He startled, then groaned, clutching his middle. He felt completely hollow. “Bloody hell, when did I last eat?”

There was a brief pause. Then Lupin said, “Three days ago.”

Harry stared.

“You’ve been out for three days,” Snape clarified, tilting his head. “I’d have made you a gravestone, but the mutt refused to move from your feet long enough.”

Harry’s eyes shifted from man to man. In the flickering firelight, he saw the wear clearly: dark shadows beneath both sets of eyes, pale skin, stubble on Lupin’s jaw, even Snape’s usually immaculate hair in slight disarray. Neither looked like they’d slept. Or left.

“You’ve... been here? The whole time?”

Lupin nodded quietly. “We weren’t sure what would happen. We took shifts, but neither of us really left.”

Harry blinked hard, throat tightening. “Oh.” Shock vibrated to his very core. He could remember being sick only a handful of times in his entire life; and he was grateful to the universe for not condemning him with poor health in addition to his bad luck and nasty relatives. One particular memory stood out from the rest, Harry fevered and bed bound, begging his aunt for a glass of water through cupboard slats. She’d yelled at him to shut up, that he’d wake his cousin who had the same ailment up stares. She wouldn’t have cared if he died, no one would have.

The weight of it hit heavier than the dog piled on his legs. Three days. They’d stayed. They’d fought over how best to help him. They’d cared.

“…Thanks,” he mumbled, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. Both of you.”

Snape made a vague scoffing noise and turned away, but didn’t leave the room.

Lupin stepped forward and gave Harry’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “You don’t have to thank us. But we’re glad you’re back.”

Padfoot gave a snort and flopped back across Harry’s lap, tail thumping once, lazily.

Harry smiled faintly and leaned back against the headboard again, his limbs still heavy with fatigue. His eyelids drooped, exhaustion pressing in at the corners of his vision, but he blinked hard, forcing himself to stay awake. The idea of sleep clawed at him, but for the first time in a long while, it felt terrifying to close his eyes. He didn’t want to sink back into that suffocating darkness, didn’t want to wake up three days later again with nothing but a blank space where time should’ve been.

From the other room, the voices of Snape and Lupin had dropped to terse murmurs. There was a soft pop , then another pop-pop , and Harry turned his head just in time to see a tiny house elf levitate a silver tray onto the bedside table. It carried a bowl of steaming porridge, a glass of watered-down pumpkin juice, and a folded napkin. The elf gave him a nervous glance, then vanished with a final pop .

Snape entered a moment later, robes swishing as he moved past the bed toward the dresser. He didn’t look at Harry. “Eat slowly,” he said curtly. “You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t.”

Harry paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. The blunt warning grated on his nerves more than it should have. “Trust me,” he muttered, a sharp edge undercutting his tone. “I know.”

The words hung in the air for a second too long. Snape’s hands stilled over the drawer, his back tense as stone. He didn’t turn. “Too proud to take even the simplest of instruction,” he snapped, though the heat in his voice felt… uneven. Defensive, even.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He dipped his spoon again, forcing down the porridge despite the lump forming in his throat. He hated being spoken to like he didn’t know how to care for himself. Like he hadn’t grown up fending off hunger pangs with tap water and burnt toast when he was lucky. He had hated it when Mrs. Weasely had bustled in, commenting on how skinny he was, packing more food onto his plate. And he hated it now, when the teacher that hated him most looked down on him as if he was the cursed ghost of James Potter.

Snape pulled a set of neatly folded pair of pants from the drawer, but his shoulders remained stiff, angled toward the wall instead of the boy behind him. He turned toward the door. “Call for the elf if you need anything,” he said, voice clipped. He still didn’t look at Harry.

“Right,” Harry said flatly, chewing slowly. Snape left without another word. The door closed with a soft click that still managed to sound final.

Harry exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting down to Padfoot, who had shifted to rest his head on Harry’s thigh again. “Well,” he said softly, brushing his fingers through the dog’s ears, “that went well.”

Padfoot thumped his tail once, but didn’t lift his head. The room fell into silence again, save for the clink of the spoon against the bowl and the soft sound of Snape’s boots fading down the hallway. The porridge was bland, but warm, and Harry’s stomach didn’t argue. Still, he couldn’t shake the heaviness behind the words they’d exchanged. They’d meant something more. He just wasn’t sure what.

Chapter Text

Harry internally groaned as the first of the returning Slytherins rounded the corner into the common room. He was curled up in one of the worn leather armchairs near the fire, trying to keep his limbs from trembling as the last of the nutrition potion worked its way through his system. Three days with no food at all had left him hollowed out, and though Snape had been force-feeding him potions ever since he woke, it hadn’t done much for the sunken look around his eyes or the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

He’d also lost his dog. Though technically, Padfoot wasn’t his and was a self sufficient pooch, it had still hurt his feelings when he’d woken after the first day to find him missing. Professor Lupin had grilled him on where he might have gone, but Harry wasn’t about to give up the dog even if he had known where he went. And to make things worse, every single one of his Christmas presents had been confiscated by Snape and Lupin for inspection. “Hazardous charms,” they said. As if Theo's frogs were going to finish him off. Suffice it to say, he looked like an angry wraith.

The group froze just inside the doorway. “Wow, Potter,” Draco said, tone neutral but loud. “You look like crap.”

There was a sharp thump as Blaise’s elbow connected with Draco’s ribs.

“What?” Draco asked, rubbing his side. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Harry shot him a glare and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Thanks, Malfoy. Your concern is touching.”

“You’re welcome.” Draco flopped down on the opposite couch, legs stretched out with the ease of someone who hadn’t nearly died over the holidays. “So… what happened? You get hexed by an ugly stick, or is this just your natural post-Christmas glow?”

“I dunno,” Harry said blandly. “How do you usually look after a few days of magical zombification followed by ten days of care via Snape?”

Draco blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Don’t mind him,” Blaise said quickly, dropping into the seat beside Draco. “He’s been cranky since the train.”

“I am not cranky,” Draco muttered.

“You picked a fight with the trolley witch.”

“She was rude!”

“She asked if you wanted a pasty!” Blaise turned to Harry, cutting off Draco’s reply, “Honestly though, have you been eating? You look like a skeleton.”

Harry huffed a tired laugh, rubbing at one eye. “Honestly, I probably ate more stuck here than I would have if I’d gone back to my family.”

That shut Draco up. For a moment, he just stared at Harry, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t like the shape of. “You’ve always looked like death warmed over after the summer holidays. What do they do to you, starve you for fun?” 

The words dropped into the room like stones. Theo looked up from his book, and even Blaise shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Harry’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t answer, his green eyes staring down the other boy. Draco blinked. “That was a joke.”

Harry didn’t smile. Hermione’s voice rang out from across the room, mercifully breaking the awkward silence as she came bustling in, eyes bright. “Harry! I loved the gift, thank you so much! It was perfect!”

She beamed, holding up the charmed bookmark he’d gifted her, already secured tightly in her copy of Wuthering Heights. It was her favorite book, and he was glad to see she’d gotten to pick it up again after the stressful semester they’d just finished. She needed something to take her mind off of school. She left as quickly as she came, headed for her dorm to unpack.

“Potter, you got her a gift but not me?” Draco pretended to be hurt, clasping a hand over his heart even as his smug knowing smirk spread like spilled ink. 

“I’m pretty sure most of us got gifts from him,” Blaise laughed before turning to head back to the rooms, and Theo nodded at Draco’s questioning gaze before he too disappeared.

Draco sputtered, now truly insulted, “What, really?” He turned his frown in Harry’s direction.

“Blaise, Theo, Daphne, Millicant all got chocolate frogs and every flavored beans.” Harry ticked off his fingers, amused as Draco’s face got redder with indignation. “The team all got broom cleaning kits. Hermione got her bookmark, Luna Lovegood received a mirror charmed to illuminate when she is within five feet of any magical creature. Fred and George Weasely got a-”

“You got the Weaselys something over me! I’m on the quidditch team!”

Harry grinned, before pulling out a small box from his robes. “I really did get cursed over break; I had meant to send it out before Christmas but Hedwig had a lot of stops to make.”

Draco seemed shocked by the tiny box Harry pressed into his hand, staring as if he didn’t know what to do. He finally whispered “But I didn’t get you anything,” not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“I don’t get gifts expecting anything.” Harry rolled his eyes at the very Slytherin mentality. 

Draco opened the box, his thin pale fingers pulling a bracelet from the soft protective fabric. Round beads made of carved mermaid scales with iridescent colors of greens, blues and pink mixed in a way similar to abalone. Looking closely you could see small fish carved into the tiny spheres, each imbued with a protective magic. Even now, Harry could hear the hum of the mersong coming off the jewelry in soft waves, mimicking the lap of the lake side.

“This is… interesting.” Draco eyed the bracelet cautiously, turning it in the firelight as it shimmered. “Is it just this?” Draco asked suspiciously, his tone caught somewhere between impressed and defensive.

“Do you not want it?” Harry arched a brow, lips twitching.

“No, I want it!” Draco clutched the bracelet to his chest as though Harry might snatch it back.

“Then yes, that’s it,” Harry said, allowing himself a smirk. “Plus the broom cleaning kit on your bed.”

Draco scowled, but the way his shoulders dropped slightly made it clear he was trying not to look pleased. He slid the bracelet over his wrist and studied the way it caught the light, the colors dancing faintly against his pale skin. Harry let out a slow breath. It was satisfying seeing the other boy wear it, but not entirely comforting.

It was unfortunate, really. That was the kind of gift Harry felt he had to give Draco. Not because he wanted to impress him or win him over; though the tentative friendship forming between them had become oddly important. No, it was because it is oftentimes dangerous to be close to him. Danger didn’t just follow Harry anymore. It hunted. And it had no qualms about collateral damage. His dreams during his coma had been warning enough, that people he knew and loved were going to die in the coming years unless he did something about it. Even now, it was pure luck that no one had succumbed to his misfortunes between the incident with Quirrell and the Basilisk. 

The bracelet’s protective charms wouldn’t stop an Unforgivable. Zaxila had been honest about that. But she said it would help against hexes, curses, even dark enchantments that lingered on objects. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

Draco glanced up and caught Harry watching him. His expression shifted to something uncertain, softer than usual. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t have to. He just twisted the bracelet once on his wrist and muttered, “Still think the Weasleys shouldn’t have gotten theirs first.”

Harry laughed, low and tired but genuine. “I’ll try to remember your delicate ego next year.” Draco gave a sharp nod before rising, leaving Harry to himself to go unpack. 

It wasn’t long before dinner, and Harry soon found himself pinned between Draco and Daphne, Hermione sitting across from him looking as uncomfortable as he felt. She was stuck between Theo and Pansy, both of whom seemed happy enough to ignore her in favor of their plates.

The walk to the dining hall had sapped any strength he’d been able to build up over the last week. Despite Snape and Lupin’s ministrations, the treacle tart incident seemed to be having a lasting effect, draining his energy and magic quickly as his body attempted to repair the damage the spell had caused. Snape had been pleased to find that Harry’s mind hadn’t been overly damaged by being forced to defend itself from the compulsion; though the professor hadn’t dug between his thoughts to double check, which Harry was grateful for. Professor Lupin had assured him that the fatigue would pass with time, but Harry still felt cold and tired from even the smallest efforts to return to normalcy. He hadn’t voiced his concerns to either of them.

Even now, Harry barely noticed the food appearing on his own. One moment his plate was empty, the next it was full of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas. His fork scraped across the plate more than it picked anything up, pushing peas into the potatoes and slicing a perfectly good drumstick into smaller and smaller pieces without ever lifting a bite.

He felt untethered, as though the world around him was happening just a few seconds too fast. Laughter rang out down the table, and plates clattered, and somewhere in the din, someone was talking about quidditch. Maybe Blaise. Or maybe Tracey. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t react when a small glass vial appeared next to his goblet; yet another nutrition potion, the seal marked unmistakably with Snape’s tight, slanted handwriting. The sight of it made his stomach twist, though he wasn’t sure if it was guilt or nausea. His relationship with food was making it even more difficult to gain the weight back that he’d lost. It wasn’t as if he’d never been this skinny before, but the last time he’d been in a cupboard without the drain of powerful magics eating up any of the calories his aunt shoved under the door. He glared at his plate, hating her voice inside of his head.

A fork darted across his plate. He blinked.

“Daphne,” he muttered without looking, voice flat.

“I’m saving you from the peas,” she replied sweetly, stealing a bite of his potatoes as well.

He glanced at her, only to catch Draco sneaking the drumstick off his plate with the casual precision of someone who had done this before.

“I can see you,” Harry said mildly.

Draco didn’t even pause. “If you’re not going to eat it, I don’t see how it’s stealing.”

“I was going to eat that,” Harry lied.

Draco raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the untouched remainder of Harry’s plate. “Sure you were.”

Hermione opened her mouth to comment, but hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the potion beside Harry’s hand, then to his face, and whatever she was about to say melted away into a frown. He offered her a tired, crooked smile and forced a spoonful of something into his mouth. It tasted like cardboard.

He was so, so tired. Every time he blinked, it seemed as if more food disappeared from his plate, but by the next blink it had filled again. He shoved some more potatoes onto his fork, swallowing a bit of chicken as the conversations continued. He caught Theo smirking at him, but there was still a small crease between his brow.

By the time dessert appeared, Harry had eaten more of his meal than he had in two weeks, and he could feel it sitting in his stomach like a stone. Still, the others seemed content to pick around him; even Blaise going so far as to levitate Harry’s plate to him, steal several scoops of his peach cobbler before levitating it back. Eventually, the noise of the Great Hall softened as students trickled away in groups of twos and threes, laughter echoing off stone.

Blaise stood as the last of the plates cleared. “Third-years,” he said, his voice just loud enough to cut through the murmur. “Common room. Meeting.”

Harry blinked. Meeting? He shot Hermione a look, but she looked just as confused as he felt. Apparently, they were the only ones. No one protested; not even Pansy, who just rolled her eyes and pushed back from the table. Draco didn’t even bother to comment, simply nudged Harry’s shoulder and rose with a lazy stretch. It seemed… practiced. Routine. They followed the flow back to the dungeons. Harry didn’t miss how Draco and Theo hung back a little, watching to make sure Harry made it down the stairs without pitching forward. His legs felt like pudding.

When they entered the common room, most of the other students had already scattered to corners or study groups, while their little group gathered in the alcove near the fire. Crabb and Goyle sat beside each other on a leather love seat, Millicent crossed her legs under her on a cushion on the floor between them. Draco pushed Harry into the high backed chair Harry favored, before taking a seat on the large sofa between Daphne and Pansy with Blaise sitting on one of the arms. Tracy sat on a second cushion by the fire, and Hermione perched on the arm of Harry’s chair, her arms crossed defensively as she watched the others wearily. Theo leaned against the stone wall like a general surveying a war table.

“So we’re finally inviting them ?” Pansy asked, eyebrows arching toward her hairline as she gestured at Harry and Hermione. Her tone wasn’t quite hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either. “Is this really the best time?” she added, her gaze narrowing on Harry. “He looks like he’s about to pass out.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dully.

“Yes,” Theo replied, ignoring both of them. “It is. We already came to an understanding, but it’s time they know about it.” his eyes flicked briefly to Harry “ It’s time you both understand the house you’ve joined.”

Blaise gave a low hum of agreement. “We don’t bicker, we don’t duel. We discuss; that’s how this house works so well. There is no cunning in beating someone up for not sharing your opinion.” he explained to the pair, arms crossed, voice calm. He turned to the rest of them. “We agreed to give them a chance, and it’s time to bring them into the loop. If Potter and Granger are willing to be civil, amicable even, then they’re in. Past stays in the past.”

Daphne nodded, taking note of Hermione’s disbelieving huff. “It’s not like we haven’t all made mistakes. But the rule of odds is what makes us different from other houses. We don’t gang up on each other, and we always make sure there are enough of us so that there is never a tie. If the final say abstains from a decision, obviously its not that important of a topic. You and Harry make eleven, a powerful number in Arithmancy.”

“If the Gryffindors are content to bicker, bully and backstab each other, they can have at it. But we are better than that. If you would rather bully your way through life, you’ve definitely chosen the wrong house.” Milli added, her legs pulled close to her chest.

Harry sat quietly, his bones ached like he was twice his age, and the words around him swam in a haze of fatigue. He forced himself to focus.

“So this is…” he paused, brow furrowed, “...a Slytherin thing?”

Hermione sat next to him, spine stiff as a board. “You hold meetings like this regularly?”

Theo gave her a slight smirk. “Of course. House unity doesn’t maintain itself.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, lips thin. The temperature in the room dropped a little. Hermione didn’t flinch, instead pulling no punches as she forced the most strenuous topic into the air. “And what about your views on Muggle-borns?” Her tone was calm, but her fingers clenched in her lap. “It’s hard to be ‘amicable’ when people like Pansy go around calling people like me-” she stopped herself, jaw tight, “names.”

The silence that followed crackled with tension.

To her credit, Pansy didn’t sneer. She just raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to Harry. “Not everything is what it seems on that front. But never the less, it is something we can discuss here.” In a safe space , Harry could feel the unspoken words. Even with everyone tense, no wands were in sight. They truly meant to discuss the use of slurs like it was afternoon tea, and he could feel the rage rolling off Hermione. 

She kept her head though, thinking over the information. Harry’s thoughts weren’t so quick, but it matched his observations so far, how he’d seen his teammates argue. Maybe they could come to an… understanding. Finally, Hermione cleared her throat, standing as if in front of the Wizgomont with a prepared deposition, back straight and lightning in her blood. “Fine, let's discuss the fact that blood superiority is a crock and using slurs is a crude attempt at verbal battles that should die.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, crossing one delicate ankle behind the other and sitting up straighter. Her gaze flicked up to meet Hermione’s head on, “Our house is filled with pure blood traditions, the strength comes from the unity in the beliefs and adds to our magics. If the use of slurs are crude and lack any bite, then it shouldn't matter if we use them.” This had Harry seeing red, even in his exhausted state. Several sets of eyes flicked to him warily as he attempted to hold his temper in check.

“The studies show no correlation between blood purity and magical strengths.” Theo butted in before Hermione could produce a biting reply.

“And we all know Merlin was a half-blood,” Zabini added, “A powerful slytherin that is often forgotten in the pureblood rhetoric.”

Tracy’s eyes seemed to go a little distant as her voice carried among the group, “Squibbs are an effect of intermingling magical and non-magical bloodlines, it’s not fair that the children should have to suffer for the lack of restraint by the parents.” Harry reached out to grasp Hermione’s arm, halting her reply. 

He recognized the quiet girl’s statement for what it was, a hollow parroting of someone else's argument, likely her parents. There was no conviction in her words, and he finally understood what they had meant by taking sides. The count had been three against purity siding with Hermione, vs Pansy by herself. It didn’t matter if Tracy truly believed her own words or not, she wouldn’t let the other girl be ganged up on. It was like a game of chess, and Harry could see the pieces moving. He pulled Hermione, giving a slight shake of his head as she opened her mouth to unleash her tongue. She frowned, confused, but sat back down beside him as the others continued to voice the pros and cons of blood purity. He could play this game.

His own anger had cooled as he surveyed the board, Crabb and Goyle used big words that they didn’t look like they understood, siding with Pansy. Millicent argued for Hermione, citing occasions that each of them had been the victim of a slur and how it had made them all feel. Daphne produced a valid argument about how pureblood culture was killing wizarding culture as a whole. Draco’s gaze flicked to Harry, a sad look in his eye that hardened as he joined in, siding with Pansy. Some rebuttals were given, but it stayed an even-headed conversation, like discussing the weather.

Eventually the group quieted. Pansy, Tracy, Vincent, Greg, and Draco stared down Hermione, Theo, Blaise, Milli and Daphne. It was the same calm, Harry recognized, that he had felt playing the giant wizarding chess set in his first year trials. The final move he had to make.

“No wizarding family started off as pureblood, and keeping the families in such a way is forcing their magics into a bottleneck.” He'd examined his own family records, or at least the portion of Potter lineage that was documented in the library, the roots tracing back to India where a magical man, the first of his line and muggleborn, had started a family with a muggle woman. Any time the line had gotten too inundated with ‘magic only’ marriages, the lines had died out to squibbs.

Harry had also listened to enough of Zaxila’s stories and songs to know that magic had been originally gifted to humans through; one such tale speaks about a silkie who had sung for a pregnant muggle who subsequently gave birth to a magical child. While the song was old, he knew that the legend sprang from truth, having grown in magical power by learning from the merfolk himself. 

He also knew from his research that humans used words to command magic, so that even the most meaningless phrase could be used as a weapon with enough raw magic. “We all know words have power, that's how we are able to practice magic at all. That is how spells are crafted. The words used to belittle others are just as powerful as any spell.”

With his words, the tension broke as if they all had been holding their breath beneath cloudy water and could finally resurface for air. Pansy leaned back with a smirk as if she’d won, everyone else who had sided with her seemed pleased with the results, though Crabb and Goyle looked quite confused.

“Now with that settled,” Draco leaned back into the couch cushions, a small frown puckering his brow, “You’ll both need to understand one thing. Many of our parents are not as reasonable as us.” Shadows seemed to pass over several of their faces, and Harry recognized the look of fear in Theo’s eyes, the same from the after the dementor attack. 

Pansy wrapped her arms around herself, nodding at Draco. “You may hear things that contradict our decision here, but it will only ever be to protect the group. To protect you both. My own mother would curse both of you if she thought you were ruining me, and Theo’s would do worse-” 

“-But we won’t hurt you!” Theo interrupted, seeing both Harry and Hermione stiffen. “No more jinx or duels. If you have a problem, call a meeting just as Blaise did tonight. If you feel unsafe, get word to one of us.”

“I must ask,” Hermione leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, “why all of this?”

Tracy shrugged, shifting so that she was laying on her stomach, head propped on her hands. “You may not have realized it yet, but Slytherin doesn't lack for much. We have courage, in our own way. We're smart, and more loyal than any Hufflepuff. What sets us apart is how we use it.”

“We, along with our house mates, have a variety of opinions, and are being raised by parents who were participants of a war.” Millicent continued, "No matter which side they were on, some of those opinions are going to clash. If we didn't work through things this way, our entire house would collapse into bloodshed.”

“And the more fractured we are, the easier we are to pick off. You both have now experienced for a semester what we’ve been subjected to for the past two years. They fear us because they don't understand us.”Draco glowered at the green flames. “They see darkness and decide it's easier to hate us than to ask us where it comes from.” 

Harry gave a lopsided grin, his exhaustion peaking towards delirium. “And here I thought Gryffindor had drama.”

Millicent snorted. “Please. We invented it.” This drew a laugh from everyone, and the silence that followed was more comforting than what they’d had mere hours before, an understanding among snakes.

“Soooo, you want to tell us what you meant by the zombie comment?” Blaise grinned in a care free way that Harry envied. 

Harry heaved a tired sigh and slumped further into the high-backed chair. He was tempted to brush it off, maybe make a joke about treacle tart trauma and call it a night. But truthfully, he hadn’t let himself sleep properly since it happened. Even under the watchful eye of Snape and Lupin. Every time he closed his eyes, he worried he’d slip back into his own mind,unable to be roused again. Or there was a chance that whoever was after him would find a way into the common room and finish what they’d started.

“Someone… attempted a compulsion charm. Spiked some of my Christmas sweets in an attempt to control me I think?” He confessed, staring down at his hands. “But it backfired; I apparently went completely blank. Snape and Lupin spent three days breaking it, and even now my mind and magic are… trying to repair the damage.” 

The room stilled. Even the other students spread out across the common room seemed to fade away as their small group all took in the new information, leaning in ever so slightly to look at Harry in a new light.

Tracey sat up slowly. “What?”

“You’re joking,” Pansy said, flatly.

“I wish I was.”

Draco leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Who would even try something like that on you?”

“If I knew,” Harry said, rubbing the heel of his palm against his brow, “they’d already be in the hospital wing.”

“Could it be Sirius Black? There’s been talk that he’s after you because of what happened with your parents. My mother works for the ministry, she says Fudge has been trying to keep a tight lid on it, but that they're keeping an eye on you waiting for him to strike.” Milli twirled a lock of hair between her fingers, her intelligent gaze meeting Harry’s. “You’re house change hasn’t been released to the public, as a way to safeguard you… though I’m sure any gossip with an owl has told their parents already.”

The same feeling he got when he imagined the dark haired man rose once again, love and sadness filling his heart as he shook his head. “No, it’s not him.”

“How can you be so sure?” Something seemed to glint in Draco’s eye, a secret knowledge that piqued Harry’s curiosity. The blond had been the first to warn him that all was not as it seemed, perhaps he knew more than he let on as well. 

“I’m sure I’d be dead if it was him,” Harry lied, meeting Draco’s gaze in a silent standoff. “If his plans were to kill me, and the tarts were able to find me in the dorm, there would be no stopping him from slitting my throat in my sleep.” He shrugged, turning towards the others. “Whoever did this wants to control me, not kill me.”

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice cut in, sharp with alarm. “You have to report this. A compulsion charm? That’s highly illegal!”

He didn’t look at her. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I don’t trust anyone with this. Not Dumbledore. Not McGonagall. Not the Ministry. The only ones who know are Snape, Lupin, and all of you. And that’s how it’s going to stay.”

“But-”

“Hermione,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “They’re already watching me, they were able to get the spiked tarts into the dorm. If I start throwing around accusations without proof, they'll either call me unstable or use it to tighten their grip. You know how this works.” 

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I do know. That’s why it scares me.”

“It scares m e , too,” he admitted softly. “But I feel safer knowing you lot know. That’s enough. For now.”

A heavy pause settled over the group. Even Crabbe and Goyle looked vaguely unsettled, which was saying something. 

Theo finally broke the silence. “Then we’ll keep watch. For whoever did this. If they try again, we’ll see it. You’re not on your own.”

“And if they’re dumb enough to go through us,” Pansy said with a dangerous smile, “we’ll make sure they regret it.”

“You’ve got snakes on your side now,” Blaise said, stretching out lazily but with a glint in his eye. “They won’t know what hit them.”

Chapter Text

January seemed colder than December, the winter’s tight grip blanketing the castle and grounds in several feet of snow. Snowball fights had become a daily hazard, and passing through open-air corridors was a gamble for anyone who hoped to stay dry. The twins had enchanted snowmen to act as knights that would challenge other students to duels with ice swords; while no one had been stabbed yet, frost bite was now common among the first years who thought they could defeat the chilly soldiers and McGonagall was trying her best to combat their ever growing numbers.

The Sunday before classes had started back up, Harry was tucked into the corner of a wide window seat on the fourth floor, wrapped in his school cloak and half-hidden behind the frost blurred glass. The sun had been out briefly, casting pale light across the stone floor and warming the glass just enough to keep his fingers from going stiff. He was missing Padfoot, but worse, he was attempting to cope with the dawning realization that something was wrong with the story he’d been told about Sirius Black. 

He watched the small footsteps pacing back and forth on the Marauders map, the attached name a scroll of elegant ink sequestered away in Gryffondor tower.

Peter Pettigrew.

So deep in thought, he hadn’t expected anyone to notice him.

"Bloody hell," a familiar voice rang out.

Harry looked up slowly to find Fred and George standing a few feet away, identical expressions of open alarm on their freckled faces. They both looked wind-chapped and snow-dusted, like they'd just come from launching an ambush outside.

Fred stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "You look like death."

"No offense," George added quickly. "Just…wow. Have you seen yourself lately?"

Harry tried to roll his eyes but didn’t quite manage the energy. He had come a long way from where he’d been, the near skeletal form he’d woken up as after Christmas. The nutrition potions were helping, and the other slytherins continued to pick from his plate if he didn’t eat fast enough which offered its own sort of irritating comfort.Though it didn’t stop the fear of gaining too much weight from rearing its ugly head, the Dursley’s voices ringing in his ears; it did help him ignore it long enough to put more than a spoon full of something in his mouth. The portions weren't so daunting with more than one fork in the pie, and he wasn’t about to get bespelled again with everyone having taken a bite.

His magic was nearly completely replenished after sneaking out to swim in the lake the last three nights; Zaxilla and her mate Bavolin had taken personal offense to the news of his attack and were now focusing on offensive magics as well as mind strengthening songs. Apparently, as merfolk tended to be a more combative magical species, they had a variety of war chants meant for this very purpose.

While he continued to make progress, and had the magic and energy restored to function with normal tasks… he knew he still looked like crap. He smirked at the twins, "Nice to see you too."

George, never one for personal space, crouched beside him. "All right, mate. Be honest. Who do we need to kill?"

Fred folded his arms. "We’re not saying immediate murder. We’re saying… planned, responsible murder."

Harry snorted, but the sound turned into a weak cough. "It’s fine. I was… sick. It’s sorted."

Fred and George shared a look that said they absolutely did not believe him.

“You’ve got cheekbones again,” Fred said accusingly.

“And not in the good way,” George added. “More like a ‘Victorian orphan boy who eats candle wax to survive’ sort of way.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.” George gestured to him like that explained everything.

Harry shifted, trying to draw his knees up closer to his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Says the kid wrapped up like a corpse in a crypt. This is worse than last year with the flying car, do we need to steal you away from the dungeons now? We’re not above transfiguring every single snake into some awkward human-chair hybrid. McGonagall says we need to practice anyway.” 

This had Harry laughing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, just the image of a blond chair that sprang to life in his mind. “It wasn’t any of them, they wouldn’t be very comfortable anyway.”

“We’re serious, Harry,” Fred said, and his voice, for once, lacked its usual mischief. “You’re worrying us.”

“We would have come if you owl’d, helped you recover somehow.”

"Recovering from what?" George asked, more to Fred than Harry. "We still don't even know."

Harry shrugged. “Just… stuff. Got cursed. Snape and Lupin fixed it.”

Fred narrowed his eyes. “You mean Snape fixed it while Lupin gave you tea.”

“That’s… probably not wrong,” Harry muttered, though he wasn’t sure what sort of dynamic the two teachers had established while he was out. After the first day of resting in Snape’s bed, he’d been moved back to the dorms with an irritated Mobilicorpus from the grouchy professor and a passive comment about wanting his bed back. It had suited Harry just fine, as all his books kept him company as he rested and Crookshanks had taken up security detail at the end of his bed. Snape didn’t bother to check on him again, just leaving nutrition potions in random places. Lupin had, in fact, brought him tea and chocolate a few times, but never bothered to stay longer than the few minutes it took to steep and pour the cup.

The twins were quiet for a moment, the kind of stillness that meant they were both cataloging just how thin he was, silently speaking to one another in that way they tended to do when they thought no one was looking. Then, with perfectly synchronized movements, Fred plopped down on one side of him while George took the other.

“You’ll tell us if you need help,” George said.

“Or if someone needs hexing,” Fred added.

“Or poisoning. Subtle poisoning. We’ve got a few options for that now.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

They stayed like that for a while, the twins’ warm presence pressed close on either side, a protective barrier between him and the empty corridor beyond. No jokes, no prodding, just their quiet loyalty and pleasant company as they passed the afternoon away regaling him with their Christmas pranks.

Monday classes started off with a bang; Harry knew he’d carry the memory of Draco’s sputtering utter shock at their final project grade, an O , for the rest of his life. It was the highest Harry had ever earned under Snape’s tutelage, and he was pleased to know he’d earned it by himself, with Snape’s negative bias being canceled out by his love of Draco. He knew the unpleasant professor wouldn’t have given Draco anything he didn’t actually earn, even if he was paired up with Harry. With the amount of work Harry had put in this year to learn his new favorite subject, he was glad his grades were finally reflecting it.

Draco’s whisper had been in his ear the moment after Snape had announced the scores, his voice barely audible behind the rustling of parchment and the scribbles of quills.

"All right, Potter," Draco muttered, leaning just slightly toward him. "Be honest; how did you do it? Granger? I won’t tell if you cheated, I just need to know for our alibi if he questions us."

Harry blinked at him with exaggerated innocence. “Cheat? Draco, I’m offended. I would never stoop so low.”

Draco snorted. “You’d stoop. You’d grovel. I’ve seen you pick gum off the bottom of a desk. Just tell me.”

Harry leaned in conspiratorially. “Fine. But you have to swear on your stupid hair.”

“My what ?”

“Swear on your hair. It’s the most valuable thing about you.”

“I’m not swearing on my-” He rolled his eyes, “just tell me.”

Harry attempted to put on his most serious face. “Okay. Here’s the secret: I brewed it with the tears of my enemies and stirred counterclockwise while muttering passive-aggressive insults at the cauldron.” He could hear Pansy’s suppressed giggle in front of them. Draco gave him a flat look that earned him a grin from Harry. “I also sacrificed a chocolate frog to the ghost of Horace Slughorn and promised Snape I’d stop using shampoo from Honeydukes.”

“…You are unwell,” Draco muttered. “And Slughorn isn’t dead, He was at my parents Christmas party.”

“Deeply unwell,” Harry said cheerfully. “Also I studied. A lot. I know, horrifying.”

Draco frowned. “You studied? You? That’s even worse than cheating.”

“Thanks.” There was a pause, and Harry’s focus turned to begin taking notes as Snape went over proper technique for removing the oils from Boggart skin.

“…You didn’t actually insult the cauldron, did you?” Draco asked suspiciously.

Harry smirked, his eyes on the parchment in front of him. “Only once. I called it a lumpy goblin-footed mess and it bubbled with rage. Honestly, we bonded.” Draco stared at him like he was trying to decide if Harry had finally lost his mind or had just always lived slightly sideways from reality.

Snape’s voice snapped across the room before Draco could reply. “If you two are quite finished reenacting a third-rate comedy, you can turn your attention to today’s notes before I test your comprehension with something flammable.”

Harry raised his hand without looking away from Draco. “Will it be emotionally flammable or just the regular kind?” The class stifled a ripple of laughter and even Draco pressed his lips together, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

Snape glared at him. “First day back and it looks like I’ll be seeing you tonight for detention Mr. Potter.”

Harry grinned at his paper, returning to his work. He knew he’d pushed Snape’s good graces, but he was feeling much more spry than he had been. Professor Lupin’s class had been a breeze, and finding out he’d aced his potion had him practically giddy. He was even tempted to head back to the abandoned classroom to work on his side project. He hadn’t been back since Padfoot disappeared.

Even thinking the name made his chest ache, but maybe it was time since the wit-sharpening potion wasn’t going to brew itself. It had started as an academic experiment, something to keep his hands busy, to practice the skills he was trying hard to sharpen. But it had become more after he’d read up on the potion, on the effects it should have. A way to cut through the fog. To piece through the memories that didn’t quite add up. To make sense of flashes that came at him sideways and hopefully give him a better sense of the future to come. He needed clarity, and maybe he could brew his way into it.

He’d attempted it several times before Christmas, all failures that had singed his eyebrows. But even the failure had felt meaningful; small explosions, ruined cauldrons, bitter fumes clinging to his skin. He had learned from each mistake. Learned to measure more carefully or ground the roots slower. There was something calming in the ritual, something quiet and stubborn that steadied him and the new fascination was slowly turning into passion he didn’t know he had. And today he felt sharp enough to try again.

He tapped his quill against his parchment as Snape swept past his desk in a swirl of robes and disdain, but Harry didn’t flinch. He barely even looked up. His thoughts were already drifting ahead, toward that silent room and the unfinished potion waiting for him like an old friend.

***

The last of the cabinet doors shut with a click that sounded far too triumphant for so mundane a task. Potter- Harry , Severus corrected himself with some reluctance- stood, brushing dust from his robes and turning toward the door with the same impatience that had dogged him since he’d entered the office.

“Sit,” Severus said, the word soft but absolute, hindering the boy's escape.

Harry froze mid-step and turned, wary eyes glancing toward the small leather chair beside Severus’s desk. It was rarely used, more often a place for discarded books than conversation. Still, he crossed the room without argument and sank into it, knees bouncing once before he stilled himself by sheer will. Severus leaned back in his own chair, hands folded, saying nothing at first. Silence filled the room, heavy and deliberate as Harry squirmed slightly, clearly uncomfortable.

Severus didn’t blame him, he wasn’t sure why he’d asked the boy to stay. Correction; he knew, he just wasn’t sure what he intended to do with the impulse. Something in him was urging to check on the boy, and his need to unravel the mysteries that plagued him had been consuming all of Severus’s thoughts. 

He studied Harry over steepled fingers as the boy sat with his hands clenched in his lap, jaw tight, eyes flickering once to the door as if measuring the distance to freedom. Just like his father, Severus decided to let the first thing that popped into his head spill from his lips unhindered.

“What a marvel,” he drawled, voice cool as a dungeon draft. “A perfect result on your semester project, Potter. I assume you stirred while Mr. Malfoy handled the actual potioning?”

Harry stiffened. “I didn’t need Malfoy’s help,” he said evenly, though the edge in his voice bordered on disrespectful. “We split the work.”

“Split the work,” Snape repeated, as if tasting something bitter. “And I suppose you can identify the reaction that caused the potion to shift from violet to indigo just before its cooling phase?”

Harry looked up at him, green eyes sharp. “The combination of powdered Graphorn horn with heat in the aqua regia, which stabilizes the Billywig stings.”

Snape’s brow twitched as he narrowed his eyes. “And what’s the counteragent if the mixture begins to crystallize too early?”

“Three drops of feverfew extract,” Harry said at once. “Stirred anti-clockwise to neutralize the acidification.”

Snape's fingers curled loosely around the edge of the desk, clearly intrigued. Potter, on the other hand, wasn’t gloating. If anything, he looked annoyed. Snape stood, moving to lean back against the front of his desk, arms crossed. “And the base temperature for proper amalgamation?”

“Exactly thirty-nine point two degrees,” Harry said, jaw tight. “Otherwise it curdles.”

Severus paused. He hadn’t expected the boy to get one answer right, let alone all of them. And certainly not with such unflinching certainty. But maybe I should have, Harry had been exceeding his expectations this year, and it was becoming clear that whatever compulsion had been on the boy had been placed in part to hinder his education.

“Well,” he said, voice still clipped but less cutting. “It appears some knowledge managed to embed itself in that famously cluttered mind of yours.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “You mean to say I did well, and it’s killing you.”

Severus’s lips twitched, though he didn’t let it reach the surface. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter. You’re not nearly that important.”

There was a pause. A flash of irritation passed over the boy’s face, too quick to hide. Harry turned fully now, voice sharper. The candles seemed to flair brighter around them. “Then why ask me to stay? Let me guess. Another lecture about my ego?”

He ignored the bait. “Do you always respond to civility with sarcasm?”

Harry shifted, elbows on knees. “I’ll let you know when I see some.”

“I don’t understand you,” Severus said abruptly, his own temper flaring at the jab, “You’re reckless, stubborn, overly emotional-”

“Is this meant to be flattering?” Harry muttered, removing his glasses and pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. Severus halted. The boy’s tone had shifted, not defensive, not attacking; just weary. It was as if the spark a moment ago had been snuffed out. He watched as Harry rubbed at his temples and blinked down at the floor, jaw clenched.

“Headache?” Severus asked, more quietly.

Harry didn’t answer at first. Then: “It’s fine. Happens sometimes.”

He looked up and Severus was caught off guard. Not because of the pain in the boy’s expression, but because without the barrier of his glasses, those eyes were hers . Green, bright, unguarded despite everything. And for a moment, it wasn’t James’s smirk or swagger or arrogance staring back at him; it was Lily’s strength, Lily’s stubbornness. The way she’d once looked at him after a row, calm and resolute.

Severus drew a slow breath. This wasn’t James. He knew that. It wasn’t Lily either, but that was also a problem. A new being that he’d never given a chance…

“Why do you do it?” Harry interrupted his thoughts, his voice tired.

“Pardon?”

“Me, it’s always me. You badger me for looking or acting like a man I never knew. This semester has been better since I wear your colors, but that hasn’t stopped you from dragging me in here over the slightest infraction. I’ve had more detentions with you than anyone else. And for what? So you can continue to remind me that you hate me?”

Severus drew in a breath, then hesitated. The words on his tongue were sharp-edged, foreign. He didn’t do this. Not well. But Lupin, damn him, had managed to look at the boy and see something more than a mirror of James. Severus wasn’t ready for that.

“I don’t want to be him,” Harry said suddenly, voice low. “My dad. I mean. I don’t even know him. How am I supposed to live up to something like that? Why does everyone expect me to?”

Severus swallowed. It would have been easier if Harry had yelled. Thrown something. A show of anger that he could easily ignore. Instead Harry's expression had turned bleak, like someone lost at sea. But this quiet admission that was both too honest and too much like Lily unsettled him more than any tantrum could.

“I know,” He replied. Just that, no lecture or scorn. It was a truth that he was only now coming to realize, and he had to wonder if the damage he could see in the boy's sad eyes was partially his fault.

Harry blinked at him in surprise, his glasses still in his lap. Severus looked away first. He’d never considered himself wrong in his decision making. But he had more than one black mark on his soul from when a decision he’d made had been wrong in the end, when it was too late to do anything about it. He knew from experience that when he let his anger and resentment rule he often was the only one who lived to regret it. And I am forced to continue to live with it , his eyes following the seam of one of his book shelves up to where a small box sat, a long forgotten gift from Lily. She would have hexed me to oblivion, the dawning self reflection grated on his nerves, but he took a deep breath.

“You were under a compulsion, likely long before you ever stepped foot in Hogwarts. I believe it only broke this last summer. You’ve been a different person since you’ve returned to school, and I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that your more negative qualities were inflicted upon you.” He accio- ed a headache potion from his cupboard, passing it over and hoped the boy didn't see the tremble in Severus's hand.

“Then it's unfortunate the same cannot be said about you,” Harry downed the potion without bothering to look at the label. Stupid boy, too trusting for his own good. Severus didn’t bite back, knowing there was only truth in his words. The part he played to keep the world at arms length had become chains he didn’t know how to shed.

Harry took the extended silence as a dismissal, standing and setting the empty flask on the desk. But just before leaving, Harry paused at the door and added, “Good night, sir.”

Severus nodded once. “Potter.”

***

The rest of the week passed in a blur; Harry had been devoting most of his spare time to his potion brewing, though it wasn't as much as he would like given quidditch practice and his late night excursions to the lake. The addition of a tentative friend group amongst the other third years had had left him quite busy, and he found himself enjoying the variety of activities. Study groups were a common occurrence in the library, and in the evenings after dinner Millicent was teaching him the four way chess game he’d seen them playing on Halloween.

It was the following week, after a particularly grueling Defense class involving nonverbal counters, that Professor Lupin asked Harry to stop by his office after dinner. The man's voice was kind, but carried the unmistakable weight of we need to talk that had left Harry agitated. 

“What do you think he wants?” Draco asked as he stabbed one of Harry's green beans with his fork. Harry frowned at his pumpkin juice, trying to come up with an answer himself.

Greg on his other side grabbed up Harry's roll with wide hungry eyes, “Maybe he's assigning extra homework? Since Harry breezed through the classwork today?”

“Why would he punish him like that if he's doing good? You're the one who needs the extra practice.” Millicent helped herself to his au gratin potatoes, accio -ing a helping to her own plate. Harry shoved some ham onto his fork as Hermione rolled her eyes at the other three’s empty plates.

“You guys know you have your own plates right?”

“Yeah, but his tastes better,” Millicent smiled sweetly before stuffing the potatoes into her mouth. Both Draco and Greg nodded sagely, and even Theo with a book in his face walked by to grab up a roll to stuff into his face before heading to the library.

“You don't have to let them, Harry.” She stabbed her own food with irritation.

“I don't mind,” He truly didn't, the plate tended to auto-refill and he wasn’t hungry enough to deal with the double helping of guilt between wasting food and feeling like he wasn’t allowed to eat. Instead he listened to the other’s chatter, watching the DADA professor out of the corner of his eye. 

He waited a few minutes after Lupin disappeared from the great hall before he stood up from the table. Harry went, stomach still mostly untouched from the meal, and knocked softly at the half-open office door.

“Come in,” Lupin called, smiling when he saw Harry. “It’s good to see you. You’re… looking better.”

Harry gave a small shrug, stepping inside. “Plenty of nutrition potions.” He didn’t mention that the merfolk had started forcefeeding him special algae on Tuesdays to help him with his ‘ailments’, or that songs sung underwater had restorative properties for magic.

Lupin nodded as if that answered a deeper question. He gestured to the plush velvet chair across from his desk and then reached for a bundle tucked beside a stack of worn parchment.

“I believe these belong to you,” he said, setting his Christmas gifts, still neatly wrapped, on the desk between them. “They’re safe to open, though Professor Snape didn’t return the tarts. We didn’t want another accident.”

I wouldn’t call it an accident, Harry looked down at the presents and then back at Lupin. “Thanks.”

He paused, as if waiting for Harry to volunteer information to the questions he hadn’t voiced. Harry sat patiently as he looked around the room, taking note of the books and clutter that covered every surface. It was brighter than Snape’s office, but not as well organized as McGonagall’s. 

Lupin cleared his throat, then, more carefully, “Have you seen Padfoot lately?”

Harry’s expression didn’t change, his eyes focusing on a small terrarium on the shelf behind the man’s head. “He’s around.” He lied, stuffing the hurt down inside at the memory of the mutt.

Lupin studied him for a moment. “And… what do you know about the dog?” Harry blinked, his eyes meeting the intense amber gaze, not sure where he was going with the line of questioning. 

“I love him.” He answered, flat but honest.

There was another long silence before Lupin leaned back in his chair and asked quietly, “What do you know about Sirius Black, Harry?”

Harry tilted his head just slightly, sorting memories in his mind’s eye. He knew he’d end up in Mungo’s if he tried to convince the professor of the man’s goodness; even in his future memories there was no indication that Black’s action hadn’t resulted in his parents getting killed, but he couldn’t believe his future self would have loved the man so much if he did. Nor did the memories of the three of them offer any assurance that he could convince Lupin to trust him now. Instead he decided on a vague piece of the truth. “I know he was accused of killing Pettigrew, and helping Voldemort with killing my parents.”

The shift in Lupin’s expression was sharp; eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. He didn't like that answer. “What do you mean, he was convicted of killing a man, Harry. He sent Voldemort to your parents' doorstep. He spent the last twelve years Azkaban for betraying them.”

Harry met his gaze evenly, his own voice low and steady, with only the faintest hint of frost. “With what motive?”

The question hung in the air, stark and impossible to ignore. Lupin looked at Harry as if he’d grown another head. Then, just as quickly, his gaze faltered.

“With what motive?” Harry asked again, quieter this time.

And for once, Remus Lupin didn’t have an answer.

He leaned back in his chair and looked away, the flickering candlelight catching the tired lines around his eyes. His voice, when it came, was faint and unsteady. “He was their Secret Keeper. James trusted him. So did I. So did Lily. Then they were gone, and Sirius was… laughing. He was found laughing in the wreckage, Peter dead without even a body to bury.” Harry watched him, unmoving. Lupin gave a breathy, bitter laugh. “Do you know what the worst part is? I didn’t even go to the trial. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want to know. I just… accepted it. Because I couldn’t bear the thought of any of it being more complicated than betrayal and loss. Because I had already lost everyone that night.”

His hands came together, fingertips tapping lightly as though trying to center himself.

“I remember sitting alone in my flat, days after it happened, wondering if it was my fault. If I should’ve noticed something, if I could have warned someone. And then I stopped wondering. I buried it. It was simple; Sirius had betrayed us. End of story.” His voice was bitter, fingers white knuckled on the arms of his chair.

There was a long silence between them. The room was quiet save for the ticking of an enchanted clock above the hearth.

“I loved them,” Lupin said finally, so softly it was nearly a whisper. “All four of them. And I hate Sirius for what he did, because it is easier than hating fate, or the war. But it doesn’t stop me from hating myself.”

Harry looked down at the unopened presents still sitting on the desk, the edge of one slightly torn. “I don’t think he did it,” Harry confided, unable to help himself. Lupin’s gaze snapped to him again, startled. Not angry like before, just raw with emotion. “Its not something I can prove, not yet. But I know to trust my gut. He didn’t do it.”

Lupin stared, the weight of Harry’s words settling in deep, painful creases across his face. “I don’t know,” he said, barely audible, before clearing his throat once more. “I apologize Harry, I didn’t mean for this conversation to get so… nostalgic.”

“It’s alright Professor- ” A knock sounded at the door before being pushed open, Professor Snape striding into the room with a large goblet. His face shifted into a scowl when his eyes met Harry’s. Since Harry’s last detention things had been tense between him and the potions professor.

“Apologies, Remus. I didn’t know you had company.”

““I was just showing Harry my Moke,” said Lupin pleasantly, pasting a forced smile on his face while pointing at the terrarium behind him.

Snape rolled his eyes, not bothering to inspect the reptile before placing a goblet on the desk beside the presents, “Be sure to drink that directly, Remus.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Professor Lupin promised, though he looked like he would rather swallow nails as his gaze flicked to the mug scornfully.

“I have more… if you need it.” Snape seemed to take a pause at the door, his icy persona wavering for a millisecond as he looked back at the other man. Interesting, Harry looked down at his hands, pretending not to notice the exchange, So he doesn’t hate everyone.

“I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thank you very much, Severus.” The door shut softly behind him, and Harry looked up to see Remus with a pleased smirk staring after the potions master. 

He stiffened, noticing Harry’s grin, his face pinkening under the boy’s scrutiny. “Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” he said. “I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

Harry made no comment, instead looking at the clock. “Professor, is there anything else you needed?” 

“No, of course, thank you for your time. Do enjoy your evening.” Harry nodded, gathering his things before escaping back to his dorm. His thoughts were chaotic as he pulled the curtains around his bed, not bothering to seek out the company of anyone else. Everything the DADA professor had said only contradicted how his future memories painted the man, and yet it was everything he wasn't saying that had Harry wishing he had a way to be closer to him. They both craved a family that no longer existed. 

He pulled his pillow close to his chest, his emotions felt raw from everything he couldn’t share.

Chapter Text

Transfiguration had barely begun when the ache started to bloom behind Harry’s eyes. At first, it was tolerable; just a dull pressure, like a storm building on the horizon. Today’s class was on transfiguring their animals into rabbits using the Lapifors spell. Hedwig eyed him in irritation as McGonagall lectured on the theory behind the magic, as if it was his fault she’d been dragged out from her nice warm owlery to participate in his education. He’d attempted to sooth her with whispered promises of treat; but then, Ron's rat skittered across his desk with an undignified squeak, beady eyes meeting Harry’s and something felt like it snapped in his mind.

Pain lanced through his skull like lightning.

The classroom swam in and out of focus as Harry doubled over, his quill falling from limp fingers. His breath came short and shallow, vision clouding as images flashed behind his eyes like a broken reel of film. A high-pitched scream. The glint of a bloody hand in the dark. A blade. A rat-faced man with eyes full of terror and devotion, whispering apologies to the Dark Lord.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken,” a voice hissed .

His stomach lurched, his hands clutching his head as he attempted to breathe.

“Potter?” McGonagall’s voice was sharp, the rustle of robes abrupt as she crossed the classroom.

Harry looked up, eyes squinting in the bright light of the classroom, forcing his fists from his head to clutch the edge of his desk, knuckles white. “Headache,” he managed, though it hardly covered it. The pain was blinding now, stabbing behind his eyes, warping sound and light.

McGonagall took one look at his pale, sweat-damp face and turned to his neighbor. “Ms. Granger, escort Mr. Potter to the Hospital Wing. Now.”

Hermione was already halfway out of her seat, gently helping Harry to stand. He didn’t shrug her off; couldn’t even if he had wanted to. Every step out of the classroom was an exercise in not vomiting or crumpling entirely. They were halfway down the corridor when Harry stumbled into an archway, his stomach contents finding the stone floor.

“ Tergeo” Hermione flicked the mess away, her eyes wide with concern as Harry leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

“It’s not just a headache.” he whispered the obvious, even as the effort to speak caused the pulsing of his head to magnify. “I saw something. Flashes. A man, pinched features with pale, oily hair. He cut off his own hand,” Harry swallowed hard, voice hoarse. “And I think… I think he hurt me. Or will hurt me.”

Hermione’s expression grew even more serious, but not alarmed. She guided him to a bench along the corridor, letting him sit and rest his head against the cool stone.

“We knew that might have been a possibility; with your track record of people wanting to hurt you, I’d have bet money on it… But they don’t usually come to you like this do they?” she asked softly. “The flashes of memories?”

“Not always. But this is really the first since Christmas,” Harry murmured, eyes shut tight. “And I don’t understand them. It’s like they’re locked up behind a wall, and every time I get close, something inside pushes back. Making it more painful until I stop looking. My head just… breaks.” He let out a slow, shaky breath. “I wish there was a way to see them, on my terms. Not like this. I can’t stop it. And I’m so bloody tired of being ambushed by my own mind.”

Hermione bit her lip, thoughtful. Then, hesitantly, she said, “There might be a way. I’ve been looking into it for you, since you first mentioned how painful your memories are. I told you mine come in my dreams, no pain, just wisps of the future that leave me waking up as if I’d just had a nightmare… sometimes they are nightmares… But if there is a block, it might be a mind shield left over from your future self’s mind. My idea will be difficult, and slightly invasive. But it might help.”

He cracked one eye open.

“Occlumency,” she said gently. “It’s normally used to block people from seeing your memories. I believe this is what your future self might have developed in his mind, but when it merged with your the walls didn’t come down. But… It works both ways. If you learn to control your mind, you might be able to access the things buried deep down. On purpose. Safely. Without any pain.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. “I’ve caught snippets of Snape trying to teach me that at some point… it doesn’t seem pleasant. I mean, he’s never pleasant, but this was extra bad. I’ve been avoiding excessive eye contact with him all year.”

“There unfortunately aren’t many options,” She sat on the bench beside him, reaching out to grasp his hand. “He is a well known Occlumens, though I suppose the second option would be Dumbl-”

“No, not Dumbledore. He’s not an option; I don’t know what happened in the future, but now he gives me the heebie jeebies.” Harry gave a bitter little laugh. “That just makes the list shorter than Ron’s attention span.”

Hermione smiled faintly, but there was sympathy in her eyes. “Then we’ll find someone.”

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and they both looked up to Neville walking quickly down the corridor. Neville caught sight of the pair, paused, then glanced nervously behind him. His steps slowed, and he stood awkwardly a few paces away, shifting from foot to foot. “Um. Hey.”

Hermione stood, placing herself between the two.“You don’t have to look at us like we’ve grown fangs, Neville,” she chastised, her stance turning defensive as if to protect Harry from the skittish boy. Neville’s eyes darted between them, his expression unsure.

“I know,” he mumbled, face flushing as his eyes finally settled on Harry. “I just… wanted to see if you were okay. You looked like you were going to faint in class.”

Harry blinked at him, unsure for a moment what to say. He saw the tension in Neville’s shoulders, the flick of his eyes toward the corridor behind him as if checking if anyone saw. The silence stretched.

“You’ll catch hell if you’re seen talking to me,” Harry said quietly, a statement more than a question as he realized the boy’s fear. Ron, paired with Dean and Seamus, had been on a warpath with regards to Harry and Hermione. While the redhead was nowhere near their level of spell mastery and had yet to catch them unaware since they’d decided to stop taking the abuse, that didn’t prevent him from verbally bullying them and anyone associating with them. Fred and George had confided that he’d become a tyrant without Harry and Hermione in the tower.

Neville gave a jerky shrug. “Maybe. But I don’t care.” His voice lacked conviction, but not honesty.

Harry pushed himself upright, the movement adding to the pain in his head, and offered a tired smile. “You care a little. And that’s fair.” He extended his hand. “Thanks for checking on me, Neville.”

Neville looked at the hand like it might vanish, then stepped forward and shook it. “You just… looked really pale. I thought maybe… Well, I didn’t want to do nothing. McGonagall was worried too,” Neville offered. “She didn’t say it, but she kept looking at the door after you left.”

That earned a hum from Harry. “I’ll go talk to her later.”

Neville nodded. “Good.”

Hermione, though clearly still bristling, looked between the two boys, her expression softening just a touch.

“Most wouldn’t have done anything,” Harry replied. “I mean it. Thank you.”

Neville rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed by the praise. “Well. I’ll let you rest or… whatever you’re doing. Just be careful, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Harry said. And as Neville turned and walked briskly back the way he came, Harry found himself watching the back of a boy he’d never truly appreciated before; one with quiet bravery, the kind that didn’t demand notice.

He looked down at the hand Neville had shaken. “That was… decent of him.”

Hermione huffed. “It was. I still don’t like him treating us like we’re contagious. It’s the first civil conversation I’ve gotten from our ‘friends’ this year.” She used air quotes, drawing a chuckle from Harry.

Harry leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing. “He’s just trying to survive like us, remember I told you about what the Twins said? Even a kind mention of us sets Ron off, and Neville has to live with that.”

“I remember,” She replied darkly, still staring down the hall. After a minute she seemed to pull her attention away from her thoughts, asking “Are you really going to visit Professor McGonagall?”

Harry sighed, “I suppose I should. She hasn’t had a reason to give me detention this year, and since the move to Slytherin I haven’t really had the chance to talk to her.”

“You’ve been avoiding her.” Hermione observed, though her voice wasn’t unkind. Harry shrugged, not bothering with an answer. Instead he pushed up from the bench, his legs barely holding him as the room seemed to spin. Hermione put an arm around his waist, “We really should get you to Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’ll be fine, I just want to go to sleep,” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Help me get down to the common room. If this deja vu gets any worse I might puke.”

“You did that already,” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Well your shoes aren’t out of the danger zone yet,” He grinned lopsidedly at her, earning a small smile in return.

***

Later that night, after a hefty headache potion and a nap, Harry hesitantly stood outside the door to Professor McGonagall’s office shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He could still turn around. No one would know… Well Neville would, but Neville wasn’t going to hold it against him. Still, it felt like something he needed to do. He raised his hand and knocked.

There was a brief pause before a clipped, familiar voice answered. “Enter.”

He stepped inside and found Professor McGonagall seated at her desk, a quill suspended mid-air over a parchment. The room was how he remembered it, books tucked neatly into shelves giving the air a musk that reminded him of a library. Large tapestries depicted the Scottish highlands, and a plush rug carpeted the stone floor. The familiarity did nothing to ease his agitation.

McGonagall’s expression flickered with surprise, then something cooler, less welcoming. Irritation, maybe. He wasn’t sure. Her eyes narrowed slightly behind her square spectacles. 

“Mr. Potter,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Yes, Professor. Sorry to interrupt. I, um… I was hoping to get the assignment for what I missed?” He'd already gotten the assignment from Blaise, and had already fished it halfway by dinner time, but it had been the only reason he could think of to be visiting his ex-head of house.

She arched an eyebrow. “You already have the assignment. I believe Mr. Zabini collected it for you.”

Right. Of course she knew that . “Yeah, he did,” Harry admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I just thought… I mean, I figured I should hear it from you. In case there were… extra notes or anything.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Is that really what this is about?”

Harry winced. “Not exactly,” he said, shifting his weight again. “I mostly wanted to say… I’m sorry. For how I left, switching houses without telling you.”

Professor McGonagall folded her hands on the parchment, the quill lowering off to the side. “I see.”

“I didn’t mean it to seem like a slight,” Harry continued, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “It’s just-” He cleared his throat, “-this was really the only way.”

She studied him with one raised brow. “The only way for what?” Her voice was mild, but laced with suspicion. “Dare I ask what sort of mischief you’ve gotten yourself into now?”

He let out a short laugh. “Nothing world-altering,” he lied. “I just needed a change. The hat said I should be in Slytherin from the start, you know. I guess… I guess I’m just catching up.”

Professor McGonagall didn’t smile. “I admit, I’m concerned. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Harry blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve withdrawn from your friends, your demeanor is… different. You’re sharper and excelling in your academics, yes, but also quieter. This transfer was sudden and I’m not sure it wasn’t made without forethought.” She tilted her head, voice softening. “If you’re in any kind of trouble, Harry, you can speak with me. You know that.”

Something bristled in him then. That soft tone. That sudden concern. Where had this version of her been the last two years? He folded his arms, letting his anger coil around him protectively as his voice turned icy. “That’s funny, Professor. You didn’t seem this worried when I used to show up after summer holidays with bruises and clothes that didn’t fit.” He didn’t know what was driving him to share his past with her now, but he didn’t think as the words rolled off his tongue.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Harry-”

“Or when I practically begged to stay here over break and you just sent me back, back to them.” Her mouth opened, but no words came out. “I assure you,” he said, voice tight, “I have been myself this whole time. Maybe you just didn’t notice.” An uncomfortable silence fell between them. McGonagall looked stricken, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. Not right now. The olive branch had snapped somewhere between ‘I’m worried’ and ‘you haven’t been yourself.’

She finally spoke. “I accept your apology. And… my door is always open.”

He gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Professor.”

And with that, he turned with shoulders stiff, anger simmering beneath his skin. He couldn’t say why it bothered him so much. He had apologized. He’d done what he came to do. So why do I feel worse than before ?

He walked fast, not quite storming, but enough that he passed a pair of fourth-years who gave him a wide berth. The corridors felt colder than usual, or maybe it was just him. Maybe it had been cold the whole time and he’d only just noticed.

What did I think would happen? That she’d say she understood? That she’d tell me changing houses had been the right thing? He’d come in with good intentions (awkward ones, sure) but he’d meant it. He’d tried.

And yet somehow, he still felt… blamed. Pitied. Like a problem to be solved all because he wasn’t in the house they expected him to be in. Because he wasn’t the airhead golden boy they’d come to expect.

I’ve been myself this whole year. The words echoed in his head, sharper now, bitter at the edges. He wasn’t lying; he had changed, yes. He was different. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t himself anymore, on the contrary he was more himself than he had ever been. It just meant people were finally seeing parts of him that had been bespelled away. After finding out about the compulsion charm, he had wondered which parts were really him or were left overs from years of being made into someone else. And now that he wasn’t smiling as much, wasn’t shirking his school work, wasn’t playing the hero, they were suddenly worried?

Where was that worry last September when I came back smaller and quieter than the year before? Where was it when Dudley left bruises on my ribs, or when Aunt Petunia “forgot” to feed me? Where was it when the only place I’ve ever felt safe, even with killer teachers and giant snakes, was inside these walls?

“AHH!” He yelled his rage into the empty corridor, blinking hard, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. He’d come to make peace and to smooth things over her. Instead, all he felt was anger.

“Boy!” The shout came from a portrait hanging on the wall next to him, jarring him from his thoughts. “Are you going to put that out?” Professor Basil Fronsac motioned from his frame to the opposite wall where Harry watched the edge of a tapestry smoldering before catching light, the flame growing quickly on the ancient fabric. 

Harry quickly drew his wand, “ aguamenti ” pouring a liquid stream onto the small blaze. It sizzled out, leaving a large charred mark that slowly began to fade as Hogwarts took care of damage control. The fire had shocked him from his angry thoughts as he wondered how the blaze might have started. Generally the magic of the castle kept accidents from happening, preventing tipped over candles from setting fire to the towers or miss aimed spells from causing walls to collapse. No one other than himself and the paintings stood in this hall, and he knew for a fact he hadn't cast any spells. He thought he might be able to learn music that could create flames, the merfolk had no use for such magic so none of their teaching involved fire; but he definitely hadn't been singing so it couldn't have been his fault… right?

***

Harry scanned the field as beaters and chasers in both red and green streaked past below. The wind in his ears muffled the roar from the stands, and he hummed quietly to himself, a half-formed tune that worked well to chase off the February chill. Down near the goalposts, he watched as Oliver Wood stood vigilant while Draco darted and wove with the quaffle, searching for an opening. Ginny passed Harry every few seconds as she lapped the field in a crimson blur, shooting him a glare that could cut steel. Neither of them had yet caught sight of the snitch, and with the score tied and the game pushing past the two-hour mark, tension clung to the pitch like fog.

That was when he heard it.

Not the grumble of the crowd or the whoosh of broomsticks, but a sound unlike anything else. High and piercing, not unpleasant, and threaded through with a haunting melody that seemed to shimmer just beyond the edge of comprehension. Not a mer song, muffled by water; no this was too clear. Harry’s gaze swept the sky, scanning the cloud cover. The clouds weren’t low enough to obscure anything overhead, but still, he saw no source for the strange cooing tones that prickled at his skin and vibrated in his chest.

“And Ginny Weasley appears to have caught sight of the snitch!” Jordan’s voice rang out over the stadium.

Harry’s head whipped around in time to see a flash of gold streak past and Ginny, leaning hard into her broom, closing the distance fast. His heart lurched. He whipped around, muscles tightening as he urged his broom after her. His body clinging close to his broom, he quickly closed the distance between himself and the other seeker. The music still played, twining around him like a ribbon caught in the wind. It didn’t distract him but instead urged him, the melodic noise feeling as if it would consume him. Understand , it seemed to whisper. Listen.

The wind howled past as the shining ball of gold danced just ahead of Ginny. Harry narrowed his eyes, hunched low to cut the drag, the front of his broom nearly brushing Ginny’s tail bristles. Still the music rose, bright and urgent now, a melody threading through his ribs.

Jump. The word wasn’t shouted or even spoken. It wasn’t even his, but he obeyed anyway.

Harry vaulted up, feet on his broom, and leapt into the sky in the same second the snitch cut a ninety degree angle past Ginny’s face, over head. For one breathless second, he hung weightless, arms outstretched. Then his fingers closed around the snitch, the cool metal and fluttering wings vibrating in his palm.

Then he remembered gravity.

His other arm shot out as he curled the snitch close to his chest, free falling. He could see Ginny’s shocked face staring down at his, mouth agape as she watched him descend. A blur of green moved at the corner of his eye. Then arms caught him, hard and clumsy in a half-hug as the pair awkwardly descended to the pitch. Cassius Warrington gripped him tightly as they both fell to the grass in a clumsy mass of arms and legs.

“I gotcha,” Cassius seemed to whisper more to himself than Harry, both boys breathing heavily. Harry stared up as the other players began descending in lazy circles, waiting for confirmation. A grin broke across Harry’s face as his gloved hand shot above him to display his prize.

The stadium exploded. A roar of green and silver drowned out everything else; conjured drums banging, cheers echoing, voices hoarse with celebration. Screams of excitement overtook the boos from the losing house, but somewhere near the Gryffindor stands Harry could make out Ron’s furious shout, “He cheated!”

“Are you alright, Harry?” Cassius sat up and the pair attempted to steady each other as they clambered to their feet. Harry didn’t get a chance to answer before they were swarmed by green and silver. Draco tackled him next, knocking the breath from his lungs with a grin wide enough to split his face.

“We actually won! We won!” he shouted, shaking Harry in his excitement as the rest of the team descended on them in a flurry of whoops and slaps on the back. Lucian and Miles lifted him onto their shoulders which had Harry laughing, breathless and stunned as he was carried around in a wild loop.

“The first time we’ve beat Gryffindor in two years!” Marcus howled to the sky. “ Two bloody years! ” The scoreboard read Slytherin: 330 to Gryffindor: 180.

Harry blinked, still gripping the snitch, the strange song slowly fading from his ears like mist evaporating under sunlight. For a moment it felt as if he hovered in place, his mind drifting. That melody; where had it come from? It hadn’t been merfolk, not exactly. The notes had been too high, too airy, like wind caught in glass chimes, and it had called to something in him. Not in the way the mermaid songs pulled at his magic, but in the way dreams sometimes felt like memories you hadn’t lived yet. He shivered despite the thrill of victory. He wanted to ask someone if they’d heard it too, but before he could even open his mouth, the noise of the pitch crashed back in around him; the tone shifting from celebratory to weary as the rival team along with several Gryffindors and Slytherins from the stands joined them on the ground.

"Oi!" Ron’s voice cut through the celebration like a whip crack. Harry was set back on the ground as Lucian and Miles shifted their larger forms between him and the approaching threat.

Harry turned just in time to see the red-faced Gryffindor storming across the field. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat despite the cold, and his knuckles were clenched so tightly that his fingers had gone white, fists pumping at his side as he marched onto the field. Behind him Harry could see Seamus and Dean, ever loyal but weary, standing just at the edge of the field as if testing the waters.

"You cheated! That should’ve been a foul!” Ron yelled, jabbing a finger toward Harry in accusation. “He jumped! Off his bloody broom! You can't do that!"

The laughter around Harry dimmed. The entire Slytherin team straightened, bodies shifting into protective stances, eyes weary. None of them had their wands, they weren’t allowed during games, but the non-players who found themselves on the field were happy to draw their own as they cast glares at the red-head.

“Someone’s salty,” drawled Nott behind him, but Harry didn’t move.

“It was legal,” Ginny said tightly, flying down to land beside them. Her face was pale, eyes stormy. “There’s nothing in the rules about leaving your broom. The catch stands.”

Ron rounded on her, his expression twisting. “So you’re taking his side now? You let him get the snitch! You had it! What, did you slow down for him? Show off for your Slytherin boyfriend?”

Ginny flinched. 

“Oh, brilliant,” Fred drawled, striding over with George in tow to step between their brother and the Slytherin team, their stance clearly siding with the snakes. “He didn’t even play and somehow still thinks he lost the game.”

George snorted. “Must be some kind of talent, whining from the stands like it’s a sport of its own.”

“Gold medal, that one,” Fred agreed. “Judges especially impressed by the tantrum at halftime.”

Ron’s face was livid, blotchy with fury. “You think this is a joke? That bloody snake cheated-”

George raised an eyebrow. “What, by being better than the rest of us as a seeker? Been that way for three years mate.”

“Or by catching the snitch while your actual Seeker didn’t? It’s just a game, she did her best, which was a might better than you’d ever do.” Fred added with a pointed glance at Ginny, then back to Ron. “Sounds like sore loser syndrome, mate. Might want to get that checked.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Ron snapped, voice rising. “I’m not stupid, jumping from your broom is against the rules. We all saw it- he fouled! The ref should’ve- he didn’t even-”

“Oh no,” George said with mock concern, “he’s frothing. Quick, Fred, fetch a calming drought. Or a sock for his mouth.”

“Shut it!” Ron shouted, “And you- ” He jabbed a finger at Ginny. “You let him win! You let him! ”

Fred stepped between them before Ginny could answer. “Touch her again, even with words, and you’ll be eating that finger little brother.”

“Back off, Ron,” Harry said, stepping forward now, voice low and dangerous. “She was doing her job. I was doing mine.”

“Bah! Your job!” Ron’s shout cracked over the pitch. “No way you pulled that off without help.” That hit harder than Harry expected. His fingers curled around the snitch until its wings went still. The crowd was watching now, and Madam Hooch blew her whistle sharply from the sideline, but Ron didn’t stop. “Honestly, I don’t know why Ginny even tried . We all knew you’d find a way to twist it to your advantage, god forbid the miraculous Harry Potter ever lose at anything. Snake. ”

Ginny stepped between them. “Say that again,” she dared, chin lifted.

Gasps and muttering followed that word, and for once, it wasn’t coming from the Slytherins. Several of the Gryffindor team players had begun shifting their weight, Angelina and Oliver coming to stand alongside the twins and Ginny, a wall between the vicious ramblings of the younger Weasley brother and the green and silver uniforms in an astounding show of inter-house unity.

For once, Harry wasn’t angry. He watched the scene unfold before him like a drama on the telly. Hermione had found her way onto the field as well, standing at his side like an ice statue, her wand just barely flicking back and forth unnoticed by anyone except him. He could feel a charm knotting in the air, and he reached down to grasp her wand hand in his, the spell instantly blackening his fingertips as his breath hissed from between his teeth. Pain shot up his hand, and Hermione’s glare shifted into shock as her eyes darted in his direction.

Draco’s gaze shifted from the brewing fight in front of them to Harry, catching sight of his hand wrapped around Hermione’s. He stiffened, shifting away from the pair slightly as his attention turned once again to Ron who had drawn his wand against his siblings.

“ Enough! ” Hooch finally snapped, stalking toward them to break up the fight. “The match is over! Gryffindor, off the pitch before I assign detentions for unsportsmanlike conduct!”

Ron threw one last murderous glare at Harry way before stalking off, muttering to himself about the “rigged match” and “snake-lovers.” None of the others were quick to follow him, instead turning to offer hesitant handshakes to the winning team. The Slytherin team were just as hesitant to return them, but extended their hands as Harry extended his to Ginny.

Ginny turned, her warm brown gaze eliciting a variety of memories that played softly in the back of Harry’s mind. A friend, first love, lover and mother of his children. And in that same second she offered a short nod, and Harry knew that he didn’t have to worry about repeating the past, not with her. There was no shared smile, but there wasn’t any regret either. And Harry, still holding the snitch, still hearing echoes of that strange, luring melody in his head, nodded back. 

Draco slung an awkward arm around him a second later, which had Harry smirking. “Ignore him. You were bloody brilliant.”

Chapter Text

The school was on lock down. Ron had been attacked in his bed by none other than Sirius Black. Harry had walked by the hall where the teachers had a group of Gryffindor students in their pajamas. McGonagall was questioning Neville, who was a sobbing mess; something about losing a note. Harry remembered the poor boy had never been any good at remembering the Fat Lady’s password, writing it on scraps of paper that he kept in his pocket. He must have lost it or been pick pocketed. That would be one way to get into the tower, though Harry had no plans to visit anytime soon.

Professor Lupin’s gaze shifted, catching sight of Harry in the corridor as he and the rest of the Slytherins were guided up to the dining hall to sleep for the night. He stared at Harry as if it was his fault, and maybe it was. He had vouched for a man he’d never actually met, a convicted murder. Harry returned the stare head on, and while he did feel a little sympathy for the redhead who’d awoken to a knife at his throat, he still didn’t believe that the boy had been in danger, not really.

The lock down ended up lasting the rest of the night, with all four houses sleeping in the hall while teachers split shifts between patrolling the grounds in search of the criminal, and guarding the student. By the next day everyone was exhausted from the night's events. All classes were still scheduled, but most of the staff had elected on study halls for their students, dark circles under their own eyes and large cups of coffee in hand. By the evening, Potions was the only class with an assignment; of course Snape had to be contrary. 

It didn’t bother Harry since it wasn’t due till the following Monday and he’d spent the other study periods finishing the essay portion. With nothing else pressing, he decided to spend his evening hiding himself away in the secret corridors of the Marauders map while attempting to find Peter Petegrew. After all, his parents’ friend was sure to know the truth behind Sirius Black

Pettigrew’s name had been popping up on the parchment all week, usually in Gryffindor Tower. Harry wasn’t sure if he was looking at the ghost of his parents’ old friend, like Peeves and Nearly Headless Nick, or… something else entirely. Either way, barging into the Tower wasn’t an option. The twins could probably get him in, but that would mean questions… questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Better to wait for Pettigrew to wander out into the open. 

Now Harry had finally caught sight of the name that seemed to slip through walls on the map. Once or twice, the name drifted into the corridors, only to vanish before Harry could catch up. The hallways were dark, and while the Lumos at the end of his wand kept him from crashing into anything, it didn’t provide a wide radius of illumination. His eyes kept darting back to the map, irritation growing each time the letters slipped away like ink in water.

“Brilliant plan, Potter,” he muttered under his breath. “Chasing a dot through secret passages like some demented cartographer… Merlin, I’m starting to sound like Malfoy…” The name flickered once more, mere feet in front of his own name, before slipping into a blank stretch of parchment where there was no passage. He let out a frustrated huff. “Fine. You win, you bloody ghost.”

Tucking the map away, he turned on his heel and stalked off toward the Great Hall, stomach growling loud enough to echo. At least dinner wouldn’t completely disappear every time he got close, even if his housemates’ tended to make quick work of his potatoes.

Hours later, fitful sleep gripped Harry tightly;

-The dark pressed in from every side; thick, breathing, alive. A low growl shivered through it, deep enough that Harry felt it in his ribs before he heard it in his ears. From the shadows, two eyes glowed an eerie yellow, wild, watching him like prey.

-A huge black dog padded through the dark, muscles rippling under a coat matted with grime, before it rose up; stretching, shifting, bones twisting. Its paws became hands mid-step, nails curling into blackened fingertips, fur sliding back into sallow skin. Eventually settling to become a gaunt, hollow-eyed man. Dark hair fell into his skeletal face as his black eyes seemed to stare through Harry, searching.

-Harry turned, but the corridor bent away from him in impossible angles, the walls shifting like liquid. A man stumbled toward him; shorter, rounder, eyes darting, breaths coming in panicked squeaks. His shadow twitched independently from his body, already sprouting whiskers.

-The man’s mouth opened in a scream, but what came out was a high, thin chitter, and his body collapsed inward, folding, snapping, melting into a rat. The smell hit Harry then: damp fur, coppery blood, something sour that made his stomach lurch. The rat bolted into the dark, the black dog giving chase as the darkness swallowed the pair whole.

Somewhere, faintly, Harry could hear the sound of something metal closing like a lock clicking into place. He woke with his pulse racing, breath caught in his throat.

By morning he was pacing in front of Hermione, half-ranting, half-breathless. He hadn't been able to sleep after the dreams and had instead spent the early morning hours pouring over one of the books he'd purchased during the summer, Animal at Heart, a book on maledictus and animegus. 

The others had already escaped to breakfast when Harry grabbed Hermione in the hallway to tell her about his latest realization. She sat on one of the leather couches by the commonroom fire, eyeing him like one would a caged animal.

“Of course they were Animagi,” he said bitterly. “My parents’ friends. Because why not? Everyone else gets sensible secrets, and I get- what? A shapeshifting dog and a man who turns into vermin. Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

Hermione gave him a wary eye roll, pulling her legs to fold up underneath her.

“And now,” Harry added, flinging his hands up, “I’ve got to figure out how to get Ron’s stupid rat away from him without setting off the next Wizarding War.”

“How can you be certain that Scabbers is Pettigrew?”

“Rats don’t live that long, for one. Think about it; that rat has been a Weasley staple since Bill. They’re only meant to live two years max, even magical ones. And it was Scabbers that set off my memories in Transfiguration, when he ran across Ron’s desk. My memories tend to be triggered by a catalyst. I remembered Snape teaching me Occulmency when I looked at Snape, I know Fred will die at some point before you and I messed up with the Time Turner, because I can remember the grief every time I look at him. And I remembered Pettigrew in transfiguration after looking at Scabbers.”

Hermione crossed her arms, seeming to give it some thought before nodding. “Very well, so you need to catch a rat.”

“No, I need Ron to give me his rat.” He winced at the truly impossible task; even if the boy didn’t hate his guts now, he’d never give up his beloved pet to be interviewed about a murderer that may or may not be after the rodent.

She didn’t even pretend to look sympathetic. “I could hex him.”

Harry blinked. “Hex… Ron?”

She shrugged, far too casually. “It doesn’t have to be anything permanent. A well-timed Jelly-Legs Jinx, you grab the rat while he’s flailing. Clean. Efficient.”

Harry stared at her. “That’s… one way to keep things civil.”

“He wouldn’t even know it was me,” she added, almost primly, but there was a spark of something in her eyes that said she’d enjoy it far too much.

Harry rubbed his temples. “Right. And it took three days for my black fingertips to heal after the last hex you wanted to cast on him.” He wiggled his fingers at her where he'd caught the backlash of her rage on the quidditch field. “Or, hear me out, we don’t commit assault on our… former friend. What if instead, I learn the spell to shift Animagi back into humans?”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “Where did you even hear about that?”

“Snuck into the Restricted Section again,” Harry said with a shrug. “It’s a reversal charm. Figured, if Scabbers is Pettigrew, that’d do the trick without anyone thinking I’ve just stolen a pet.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “That spell’s advanced magic, Harry. It’s… not exactly taught in class.”

“I know,” Harry said. “That’s why I was thinking of asking Lupin. He’d know it. And maybe he wouldn’t ask too many questions about why I need it.”

Hermione’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’d have to tell him why. He was their friend, he’s likely to know that Pettigrew was an animagus. He’s not dumb, he’ll put it together even if you don’t tell him. But he will want to know how you know; you’re handing him a piece of the puzzle he shouldn’t have.”

Harry crossed his arms. “And if we don’t, Pettigrew stays a rat in Ron’s pocket until-” He cut himself off sharply, jaw tightening. While he wasn’t sure the exact circumstances where his future self had encountered him, Harry was certain that Pettigrew was the rat faced man in that memory. Whispering worshipfully to a Dark Lord and hurting his future self.

Hermione’s voice softened, but there was steel in it. “We’ve been careful for a reason. Any person we tell is one more chance we change something the wrong way. If Lupin starts putting it together about Sirius and Pettigrew, we might not be able to keep history from repeating itself; he might act before he’s supposed to. Or worse, the new course of history will get someone hurt that we didn’t plan for. We don't know what that would do.”

Harry stared past her, jaw working. “So what? We just wait? Let Pettigrew stay free because we’re scared?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She looked at him like she was weighing every possible outcome in her head, and none of them came out clean. “I’m saying,” she said finally, “that once we tell someone, there’s no way to un-tell them. And Lupin is not stupid, Harry. He’ll know there’s more to the story.”

“I won't mention time travel, but I need his help. He's just as important to our future as the rest of them.” The silence between them stretched with all the future possibilities.

***

Harry had barely stepped out of the Great Hall after dinner with the intention of visiting Professor Lupin when the low, cutting voice hit him from the side corridor.

“There he is. The snake himself.” Ron stood there with Seamus and Dean flanking him like a mismatched guard detail, all three blocking the narrow hall. The flicker of torchlight caught the angry flush on Ron’s face.

Harry sighed. “If this is about Quidditch-”

“Oh, it’s about a lot more than Quidditch,” Ron snapped, his voice carrying the pitch of someone who’d been rehearsing this all day. “You’ve gone dark, Harry. Everyone can see it. I warned you that Slytherin was a dark house, every single person a dark wizard or a death eater. You’re no exception, maybe you’ve always been dark. I’d held out hope that the house switch was some craziness that you’d get over, but no. You’re in Slytherin now, whispering with Malfoy, learning Merlin-knows-what from those snakes, and-” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “- I know you’ve made a deal.”

Harry blinked. “A deal?”

“A deal to have Sirius Black come after me!” Ron’s voice cracked, but he didn’t seem to notice. “After what happened in the match, you want revenge or to shut me up, so you send your murderer friend after me in the night.”

Seamus muttered, “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Black’s been seen near the castle…”

Dean nodded, looking at Harry with a wary sort of disgust. “And who else would he help except another dark wizard?”

Harry laughed once, sharp and humorless as the heat of his temper sparked once again between his ribs. “You actually think I’d side with the man who betrayed my parents? And waste Black’s supposed murderous attention on you because you were sore about losing a game?”

Ron’s ears went red. “You’ve changed, Harry. Everyone can see it. Slytherin’s gotten into your blood, and now you’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous would be hexing you right now,” Harry shot back, stepping forward just enough to make Dean shift uncomfortably. “You’d better hope you don’t actually see Black, Ron, because if he’s after anyone, it’s not because I asked him to.” Harry turned away, his anger simmering just under his skin. Ron’s broom calloused hand shot out, shoving Harry.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” he barked.

Harry stumbled a step, swinging around to plant his feet. “You really want to start this?”

Seamus grinned like he’d been waiting for the show. “Go on, Ron, show him what happens to dark wizards in our school.”

Harry didn’t think; training that he’d never learned but lived in his mind roared to the surface, sharp and automatic. He stepped off-line, letting Ron’s momentum slide past him, and drove his shoulder into Ron’s middle with just enough force to take the wind out of him. They hit the flagstones hard. It wasn’t his emotions fueling his movements, it was pure control in the face of an enemy.

Ron’s elbow swung up toward Harry’s face, but Harry caught his wrist mid-strike, twisting it away while planting his knee across Ron’s thigh to pin him. He kept his head tucked, avoiding the wild swing of Ron’s other fist. The sound of books skidding across the hall barely registered under the tangle of curses being thrown; not spells yet, just ugly words meant to wound but missing their mark. Harry was too absorbed in each movement to register the slurs.

Dean moved in to pull Ron back, while Seamus reached with sharp fingers to grasp Harry’s arms, attempting to pull the pair apart. Harry twisted free of his grip with a practiced turn of his shoulder, coming up in a low, ready stance. Breath ragged, eyes locked on Ron, he hissed, “You think I’m dark?” Ron staggered upright, but Harry closed the space before he could regain balance, shoving him hard enough to send him crashing into the wall, coming nose to nose with the other teen. “If I was dark, don’t you think you’d already be dead?” Fear flickered in brown eyes under Harry’s hard stare.

It wasn’t enough to get him to back down though. As Harry backed away Ron’s hand was already on his wand. He yanked it free, fury blazing.

Harry didn’t bother to reach for his own. A low hum slipped from his throat, subtle as breath. Magic surged in response, invisible and sharp, and Ron’s wand tore from his fingers as though yanked by an unseen hook, clattering across the flagstones.

For a heartbeat, the hallway went dead silent. Dean’s eyes went wide. Seamus took a step back.

“You saw that!” Seamus hissed. “He didn’t even say anything; didn’t use a wand. That’s dark magic!”

Ron’s face twisted in triumph at the accusation. “Told you! You’ve gone dark, Potter! Making deals with Black wasn’t enough, now you’re-”

Harry stepped forward, and they bolted; Ron, Dean, and Seamus retreating down the corridor, voices rising in frantic, overlapping shouts that would carry far. Harry just stood there, the hum still vibrating faintly in his chest in harmony with his pulse, watching them go.

“What,” Snape drawled from the shadows at the far end of the hall, “exactly is going on here?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? I’m apparently a dark wizard now, wouldn’t my mother be proud.” Harry’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, something unreadable flickering there. “Your mother,” he said slowly, “once found herself defending me against similar accusations. It did not end well for either of us.” Before Harry could ask what he meant, Snape turned sharply on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, robes snapping behind him.

Harry stood there, pulse still hammering from the fight. The hallway felt too quiet now, the tension of the scuffle still buzzing under his skin. Where did I even learn to move like that? He had acted on instinct; the way he’d shifted his weight, kept Ron’s wand arm pinned, never letting himself be an easy target. Auror instincts. Sirius’s voice in the back of his head. Moody’s barked orders in a different lifetime.

He shook his head hard. And I need to put a better stopper on my temper before it gets me hexed into the hospital wing.

By breakfast the next morning, the whispers had sharpened into something more like an accusation. Harry could feel the half-heard phrases slipping under the scrape of cutlery: wandless spells… dangerous… you-know-who trained him… Black’s apprentice . By lunch, someone had already carved “Dark Bolt” paired with a crude rendition of his scar into the banister leading to the library stairs. Several groups of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff students gave him a wide berth in the corridors. The only ones that didn’t seem to notice were the Slytherins, who had a ‘welcome to the club’ attitude.

When Lupin sent word for him to stop by his office after dinner, Harry wasn’t exactly surprised. Of course the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher is concerned about a student using dark arts. Harry rolled his eyes to his own thoughts before knocking on the door.

The professor looked up from a stack of essays as Harry slipped inside, brow furrowed but not in anger. “You’ve… gained something of a reputation overnight,” Lupin said mildly, gesturing for Harry to sit. “A dark magic reputation.”

Harry dropped into the chair. “That’s because Gryffindor can’t handle losing a match. And because I used a wandless disarm on Ron Weasley when he tried to hex me.”

“Wordless, too, I hear,” Lupin said, watching him with that calm, measuring gaze Harry was beginning to both respect and find slightly irritating. “That sort of thing tends to make people uneasy. It’s not common magic for someone your age.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe not common, but it’s not dark either.” The merfolk didn’t have dark or light magics, though he was sure they could be used that way if someone tried hard enough. Natural magics didn’t draw from human intentions like wizarding magics.

Lupin’s lips twitched in a half-smile, but he didn’t press the point. “All the same, be careful on how and when you use that particular trick.”

Harry nodded, but did move from his seat despite the dismissal. The silence dragged on as the professor turned back to the book on his desk. Harry stared at the desk, Hermione’s warnings ringing in his ears, before finally leaning forward hesitantly. “Actually, there’s something else I wanted to ask you. I’d like to learn a spell. It’s… Vicissim subcinctus animagi .”

Though his eyes didn't leave the pages in front of him, there was a minute flicker in Lupin’s expression, barely enough for Harry to notice. “That’s… not a spell most fourth years would stumble across.” The lanky man sighed, finally looking up to Harry’s face as he leaned back in his chair, “Where did you hear about it?”

“I read a lot,” Harry said, tone casual but eyes steady. “What matters is, it turns an Animagus back into their human form. And I need to learn it.”

Lupin’s gaze sharpened. “Need to?”

“Yeah. For… reasons.” Harry let the pause hang just long enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to give the full story yet. For a moment, Lupin studied him in silence, the faint smell of tea and old parchment filling the quiet.

“I’ll think about it,” Lupin said finally.

***

Remus stared at the fire, the memory of Harry’s earlier question looping in his mind like a stubborn abraxan. Vicissim subcinctus animagi. The boy had said it like someone testing the weight of a dangerous blade in their palm. Harry hadn’t explained where he’d learned of the spell, but his green eyes had fixed on Remus in that steady, unblinking way his mother had had; a way that told Remus that he wasn’t seeing the bigger picture and made it clear this wasn’t idle curiosity. The fact that he wanted to know at all set an uneasy shiver crawling under Remus’s skin. 

He hadn’t been able to find Sirius; not after Christmas when he’d come back to find the dog gone from Harry’s bedside. Not after the attack on the Weasley child. But he’d always felt as if Harry might know where he’d gone… Maybe he’s changed his mind about Sirius’s innocence after hearing about the attack, and plans to out him. The idea made him hesitant to share the spell with Harry, unsure of where he stood in his own belief of Sirius’s guilt.

Remus sat in his office long after Harry had left, elbows braced on the desk, a cold cup of tea forgotten beside him. The flickering light from the fire caught on the silver frame set off to the side of his desk; a photograph taken in better days. Sirius grinning with the reckless light of youth, Peter leaning forward to be seen and James with an arm thrown over Lily’s shoulder. A younger version of himself with a quiet, slightly awkward smile on his lips. They waved endlessly, forever nineteen, forever untouched by what was to come.

His gaze lingered on Sirius a fraction too long, and the old, familiar ache tightened in his chest. He remembered laughter echoing through Gryffindor Tower, the scrape of chairs in the common room, the foolish way they’d all believed the world would wait for them. He shook himself, pushing the melancholy down where it belonged. 

His eyes lifted as the sound of fluttering parchment sliding under his door broke his reverie. A small paper butterfly fluttered up to his desk. He reached for it, unfolding the missive with absent curiosity, a pleased smile forming on his lips as he read the signature. Severus Snape.It was a short note, precise as always: 

Tea? My quarters. Eight.  

No unnecessary flourishes, no explanation.

The first time he’d received a similar note nearly had his jaw on the floor in shock; he’d thought for certain he’d be hounding the stoic male for at least three more months before he’d willingly seek out Remus’s company, much less provide a written invitation. It wasn’t a date, but it was progress, which was all Remus was hoping for. It had never gone further than tea cooling between them and the quiet rustle of turning pages. Still, there was something in the way Severus’s gaze would linger on him for half a second too long, or in the way he made no comment when Remus’s shoulder brushed his in passing.

Remus tucked the note safely into his desk beside the others, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. Whatever ghosts haunted the photograph on his desk could wait when there was a living, breathing mystery to unravel.

The corridors were quiet at this hour, his footsteps muffled on the stone. He carried a book under one arm, something to pass the time since he’d read it a hundred times before; their evenings together were usually spent in companionable silence. When he reached Severus’s door, the familiar wards shimmered briefly before letting him through.

The scent hit him first; not the sharp tang of potions ingredients that he had grown accustomed to. Something warmer, subtler, like sandalwood and parchment with a faint edge of clean soap. Then Severus looked up from where he stood near the hearth, drawing Remus’s gaze, and for one ridiculous heartbeat, Remus forgot how to breathe.

Jeans. Severus Snape, in jeans. Dark, well-worn, the sort of thing that clung in ways entirely too distracting. The white button-up was open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms corded with muscle that no set of academic robes could ever hint at. His hair, still slightly damp, clung in darker strands at his temples, giving him an almost careless air Remus had never seen on him before.

The shift from the usual impenetrable figure in black was enough to knock something loose in Remus’s chest. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a sharp, gut-deep awareness that could make a man forget all the careful boundaries he’d set for himself. His mouth went dry, and for a moment all he could think about was how those rolled sleeves might feel under his hands, how that damp hair might smell if he leaned close.

He swallowed thickly, masking the heat in his gaze by holding up the book in silent greeting.

“Evening,” Severus said, voice low and smooth, the faintest arch to his brow as if noting the book under Remus’s arm and filing it away.

“Evening,” Remus returned, trying to remember how to walk as a good portion of his blood moved away from his brain, stepping inside and setting the book on the small table beside his chair.

As always, the ritual unfolded without discussion: Severus poured the strong, perfectly brewed tea while Remus settled into the deep leather chair opposite him. The only sounds were the faint hiss of the fire and the rustle of pages as they began to read, their own silences fitting together as neatly as puzzle pieces. Usually the tea pot would float back and forth until Remus was driven to comment about some bit of nonsense that would draw an exasperated sigh from the potions master.

Surprisingly, it was Severus who broke the silence tonight. “Did you speak to Potter about the rumors?”

The rumors of the boy using dark arts had spread like wild fire; ever present gossip about the Slytherin students heightened by the fact that Harry was.. Well, he was Harry. Remus glanced up over the rim of his teacup. “I did. And if you’re asking for my professional opinion, he’s anything but dark.”

One corner of Severus’s mouth twitched into a semi-smirk of disbelief. “Worried about him because he’s in my house, are you? The ‘dark’ house?” The way he said it was pure acid, though it didn’t quite hide the glint of dry humor in his eye.

Remus rolled his eyes, setting his cup down with deliberate care. “Please. You and I both know it doesn’t matter what house you come from. You can still be dark.” His voice softened, though the undercurrent was unmistakable. “Look at Sirius Black.”

Something unreadable flickered in Severus’s gaze at the name, and for a moment neither of them looked away. There was no love lost between Severus and Sirius; his best friend once trying to literally feed his crush to his werewolf side had always been a raw, unhealed wound in Remus’s relationship with the animagus. They’d never been friends in their school years, and while that conversation hadn’t happened yet, Remus had hoped they were both mature enough not to let it color whatever this was between them now. After all, Severus had once been a dark wizard himself; it would be hypocritical for Remus to claim that such a past had any bearing on his feelings toward the man now.

Severus’s gaze sharpened, the firelight catching on the dark irises in a way that made them seem almost black. “You’re not hiding him, are you?”

Remus blinked, the quiet weight of the question settling between them like a stone.

“Hiding who?” he asked, though his tone was even, practiced; He was surprised this was the first time anyone was asking him, only made worse by who was asking.

“Sirius Black.” Severus’s voice didn’t rise, but the words were honed to a blade’s edge. “No one’s managed to find him despite dementors and powerful wizards combing the entirety of Hogwarts with a fine tooth comb. A convict, no wand and no… friends. He breaks into one of the most secure dorms without leaving a trace. Curious, isn’t it?”

A knot of guilt twisted in Remus’s stomach. He hadn’t told anyone Sirius was an Animagus, that the dog slipping through the cracks of every search was more than just a stray. Part of him knew that kind of omission could be read as betrayal; another part still whispered that it wasn’t betrayal if you weren’t certain of the truth.

“I’m not hiding him,” he said at last, and it was most of the truth, if not the whole of it. “I don’t know where he is.”

Severus studied him for a moment longer, as though testing the edges of that statement for weakness. Then, without comment, he looked back down at his book, though the turn of the page was just a fraction too slow.

Remus let the silence stretch for a few beats, pretending to be absorbed in the paragraph before him, though the words swam unanchored across the page. Severus’s suspicion still clung to the air like the bitter scent of burnt herbs.

He cleared his throat lightly. “Actually… there’s something I wanted to ask you. About Harry.”

Severus’s eyes flicked up without lifting his head. “If you’re about to request I stop assigning essays, you can save your breath.”

“Not that,” Remus said, giving a dry smile. “He asked me about a particular spell… vicissim subcinctus animagi . Do you know it?”

The corner of Severus’s mouth twitched, but not in amusement. “A reversal incantation for Animagi. Nasty piece of work in the wrong hands. Why, precisely, is Potter sniffing around that sort of magic?”

“I don’t think it’s for the wrong reasons,” Remus said quickly. “He’s bright. I know he’s already read through my assigned text. I’m assuming it’s out of curiosity more than anything else. But maybe he has suspicions about a beast; something with just a touch more intelligence to its eyes than it should. If his guess is correct, the spell might be useful. Effective.”

Severus set his book down, steepling his fingers. “You want me to teach him.”

“I want someone to,” Remus admitted. “Preferably someone who won’t give him more reason to experiment than he already has.” Preferably not me, so when Sirius is finally unmasked it won’t be my fault.

Severus’s gaze was sharp enough to pin him in place. “And you think I qualify as the cautious option?”

Remus allowed himself a thin smile. “You’re the last person he’d dare cross.”

For a moment, something unreadable flickered across Severus’s face. Not the usual suspicion or dry amusement, but something closer to… pride. He didn’t look away, and the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth was almost a smile.

They sat like that, the air holding just a little more weight than before, until Severus’s fingers curled around his teacup as though to anchor himself, shifting to place it gently on the table. His other hand rested on the arm of the chair, but instead of returning to his book, he let his gaze linger on Remus. It was subtle, but Remus felt the shift; a spark of electricity that made your pulse jump for no rational reason. He found himself leaning in without quite realizing it, and in the same breath, Severus did too. Their knees nearly brushed. The lamplight caught in Severus’s hair, still damp from a recent wash, and the sharp scent of his soap mingled with the steam from the tea between them.

Their eyes locked, the quiet room shrinking until nothing existed beyond the space between them. Severus moved first, his warm lips brushing tentatively across Remus’s own. He felt the blood roar in his ears, his heart pounding with a wild urgency he hadn’t expected. Without thinking, he closed the distance, brushing sure fingers against Severus’s cheek as their lips crashed together in a searching, desperate way. His other hand came up, steadying Severus’s shoulder as he leaned in to deepen the kiss, every nerve ignited.

He felt Severus’s fingers curl into a tight fist at his shirt front, pulling him closer. He shifted, adjusting the angle, his legs hitting the table. But just as the moment stretched, a sudden clatter shattered the silence. The teacup, porcelain chipped, tea spilling in a dark rush across the low table and dripping onto the rug. The sharp sound of the cup hitting the floor broke the silence like a glass pane shattering.

Remus’s breath caught, his eyes shooting open to meet dark black circles. Severus froze under his gaze, eyes snapping wider, and for just a heartbeat Remus saw raw and unguarded fear in the depths of his gaze. Not anger. Not disgust. Fear.

“I-” Severus’s voice broke before he forced the words out. “I can’t.”

Remus drew back an inch, confusion knitting his brow. “Did I… read the room wrong?” His tone was gentle, uncertain. His brain was moving far too sluggish for his liking as he replayed the encounter in his head, trying to decipher what went wrong.

Severus’s throat worked as though the words were dragging splinters with them. “No, just-” He cut himself off, a shaky, almost self-deprecating laugh escaping. “Please go. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, Remus stayed where he was, trying to parse the layers of that reaction, the way Severus’s hands gripped the armrests as though holding himself in place. But there was no opening, no flicker of invitation left.

So he stood, gathered his book, and left without another word.

The corridor outside felt colder, emptier, as he closed the door behind him, unsure if he’d crossed a boundary… or stumbled into a wound he didn’t understand.

Chapter Text

“So your bright idea is to sneak into the teachers’ lounge, steal a large cabinet with a very dangerous boggart, sneak it down the halls to an empty classroom, and open it in hopes that it's form takes on a dementor. All so we can practice?”

“Yup” Harry nodded back at Theo who rolled his eyes. Several months had passed since they'd agreed to learn the Patronus charm together, and it was now the end of March. Harry had given up on bugging them about practicing together, mostly to swamped with classes, quidditch and late night swims. Today, Harry had nearly fallen out of his chair when Theo and Draco had approached him ready to learn. Hemione had waved them off, wishing them luck in their endeavors while she continued to drown in homework.

“Why don't we just find an empty classroom and practice? We don't need to cast the spell at anything to summon a corporal Patronus,” Draco reasoned, and Harry's excitement deflated with a pout.

“Spoil sports! Fine, we don't have quidditch practice till five, right?” Draco nodded. “Then I know a place where we won't be disturbed.”

Harry led them up to the third floor, where the abandoned Conjurations classroom remained his secret get away and potion lab. Everything was much how he left it, having mended a broken table into a working table to hold all of his brewing supplies, as well as transfigured a desk into a comfortable chair. The chalkboard of graffiti and the extra large plush dog pillow (that at this point was close to four times larger than what he'd first transfigured) remained. The only difference Harry could see as he opened the door was the large black dog laying on top of said dog bed.

He froze as the other two boys peaked over his shoulder, “Umm Harry? Why are you hiding a dog in here?”

“I don't know Draco, why is your hair white?”

“Genetics?”

“Well there you go, I'm genetically a dumb ass.” Harry rolled his eyes, ushering them into the room before anyone wandered down the hall to notice them. Padfoot looked up at the three, eliciting a small growl at the new arrivals.

“Padfoot, Draco and Theo- Draco and Theo, Padfoot.” He pointed at each individual before pulling his wand, “ Wingardium Leviosa .” He began levitating the furniture out of the way, making room for them to practice while the other boys remained flabbergasted by the dog.

“I'm allergic to dogs…” Draco shoved his hands into his pockets as if to prevent the temptation of touching him as he eyed the mutt cautiously.

“And still, nobody cares.” Theo walked forward offering his hand for the dog to sniff. Padfoot leaned forward, ears pinned back as he examined the proffered appendage; Nott must have made the cut as the dog's body language shifted to ‘play’, tail wagging and slobbery licks that drew a giggle from the usually stoic teen.

Draco huffed, still standing to the side, “Don't let him- eww, why would- that's just gross.”

“Haven't you ever had a pet?” Harry asked, stacking desks on top of each other to make a pyramid.

He shrugged, “I have Archimedes.”

“Owls don't count!” Theo called from where he now lay on the cushion, playing tug of war with Padfoot’s squeaky broom.

“Owls do count!” Harry laughed, “I never had a pet before Hedwig, and Padfoot isn't really a pet, just my resident Grim.” And Harry was ninety nine percent sure he was an escaped convict, but didn't mention that part.

“What do you mean by that?” They both looked at him with frowns on their faces.

“Remember in Trelawney’s class? My tea leaves predicted my death, the small black dog in my cup was called a grim. Welp, here is my small black dog, harbinger of death.” Padfoot gave an insulted sneeze. “Really, after at least four near death experiences, it's not all that surprising that Death sent me a watch dog.” He grinned, walking over to scratch the pooch behind the ear.

“You're awfully light hearted about your impending doom.” 

I have too many impending dooms to count at this point; he shrugged, not bothering to dignify the observation with an answer. “So who wants to go first?”

“I guess I will.” Draco stepped forward, drawing his wand from his sleeve. Harry sat on top of a desk, feet in the accompanying chair, his own wand held loosely in his fingers as his elbow rested on his knees.

“How much have you read up on the process? Do you want me to ex-”

“I know enough,” Draco snapped before catching himself. He rolled his shoulders back with a deep breath. “Let me just give it a try, and we can go from there.”

“Alright.” Harry watched as Draco pointed his wand in the air, a small frown puckering between his brow. 

“ Expecto patronum. ” Not even a flicker. The frown deepened as the blond stared at the end of his wand in disdain.

Harry knew it would be a bad time to laugh and instead looked to the ceiling while pinching his leg to keep his composure, “What memory did you use?”

“That's private,” he answered primly.

“Mine was winning the quidditch cup last year, which obviously wasn't happy enough.” Harry volunteered, causing Draco to snort. “It needs to be overwhelmingly happy.” Theo and Draco looked at each other as if Harry was asking them to chop off a finger.

“I’ll give it a try,” Theo stood up, brushing dog hair from his robes. Wand out, posture perfect and… a sputtering blue wisp that quickly faded.

Draco did laugh at that, “What was that?”

“It was better than yours!” Theo glared at his wand.

“Can I ask what you picked?” 

“I picked one of ... my mom.” Draco's laughter instantly died at the mention of the Nott matriarch, and Harry could guess why that memory wouldn't work.

“She's not around anymore?” Theo shook his head, “I'm sorry, but I think that's why it didn't work. That memory is tinged with the sadness of… everything else.” 

Theo nodded stiffly, staring out of the window. “Your turn?” Draco offered, motioning Harry over.

Harry stood, bringing his wand before his face as he tried to dig for anything happy he could think of. A barren list of possibilities. He thought of his first birthday cake from Hagrid, casting the spell. 

The blue light emitted from his wand was weaker than what had held off the dementor, he could see it waver as he pushed the memory to the front of his mind like an offering. It quickly sputtered out into whips of light that disappeared once they hit the ground.

“Damn,” he worried his lip, trying to think of a better memory.

“What did you think about?” Draco looked at his cuticles like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

“My first birthday cake,” Harry replied distractedly.

Theo scoffed, "You can't possibly remember something from that long ago, no wonder it didn't work.”

“Two years isn't that long,” he replied off handedly, he gave his head a small shake before raising his wand once more, “okay let me try again.”

Several more attempts were made by all three boys. By the end they were worn, laying on the dog bed despite Draco's half-hearted protests, Padfoot laying between them. They'd all made significant progress having established solid shields by their fourth attempts. Harry was still frustrated by his inability to get it right away; what little he knew of the future didn’t show him struggling this much… but also didn’t show him which memory he used to be able to cast the spell.

“We’ve got what? Two hours left till quidditch practice? Perfect time for a nap.” Harry closed his eyes against the bright sun, idly petting Padfoot.

“Nap? What are you, eighty?” Draco elbowed his side.

“I can't help it if I'm always tired.”

“Well you could-” Theo raised his eyebrow as Harry turned to meet is gaze, “- if you stopped sneaking out every night.”

“You're doing what?!” Draco shot up to look at Harry who attempted an innocent face.

“I don't know what you're talking about… but how did you know?”

“You're not the only one who doesn't sleep well.” He shrugged, closing his eyes.

“Why the hell are you sneaking out? Are the rumors true that you're Sirius Black's apprentice and you sent him to kill Weasley?” Draco attempted to pry. The dog's ears pinned back, a small whimper escaping him. Harry petted him reassuringly.

“As much as Ron’s been getting on my nerves this year, I wouldn't wish that sort of fright on anyone. And no, I'm not Sirius’s apprentice.” 

“Hmm, then do you come here?” Draco looked at Harry's brewing table and the other transfigured comforts that indicated the room wasn't as abandoned as everyone thought.

“I needed somewhere to practice, it's not like Snape holds office hours.” Harry diverted easily. “Plus it's nicer in here than the dungeons.”

“I guess so…” The blond trailed off, laying back down to close his eyes as well.

They laid like that, and Harry listened as the other boys’ breathing shifted to that of sleep. He tried to let his body sink into the warmth of the sun and the steady weight of Padfoot’s fur beneath his fingers, but his mind refused to follow. Every time his eyes shut, it was as though his thoughts burst open wider, crowding with questions.

What memory had future-Harry used? Why can’t I get it right? The others were already picking it up, and that should have been reassuring, but instead it only twisted something sharp in his chest. He should be ahead with his knowledge of the future, a part of him had been casting this spell for years, but instead he felt like he was stumbling behind. I have to get ahead, anxiety crept into his mind, I can’t protect anyone if I’m not stronger.

The steady breathing of Draco and Theo should have lulled him. Draco, who would’ve laughed at the idea of “trust” a year ago, now sleeping easily within arm’s reach. Theo, who claimed not to care about anyone, giving up his coveted free time to train alongside them. Padfoot pressed warm and solid against his ribs, twitching softly in his sleep.

Harry envied them all, every last one of them, for how easily they seemed to rest. He turned over, squeezing his eyes tighter, trying to force the darkness into something like calm. But instead he only saw flashes of Dementors and the rat faced man. A shiver ran down his spine despite the sun. He pressed his face into Padfoot’s fur until the smell of dog and grass filled his nose, grounding him.

It felt like only minutes had passed when hands suddenly gripped his shoulders and shook.

“Potter! Wake up! We’re late!” Draco’s voice snapped, urgent and sharp.

Harry blinked blearily, disoriented, and then sat up far too fast, nearly knocking into Draco’s forehead. “What? Late?!”

“Quidditch practice, you idiot! You didn’t set an alarm!” Draco snapped, already scrambling to pull his shoes on. Padfoot gave a disgruntled huff at being jostled, while Theo rolled lazily onto his side, squinting at them.

“I’ll stay with him,” Theo muttered, not sounding the least bit concerned. “Go before Flint has both your heads.” Harry was already stumbling to his feet, heart racing from the sudden shift from restless half-sleep to panic. Padfoot whined softly, ears drooping, but Theo gave the dog a lazy scratch behind the ear. “Go,” Theo repeated, eyes drifting shut again as if none of this was his problem.

Harry and Draco bolted for the door. “You’re unbelievable. Sleeping through the one thing you actually care about!” Draco hissed, jamming his own boots on with sharp tugs.

“I wasn’t asleep!” Harry protested, rushing down the hallway. They didn’t have any of their gear, but didn’t bother with a pit stop. They could use some spare gloves from the quidditch shed when they grabbed their brooms.

“You were drooling, Potter!” Draco shot back, his longer legs bringing him ahead. They tore down the corridors at a dead run, skidding around corners, nearly colliding with a group of second-years. By the time they spilled out onto the pitch, Flint was already pacing with his arms crossed, a stormy scowl on his face.

“You’re late,” he growled, but before Harry could even open his mouth, Draco threw him under the Knight Bus.

“ He overslept ,” Draco said smoothly, wiping sweat off his brow as though he hadn’t been napping too.

“Did not!” Harry snapped, pulling his broom out of the shed and shoving a spare jersey over his head.

“No excuses, I want twenty warm up laps from both of you.” They nodded, Harry swinging a leg over his broom in a rush. He could feel his ears burning, though not entirely from Draco’s betrayal. His whole body buzzed with leftover grogginess, like he’d stood up too fast and hadn’t quite come down from it. He shook it off, forcing himself into the air with the rest of the team.

At first, the familiar rush of wind steadied him. But within minutes, the grogginess returned with a vengeance. It felt heavier this time, crawling through his limbs. I knew I shouldn’t have napped. He cursed himself, slapping his face in an attempt to jar some energy into his drowsy brain. It didn’t seem to help as his reflexes continued to drag a half-second too slow, his broom swerving where it shouldn’t, and the sun overhead turned glaring and hot.

After their laps, Draco was sent off to join the other chaser as they pushed the quaffle back and forth between them. Flint let the snitch loose for Harry to chase. It only took a few more minutes for disaster to strike.

“Potter, watch it!” Marcus barked as Harry nearly clipped Bole. Harry gritted his teeth, forcing himself sharper, faster, pretending he wasn’t blinking harder just to clear his vision. But it was difficult, his grip loosening ever so slightly, his body leaning a little to forward. The world lurched sideways. His broom dipped abruptly beneath him, and Harry’s stomach gave a sickening swoop. He clawed for balance, fingers scrabbling against polished wood, but the strength simply wasn’t there.

The next thing he knew, air was rushing past too fast, the ground coming up far too quick.

“POTTER!” Flint roared, diving after him. At the last second Marcus grabbed Harry’s arm, cushioning part of the fall with his own body as they hit the grass hard. The entire team had gone still, shocked silence broken only by Harry’s gasping breaths. His vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

“Easy,” The older boy muttered, his voice rough with worry. He heaved Harry up against his side, half-carrying him toward the pitch exit. “Come on. Snape needs to see this. The rest of you, back to practice! Perry, you’re in charge.” His tone left no room for argument. Harry wanted to insist he was fine, but the words never made it past his lips. His head lolled against Marcus’s shoulder as the world slipped further away.

Flint half-dragged, half-carried Harry through the dungeon corridors, muttering curses under his breath the whole way. By the time they stumbled into Snape’s office, Harry was barely conscious, his legs threatening to buckle with every step.

Snape looked up from a stack of essays, quill pausing mid-scratch. His eyes flicked from the team captain to Harry and back again, expression souring as if this was somehow an inconvenience personally designed to ruin his day.

“Potter,” Snape drawled, setting the quill down with deliberate slowness, “I should have known you wouldn’t be able to get through one Quidditch practice without dramatic injury. What is it this time? Possessed broom? Sudden, incurable stupidity?”

“He nearly fell from fifty feet in the air,” Flint snapped, ignoring the professor’s theatrics in favor of dropping his charge into an unoccupied chair. “He was out cold before I even hit the ground with him.”

Snape rose, robes billowing as he crossed the room, and with a sharp flick of his wand he had the chair transfigured into a small bed. Harry groaned faintly at the sudden shift, his eyelids too heavy to open.

“Mm. Not a repeat of Christmas,” Snape murmured, his tone cutting even as his hands worked with quick precision. “No blackened veins, no swelling, not likely a poison or potion… ah.” His wand hovered above Harry’s chest, runes sparking faintly in the air before resolving into a faint green glow.

“A soporific jinx,” Snape said, voice sharpened with something like irritation but edged with reluctant surprise. “Remarkably stubborn, at that. He should have collapsed instantly.”

Flint blinked, frowning down at Harry. “Then how?”

“Potter has the singular talent of defying the obvious,” Snape cut in with acid sarcasm, though his eyes lingered on Harry with something calculating. “Most witches and wizards would have been asleep before their wand touched their palm. He manages to stay aloft on a broom for half an hour. Typical.” With another flick of his wand, Snape traced the residue of the spell. Thin threads of light coiled upward, unraveling into a signature that glowed an unmistakable shade of red. Snape’s lip curled.

“Mr. Weasley,” he said with a silken venom that made the name sound like a curse. “How troublesome.”

Harry stirred weakly, managing to mumble, “Ron?” before his head lolled back against the pillow.

“Yes, Potter,” Snape said, sweeping his wand to dismiss the magical traces. “It seems Mr. Weasley decided to test the potency of his jinxes on live targets. You.” He straightened, his robes flaring as he turned toward the fireplace. “I will see that Weasley is issued detention. Several of them. Scrubbing cauldrons without magic should keep his wand-hand too blistered to hex anyone for a week.” Marcus raised his brows but said nothing, clearly content to let Snape’s wrath fall elsewhere. Snape glanced down at Harry again, eyes narrowing. His voice softened only slightly, just enough to make Flint blink in surprise. “I must inform Minerva of her charge’s misconduct. Rest, Potter. For once in your life, do as you are told.”

Harry was already slipping under before he could argue, the warmth of the bed and the pull of the jinx too heavy to fight anymore.

***

Several days after the unfortunate quidditch practice, Harry, Hermione, and Draco had taken up camp in his abandoned classroom. Harry figured if he could share it with Theo and Draco for patronus practice, he might as well share it with Hermione. She hadn’t questioned Padfoot’s presence, just rolling her eyes and complaining that this was “one way to change the future.” The room felt even more comfortable with the addition of company, and Harry was pleased to find his loneliness and anger lying dormant in the presence of others.

The jinx that had floored Harry during practice had only lingered for about twenty-four hours, but the insult had lasted longer. Slytherin house had taken it personally; no one cursed their Seeker without consequence. Word had spread fast, and even though Ron had already been given detention, whispers of retribution still curled like smoke through the common room. The redhead was avoiding the great hall, and even the twins weren’t willing to stand in the way, citing “That sort of spell was malicious, not a prank. It’s not funny if it can get someone killed.”

Harry had tried to forget about it, but he noticed the way every Slytherin in his year had their eyes peeled in the corridors, sharp and watchful. Draco, especially, seemed determined to keep pace with him everywhere outside the dormitory, though he claimed it was “coincidence.” Hermione had made her disapproval known about the jinx, but for once wasn’t the voice of reason. Her rage had eclipsed his own and she continued to hold on to her grudge against Ron tightly. There was a glint in her eye any time he was brought up that seemed as if she would enjoy any excuse to enact vengeance on the boy. But she hadn’t argued too hard when Harry and Draco dragged her into study sessions, keeping her from plotting a murder.

Now, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, Divination charts and star maps spread around him in a sprawl that was starting to look more like battlefield debris than study materials. Draco leaned lazily against the arm of a chair, quill tapping idly on the parchment in front of him, while Hermione sat on the dog bed with a book in her lap, lips pressed thin. Padfoot was laying in the sunlight by the window, watching the students in the courtyard.

“Alright,” Draco said, peering at his chart with exaggerated disdain, “so Mars in the fourth house means… impending doom?”

“It always means impending doom,” Harry muttered, flipping his own parchment sideways as if that might make it look less like nonsense. “Half of Divination is impending doom.”

Hermione gave a sniff. “That’s because Divination isn’t a real subject. You could scrawl any rubbish down and Trelawney would call it prophetic.”

“I know that the sight is real, but maybe we shouldn’t be forcing it with essays on-” Harry squinted at the textbook. “Planitary fate implementation?”

“I don’t think even Professor Trelawney can define that.” Draco rolled his eyes.

Harry turned back to his birth chart, measuring the distance between Mars (impending doom) and Satern (future misery) in relation to his astrology constellation. “I didn’t see you in class today, Hermione,” He said without thinking, squinting at a messy constellation sketch.The words hung there for a moment. Hermione’s eyes flicked up sharply, and Harry realized too late how it had sounded. She shut her book with more force than necessary.

“I have better uses for my time than listening to that fraud,” she said briskly, standing. “Unlike some people, I don’t intend to let my marks suffer because of nonsense. I’m going to find Millicent; she said she’d look over my Herbology essay.” Before Harry could answer, she was already marching off, robes snapping behind her. Draco watched her go, one brow raised.

“Well,” he drawled, “someone’s prickly.”

Harry laughed, knowing this side of Hermione could be off putting. It was midterm season, and she was intent on accomplishing what her future self apparently couldn’t; all passing marks, all classes, all owls. Harry didn’t envy her the next four years. He flipped through the text, trying again to comprehend the difference between angular, succedent, and cadent houses. He’d read through the entire book twice and still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. 

For a while Draco just tapped his quill, studying him in silence. Then, with a deceptively casual tone, he said, “So… what did you mean the other day? About never having had a birthday cake before two years ago?” Harry froze. He hadn’t realized Draco had even been listening when he’d said that offhand comment. His throat went dry. Draco tilted his head, watching him with an intensity that didn’t match the lightness of his voice. “You weren’t serious, were you?”

He didn’t look up, forcing himself to turn the page of his book. “I was joking.”

A long pause before Draco slowly shook his head. “I don’t think you were.” Draco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re terrible at lying, Potter.”

Harry snorted faintly, still not meeting his eyes. “Thanks for the compliment.”

Draco didn’t rise to the bait. He was quiet for a moment, then asked, more carefully, “Was it… the Muggles you live with? The ones you don’t talk about?”

Harry’s grip on his quill tightened. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Draco said at once, surprising both of them. His expression softened when Harry finally glanced up. “It matters if it was bad.”

Harry’s tried to swallow, his throat drying as memories of just how ‘bad’ flashed in his mind. He forced a shrug, trying for nonchalance. “The Dursleys, they aren’t exactly… fond of me.”

“Fond?” Draco echoed, lips twisting. “That’s a word you use for an ugly teapot. Not for family.”

Harry gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Then yeah. More like that.”

Draco hesitated, then sat back a little, giving Harry the space he seemed to need. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said, voice quieter now. “But you could. If you wanted to. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t say anything to anyone else.”

The words hung there, strange and heavy. Harry searched his face for the usual smirk or some hint of mockery, but there wasn’t any. Just Draco, earnest in a way Harry didn’t see often. He looked back down at his parchment, heart thudding a little faster than before. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t shut Draco down, either. And Draco, wisely, let the silence settle without pushing further.

Padfoot rose from his spot by the window, trotting over to lay beside Harry, placing his head in his lap. Harry’s quill scratched aimlessly over parchment, drawing a line straight through Orion without noticing. After a long silence, he said, almost too lightly, “It wasn’t… good. Living with them.”

Draco stayed very still, not wanting to break the moment. Harry went on, eyes still on his chart. “I mean, you and Theo; you’ve both told me pieces of your past. Your fathers, the way things were. That’s-” He shrugged, shoulders tight. “That’s worse than anything I can remember. Mine wasn’t like that. They didn’t hex me or drag me into some family scheme. They just… made it clear I wasn’t wanted.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “That’s not nothing, Potter.”

Harry gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Could’ve been worse. I had a roof. Just… no birthdays, no friends… I slept in a cupboard until I got my Hogwarts letter. But it’s not like…” He waved vaguely toward Draco. “It’s not like what you went through.”

He said it almost casually, as if dismissing his own words made them less heavy. Draco leaned forward, sharp grey eyes fixed on him. “Don’t do that.”

Harry blinked. “Do what?”

“Act like what happened to you doesn’t matter just because someone else had it worse.” Draco’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “Don’t play the martyr. It’s bloody annoying.”

Harry’s head snapped up, temper flaring hot in his chest. The words tore out before he could stop them. “No, because complaining would do what?” His voice was sharp, ragged. “Get me another beating? Make sure I went without food for a few days, even as I begged for crumbs?” Padfoot stiffened under his hand, and Harry loosened his fist in the dog’s fur, petting apologetically. “Talking about it never helped before, why should it now.”

“So you have told people before? And no one did anything?”

“Any time the Muggle authorities visited the house, they never came back. Vernon, my uncle, learned to leave the bruises where no one could see… School meals, and excuses about ‘high metabolism’ kept the nurse from asking questions. No one cared.”

“...What about Hermione, or the Gryffindors? Any professor here would pull their own teeth out rather than let the Boy Who Lived go home to that.”

“If you haven’t realized by now, people have always tried to put my life in a neat little box. Harry the Boy Who Lived. Harry the Hero. Harry the martyr.” He spat the words, rage coiling in his gut until it burned in his throat. Draco flinched as his own words hit him like a slap in the face. “I’m none of those things. I’m just me. I’d rather not show them how pathetic I really am.”

The silence that followed was thick. Harry’s hands shook where they gripped his parchment, knuckles white. He hadn’t meant to say all of that, to hand Draco more than scraps; but once it was out, there was no taking it back. But Draco didn’t smirk. He didn’t even look triumphant at prying something open. He just stared at Harry, wide-eyed for a moment, before schooling his face back into something softer, unreadable.

“I know who you are,” he said quietly. “Just you.”

Harry blinked at him, throat still raw from the outburst. For once, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Chapter Text

Severus took a deep breath, trying to draw in as much of his waning patience as he could. He’d stopped Harry after class, summoning him to his office for a ‘chat’. He didn’t know what had driven him to do it, not wanting to attribute it to the mild regret he’d been feeding since his last encounter with Remus. 

Not that he should feel guilty for it. He was allowed to say no. Especially when thoughts of… he shook his head, not willing to go there. The sad curious looks from the wolf hadn't helped; he didn't want to know what kind of questions his reaction had stirred. He simply wasn't ready, and had sent him away. It was as easy as that.

Still, he’d extended the invitation to Potter, as Lupin had asked.

The boy had appeared at his door with a wary look in his eye, though he couldn’t fathom why since he’s saved his skin twice now from malicious magics. He should trust me with his life, he’d thought spitefully. Severous had instantly begun instructing Harry in the proper wand movements for vicissim subcinctus animagi ; which had only caused a spike in his temper as the boy continued to fall short of his already low expectations.

“No, you’re still not getting it.” He let his irritation seep into his words as he circled, watching Harry’s every move.

The boy’s mouth twitched, insolent, and then he let the words fall with a carelessness that made Severus’s jaw tighten. “Maybe if you explained it without sounding like you’re narrating my impending death, I’d get it right.”

The potions master stilled. Insolence he expected; Potter had inherited that much from his father in spades. Yet there was something deliberate in the barb, as though the boy wanted it to sting. And Merlin help him, it did. Potter didn’t stop there, either. “You’ve got this… way of teaching,” he pressed, tone wavering between defiance and honesty. “You bark orders like I should already know what they mean. Half the time I don’t even know if I’m moving wrong, or if you just don’t like my face while I’m doing it.”

Severus’s lips curled, ready to eviscerate the cheek with a single sentence…but the boy’s next words gave him pause. “You don’t tell me why it matters, sir,” Potter said, quieter now. “You just tell me I’ve failed before I’ve even tried.” Severus felt his scowl deepen, though not from the usual wellspring of irritation. It was the sharp edge of recognition at the uncomfortable sense that Potter, infuriatingly, had struck truth.

Severus blinked once, sharply, and then another time. His jaw clenched. “I am well aware of my teaching style, Potter. You are… impatient. Impulsive. Your wand movements, even when directed, lack… commitment.”

“And your style,” Harry countered, leaning to the side slightly, “feels like it’s designed to make me afraid to try anything wrong. Makes me want to quit before I even start.”

Severus’s chest tightened. There was an unflattering reflection of his own temper and tendencies, and he didn’t much care for it. But also a flicker of respect in his gut as he eyed the child. Potter wasn’t shrieking, whining, or attempting to argue with sarcasm. He was speaking bluntly with fair criticisms that one would expect from a seventh year, and he was correct.

“I will not coddle you, Potter,” Severus said finally, his voice low as he scanned the boy's defiant expression. “If you are to learn this, it will be under my rules. That said… I will endeavor to make my instructions clear enough that even you cannot fail through misunderstanding alone.”

Harry gave a nearly imperceptible nod. “Then maybe start with showing me instead of just telling me I’m wrong all the time.”

Severus’s lips twitched both in irritation, and with something he refused to name. “Very well.” He moved closer with his robes sweeping behind him, and gestured precisely while demonstrating the movements. Each motion was exacting, almost painfully so.

“Follow. Exactly. Any deviation, Potter, and you risk not just failure but injury to both you and your target. You will not cut corners, nor will you half-heartedly mimic. Understood?” He flicked his wand up with precision, forming a zigzag followed by a swirl. 

Harry mimicked, carefully measured at first, before letting a little natural movement in. “Got it,” he muttered. “But if you keep making me feel like I’m about to explode, you’re not exactly helping me learn, you know.”

He paused, wand mid-air, a flash of something akin to amusement echoed through his mind. “I am fully aware of the pressure you feel, Potter. That should be the least of your concerns. Now… again.” And Potter followed, his jarring movements soon morphing into fluid actions that mirrored his perfectly. 

Severus felt a jolt of shock at how quickly it came to him after that, honestly expecting to be there all night after their rocky start. Within minutes he had the motions down and they moved onto the speaking component. Harry's voice seemed to echo, almost melodic through the syllables. Severus's skin felt the prickle of raw power like electricity in the air, and he couldn't suppress the spark of fear he felt in response.

He'd always been drawn to raw power; Lily had been nearly the same in her spell work, which was why he believed she excelled in charms. Every spell from her lips had sounded like music, and could weave the most intricate of magic into a force that had even Flitwick agape with wonder. She had made magic feel safe, her friendship the only love he’d ever known, and he’d equated one with the other. Later on, after their final fight, he’d sought it out in others but had always fallen short. He’d found a weaker version of Lily’s power in the arms of Voldemort, but other horrors followed as a cost. 

He’d craved the power, but worse, he'd been so desperate for love that he's have done anything the older man had asked… had done so many horrible things for the sake of what he thought was love.

Now he stared at this tired angry young man, he could feel Lily's power rolling off of him. One way or another, he wasn't going to let history repeat itself. Maybe he had a second chance.

He cleared his throat, “That should do. Unfortunately, Minerva is the only animagus on the grounds and she isn't fond of being practiced on. Officially, you wouldn't have learned this spell unless you were to begin Auror training so it may be some years till you have a chance to use it. If you make it that far.” He tacked on the snide comment for good measure, not wanting to let on how hollow he was feeling as his own past bombarded him with guilt and sorrow. He kept his mask in place, and dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. 

Harry paused in the doorway, his hand lingering on the doorknob as though he might yet turn back. “Thank you, sir.” His voice was steady, the weight of sincerity in it startling for how uncalculated it was.

The words struck deeper than they had any right to, lodging themselves beneath Severus’s armor. For a moment the room felt too quiet, the silence filled with things he had long buried; Lily’s laughter, happy memories, promises he had made to protect and failed to keep. His gut twisted. Gratitude from this boy should not have felt like absolution, and yet it cracked something inside him all the same.

He forced his mask tighter, schooling his features, but when the boy’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the echo of that sincerity still rang in his ears. It left him feeling strung out, raw, as if he had been forced to walk once more through every failure that clung to his past.

Severus sat down heavily in his chair, the fatigue settling in his bones. His hand drifted toward parchment almost without thought. The urge to write gnawed at him, to reach out to Remus, of all people. He was the only one who still carried the same ghosts; he’d seen as much with the Christmas sweater. 

He paused, quill in hand. The point hovered above the parchment as though the very act of writing might instantly summon the wolf. Their last meeting flickered across his mind unbidden; the way he had rebuked Lupin, sending him away after their first kiss. It had been a dream come true to have the boy-turned-man he’d always had a crush on return his advances. But the crash of the teacup had brought him back to reality, memories of cooler lips on his skin making him nauseous.

He had expected persistence, or even for Remus to lose all interest, his patience worn thin by Severus’s already cold nature. I would have given up by now, the truth hit home how very different Remus was to himself. Instead of taking Severus’s backpedaling personally, he had retreated with quiet dignity. Since then, the man had been nothing but courteous, offering space without withdrawing warmth entirely, a gentleman in ways Severus had neither expected nor felt he deserved.

And now, in the wake of Potter’s disarming gratitude, Severus found himself longing for that quiet steadiness of the man. The quill trembled slightly between his fingers. To reach out would mean risking the conversation he had been avoiding, the explanations he did not have words for. But to remain silent left him stranded in the hollow ache of his own thoughts.

At last, with a sharp breath, he touched his quill to the parchment.

Remus,

He stared at the single word until it blurred, the ink bleeding into the fibers of the page like something unraveling. What did one say to a man one had driven away, yet could not quite bear to lose?

***

It was a few weeks after his lessons with Snape that Harry had hoped to have a solo trip to the library. The possibility of sneaking off into an unused passage and to test out his new spell on a runaway rat had appealed to him, and he hadn’t bothered to be sneaky about his impending departure from the common room. He should have known Draco would tag along, throwing a wrench into his plans. The blond had fallen into step beside him with his usual made up excuse of needing a specific research text, staying by his side all the way to the library, and was now following him back with a new book tucked beneath his arm. The dungeons were cooler than usual, shadows pooling in the arches as they wound their way back from the library. Draco had been unusually quiet for once, Harry was considering whether to say something when a drifting voice called softly down the corridor.

“Oh, good. I was beginning to think the Nargles had stolen you both away.”

Harry blinked, recognizing the dreamy lilt immediately. “Luna?”

Sure enough, the blonde girl emerged from behind a dusty tapestry, brushing cobwebs from her butter-yellow robes. Her wand was being used as a hair stick holding up a messy bun, and she carried a bundle of something that looked suspiciously like dried seaweed tied up with blue ribbon. She beamed at them as though stumbling across her cousin and Harry was the most natural thing in the world. Her pale eyes flicked between Harry and Draco, then settled somewhere above their heads as if she were measuring their auras.

“Cousin” Draco inclined his head stiffly, as Harry looked between the two curiously. He hadn’t realized the two were related.

Luna’s eyes widened a little, taking both boys in with an odd, assessing calm. “You’re walking together. That’s good. It’s much harder for the creatures in the walls to listen when there are two heartbeats to confuse them.” Harry frowned, his mind instantly going back to the rat he knew likely scurried behind the cold stone.

Draco frowned. “What creatures in the-? Never mind.” He sighed and ran a hand down his robes as though smoothing away her words.

Harry caught her gaze. “How did you know we were here?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Luna replied serenely. “The wrackspurt said I should wait. It’s always interesting to see what I come across.” Harry didn’t bother to argue. He’d long since learned Luna’s logic followed patterns that seemed ridiculous until they didn’t, like her vague reference to animagus before Christmas.

She tilted her head toward Draco, her pale hair slipping over her shoulder like moonlight. “Be careful, cousin. Watching shadows for someone else makes your own shadow restless. They tend to slip away when you aren’t looking, and then it’s terribly hard to get them back.” 

Draco stiffened, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said, though his tone was sharper than necessary.

Harry turned to him, curious. “What’s she talking about?”

Draco’s lips curled, defensive, but Luna had already shifted her gaze to Harry. “Harry, you need to be more careful of songs you can’t stop hearing. The water keeps secrets, and sometimes it shares them in ways you don’t want. You’ll remember too much if you’re not careful.”

Harry’s chest tightened. His mind jumped instantly to late-night practices, the merfolks’ voices echoing in the back of his skull long after silence had returned. The fact that Luna could even hint at it made his skin prickle. He tried for levity, though his voice was softer than he intended. “And how do you know I’ve been listening to songs?”

“Because you’re humming, even now,” Luna said simply, tilting her head. “You don’t notice, but you are.” Harry’s throat worked, suddenly dry. He glanced at Draco, who was studying him with more interest than Harry liked. When Harry raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?’, the blond quickly looked away, studying a nearby tapestry.

“Thank you Luna, I appreciate the advice. How are you getting on?” 

She beamed at him, her eyes slightly out of focus. “Oh wonderfully! Your Christmas gift has really come in handy, did you know there are baby Acromantula that make their home in the corridor next to the kitchens?”

“I’m not surprised, they don’t have a lot to eat in the forest. Arogog said his children were branching out in search of food.” Harry shivered at the thought of the giant spider.

Luna blinked at him, as if pleased, and handed him her seaweed bundle. “Oh look at the time, I must be off if I’m going to make it. You’ll both be all right. You’ll argue, of course. You’ve yet to test your friendship… a little heat is needed to forge something strong. But you’ll need each other when the corridors grow darker than this.” And like the white rabbit from ‘Alice in Wonderland’ she disappeared back behind the tapestry, leaving them in the wake of her vague premonitions.

“I hope we don’t fight, there’s only so much abuse your hair can take.” Harry teased, elbowing a very stiff Draco.

The blond gasped in horror, “You wouldn’t dare!” Harry only grinned as he began walking again. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound before Draco finally asked, “Who is Arogog?”

“The giant spider in the Forbidden Forest, he was one of Hagrid’s pets when he was in school.”

“Spider?” Draco cast an incredulous look in his direction, “And how did you meet it?”

“Trying to find the Chamber of Secrets last year, we followed the baby spiders into the forest. Hagrid knew that Arogog would be able to help us find out what was attacking everyone… but he kind of forgot his pet likes to eat humans, so that was a bit of a fright.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck bashfully.

“Hagrid took you back out into the forest? Please tell me it was during the day this round.”

“Uhh, not quite. He didn’t actually-” 

“Hey! What are we talking about?” Blaise cut in, wrapping his arms around both boy’s necks as he came up behind them, Pansy trailing beside him.

“Harry was regaling me with some of his Gryffindor misadventures."

“Ooo!” Pansy skipped forward, looping her arm with Harry, “I want to hear.” They had finally made it into the common room; only a few other students dotted the couches and tables. Draco and Harry were soon dragged to the back corner where Hermione was diligently pouring over her revisions. She blinked up blurily at their arrival.

“What’s up?”

“Harry’s hosting story time!” Blaise grinned, sitting down beside Hermione.

She raised her gaze at Harry with a look that said ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’. Harry knew he wasn’t the best at sharing anything, but as the others sat around him he didn’t feel the usual pressure to perform that he’d felt hundreds of times before. He knew that if he stood up and walked away, this group wouldn’t bat an eyelash. I guess there are some perks to being in the more eccentric house. He shrugged at Hermione before turning back to Draco who had taken up the spot on Hermione’s other side. “What was I saying?”

“Hagrid’s spider tried to eat you.” He supplied helpfully, causing Pansy to gasp. She was sitting cross legged on the shaggy carpet beside the hearth, while Harry took up his usual chair.

“Right, yeah… No, Hagrid didn’t take us out, yes it was night.”

“You’re clinically insane; you couldn’t catch me back in that forest if you paid me, not after the unicorn.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t have much of a choice…”

“You didn’t talk him out of it?” Pansy turned to Hermione, knowing she was the logical choice to argue against stupidity.

Hermione winced. “Couldn’t, he and Ron did this after I was petrified.” They all seemed shocked at the reminder.

“But you said ‘likes to eat humans’; are you telling me you and Weasly walked into the Forbidden Forest, at night, to confront an adult Acromantula? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking my best friend was petrified and I needed to find a way to keep it from happening to others.” Harry shrugged as four pairs of eyes bore holes into him.

“Gryffindors,” Blaise shook his head as if it was a sad illness he had had. Harry grinned at him, no insult taken. He could see now that there had been a hundred other options for him back then. Why had he taken the most dangerous one? He wasn’t sure, but he would stake money on it being due to the compulsion he had been under.

“So was that one of the four near death experiences? Being eaten by a giant spider?” Draco’s voice was quiet, not meeting Harry’s eyes. Harry felt a jolt of irritation, remembering the small tidbit of information he’d shared with Draco and Theo. He listens too well…

He shook his head slightly, a small frown puckering his brow, “No, we were rescued by Mr. Weasley’s car-” He held up hand as Pansy opened her mouth, “Don’t ask.”

“Then what were the others?” Theo asked, appearing out of nowhere and causing Harry to jump. His usual book was nowhere to be seen, and he plopped down to lay in the love seat, head pillowed against one arm, feet propped up on the other.

“Do you guys really want to hear about this?” Everyone nodded except Hermione who already knew the gist and instead turned back to her notebook.

“Fine okay well… Last year’s was probably the closest. Basilisk venom is pretty bad, burns like hell.” He pulled up his sleeve; Despite Fawkes’s efforts, the fang had left a thickened scar on his arm. Pansy leaned forward, reaching out to trace her fingers along the old wound.

“Wait, I thought we were talking about spiders?”  Blaise asked, confused.

“Well from the start, we only knew something was petrifying muggleborns. We knew Hagrid had been in school when the chamber was first opened, but when he was arrested our only clue was Arogog.” Harry looked to the ceiling, trying to remember the events in order. “So we started with him, he said the only thing he was afraid of was a serpent. We found a note on petrified Hermione about Basilisks.” Harry watched Draco flinch, but filed it away as something to ask about later. “Lockheart had been volunteered to rescue Ginny at that point, but he was going to flee so I may have drawn my wand on him…” Pansy’s face turned shocked, while Blaise smirked. Daphne and Millicent chose that moment to join.

“What are you guys doin-”

“Shhhh! Don’t interrupt, getting Potter to talk is like pulling teeth, you’ll spook him.” Draco teased. Harry rolled his eyes but waited for the girls to find seats as well. Milli wiggled her way underneath Theo’s legs, while Daphne sat beside Pansy who promptly started to braid her hair.

“So yeah, cowardly Lockheart; we went into the chamber but there was a cave-in when he obliviate- ed himself. That left him and Ron on the wrong side. So I went deeper, found Ginny unconscious with a diary containing the memories of a boy named Tom Riddle from fifty years ago.” He didn’t bother telling them that Tom was Voldemort's real name. “He was the one who opened the chamber the first time, and used the diary as a way to do it again. Anyway he woke up a basilisk, Dumbledore's phoenix Fawkes brought me a sword. I stabbed it, it stabbed me. I lived to tell the tale, it didn’t.” The silence was deafening as they all took in the information. 

“And the others?” Blaise asked.

“So that was the fourth time… Number three was probably when Professor Quirrel was possessed by Voldemort and tried to strangle me?”

A cacophony of “WHAT?” echoed in the small space, drawing the attention of some of the others in the room.

“Shh!” Harry laughed

“I thought he had to ‘leave due to personal emergency’ or some B.S.?” Daphne asked.

“Don’t leave us in suspense!” Milli whined.

“Okay, okay… Hermione, would you say the ogre was the start of that adventure?” He looked to his remaining partner in crime who didn’t look amused by being referenced.

“Probably.”

“So first year Halloween, the ogre attacked Hermione in the girls’ lavatory. We ended up thinking Snape set it on the school to distract everyone while he went to get past Fluffy. That’s Hagrid’s three headed dog. Same with my jinxed broom, thought Snape was trying to kill me. Turns out Quirrel had done both those things.”

“Why on earth would you assume Professor Snape was guilty?” Draco seemed personally insulted on behalf of the professor, and Harry gave him a droll look.

“Because he hates me? Anyway, we found out the dog was protecting Nicholes Flamel's philosopher's stone, got past Fluffy, dealt with a large plant, caught a flying key, played giant chess, Hermione solved the potion riddle.” She smirked at him. “But she had to stay with Ron who was injured, so I went ahead to find Quirrel with an ugly parasitic Voldimort pasted to the back of his head… He was the one who killed the unicorns” He met Draco’s eyes, silver irises growing in fear as he realized just how much danger they'd really been in that night in first year. “Anyway, he tried to kill me, but ended up turning to dust when he touched me. Something to do with Voldimort.” He smirked every time he said the dark lord’s name, watching the other snakes flinch.

“That’s… a lot…” Blaise seemed to have lost his humor, his face pinched in concern. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he looked Harry up and down. “Are you telling us we are now friends with a walking disaster who will actively try to die every year?”

Hermione smirked, “Welcome to my world.” Daphne and Pansy giggled as the boys seemed to groan.

“Well, you’ve been zombiefied and jinxed so far,” Milli added cheerfully, “Maybe that was your big near death experience for the year?”

“Maybe.” Harry wasn’t nearly as hopeful, what with a dead rat man in the walls and an escaped criminal who was his emotional support dog.

“Well this trip down memory lane has been delightful, but I still have an Arithmancy test tomorrow, and it’s dinner time.” Hermione stood with a stretch, escaping to her dorm room to put her notes away. The rest of the common room had the same idea, making their way out into the corridor led by their stomachs. The third years remained seated, waiting patiently for Harry to continue his story. 

Theo cleared his throat, “And the second time?”

Harry felt himself pale; this wasn’t some story with a big villain or monster that he’d heroically fought to save the day. It was just sad, and he knew it. Looking at the fire, his voice was muted, “The second time… I was sick. I’d just turned seven, and there was a particularly nasty flu going around school. I… I caught it first, and my Aunt wanted to quarantine me so that my cousin didn’t catch it. That didn’t work, he caught it anyway and she was so busy taking care of him that she didn’t see how bad I got.” Harry swallowed thickly, before pasting on a self-deprecating grin. “Anyway, I survived it. And I guess I don’t have to tell you about the first one, you all know that story.” He moved his fringe away from the zigzagging scar that covered a portion of his forehead. 

The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. For once, no one seemed eager to break it. Millicent shifted uncomfortably, her jaw working as though she wanted to say something but didn’t trust her words. Finally, she muttered, “That’s… that’s bloody awful, Potter.”

Pansy’s sharp tongue, usually quick to cut, softened. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.” Her dark eyes flicked away, as though embarrassed by her own sincerity.

Theo’s voice was low. “Illness like that can take adults down, let alone a child.” His expression was thunderous, “You were lucky… though I suppose you wouldn’t call it that.”

Blaise leaned back, his expression unreadable but intent. “Your aunt sounds like a piece of work.” Harry gave a half-shrug, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. He hadn’t expected sympathy; He knew it was bad in retrospect, but it could have always been worse. Still, it made something twist in his chest.

Daphne, quiet until now, tilted her head. “Luck might have kept you alive, Harry, but it doesn’t explain why you’re still… you.” Her voice carried a conviction that made Harry’s throat tighten.

Draco was the last to speak, his tone caught between exasperation and concern. “And you think brushing it off with that stupid grin of yours makes it easier for the rest of us? You’ve nearly died on multiple occasions. Stop acting like it doesn’t matter.” Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, but the heat in Draco’s eyes kept him still. Instead, he gave a weak chuckle that didn’t quite land.

Millicent rose first, brushing at her robes. “Dinner’ll be cold if we wait much longer.” Her voice was gruff, but her glance toward Harry was almost protective.

The others followed her lead, the heaviness of the moment settling into something quieter, like an unspoken pact. As they walked out together, Draco lingered at Harry’s side, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, but said nothing more.

Harry was grateful for the silence.

Chapter Text

Later that night Harry sat at the bank of the Black Lake, the wrapped bundle of seaweed Luna had pressed into his hands still crisp against his palm. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was meant to do, only that it had had a small note tucked under the bow: 

They like gifts.

He hadn’t needed to question who ‘they’ were. Now, staring out at the rippling expanse, he was quietly grateful for the excuse to fidget with something.

The night had been emotionally taxing. He wasn't sure if he regretted telling the other third years his stories, but they had been withdrawn the rest of the evening with none of their dramatic flare he'd come to expect. Still, despite their solemn attitudes, they'd offered support in their own way, hovering close. The only one left unaffected was Hermione, too caught up in her studies to notice the emotional strain on the group.

As his eyes scanned the shore, Zaxila rose in the water without warning, entering the bubble of magic so that she could speak with him. He had figured out how to move the spell so that it encompassed them while they swam, but he always started it off on the waters edge. Her scales glistened as she peaked her head above the water, the full moon light reflecting around her, her hair trailing like riverweed. Her black eyes glinted as they fixed on the bundle in his hand.

“ What do you have ?” she asked, her voice carrying that strange echo, as if it came from somewhere deeper. He quickly passed off the bundle, unsure how to go about gifting it to her.

She accepted the it with both hands, pressing the seaweed to her chest. The dried plants were soon refreshed in her grasp, growing plump with moisture. She passed it off to one of the mer behind her. Then, without another word, she gripped his wrist and tugged him into the water.

Harry only had time for one sharp breath before the icy weight of the lake swallowed him. Despite being the end of April, the water was still frigid. He could feel his heart beat slow in his chest as his body acclimated to the temperature.

Zaxila began to sing, taking the lead as the others wove in an accompanying hum. He looked around, listening to the single song that felt as if it was intertwined with the very molecules of the water around him. He didn't need to question it, knowing this tune was the one he’d been trying to master from the beginning.

He gave a small hum, the sound vibrating through him as he kept a tight lock on his breath. His lungs burned almost instantly. It wasn't working. He thrashed, panic clawing at him as Zaxila hovered effortlessly beside him, her webbed hand still latched on his wrist. Her eyes were patient and watchful.

“ Let go ,” her voice thrummed through the water, urging him. “You cannot hold the air and learn the song. Release it. Trust.”

He shook his head wildly, bubbles exploding from his mouth in refusal. His chest hurt; every instinct screamed to claw upward, to break the surface, to breathe. Zaxila’s expression didn’t change. She reached forward and laid a steady hand against his sternum. The building fear seemed to ease under her touch, and he forced himself to remember why he was here. I can trust her, I want to do this. I can do this.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to exhale the last of his breath in a long stream of silver bubbles. The emptiness that followed was terrifying as his lungs ached, his vision darkening. But in that moment, Zaxila’s song reached him: low, resonant, vibrating in his bones. His own voice picked up the tempo, the sound creating a harmony in his ears.The water itself seemed to move through him, and when he involuntarily gasped it was not a death sentence but relief; cold and strange, but filling him.

He sucked in another breath, and another. The ache faded. The panic quieted. The lake settled around him like it had been waiting. More than that, the magic lingered. Even as he stopped singing he knew he'd cast a spell that would last until he left the water.

Zaxila’s mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. “Little bird,” she said softly, her voice a ripple through his skull. He could tell she was proud from her tone, even if her face didn't show any emotion.

Harry blinked at her, disoriented. “ Why do you call me that ?” The water filled his mouth, making the words sound gargled.

Her unblinking eyes were endless, reflective pools. “ Because that is what you are .” She offered nothing more, as though the answer had always been obvious.

Before he could ask, she flicked her tail and turned, beckoning. He followed, his body still uncertain in this alien way of breathing. She led him deeper than he had ever dared, through forests of kelp that swayed in slow, hypnotic patterns, past stones marked with ancient runes, down to caverns where the light from above dissolved into a green haze.

It was eerie, otherworldly, but beautiful. The water seemed alive here, humming with a quiet pressure, and Harry felt his thoughts pulled taut against it. Zaxila’s voice joined again, weaving around him, stronger now. “The water will be in your heart now. Your enemies will strike here, always. Learn to sing back.”

The sound pressed at his skull until he thought it might split, but he steadied himself, grasping for the rhythm. Each note she sang reverberated in his chest, demanding an answer. Clumsy at first, Harry forced his voice into the water, feeling it thrum back into his bones.

Zaxila circled him once, silent approval in her eyes. “ Yes. Again .” And they went deeper still.

***

Harry pushed open the dormitory entrance with lake water still clinging to his skin despite the hasty drying charm he’d cast. He was definitely late; He’d only planned on staying out an hour or two, practicing with Zaxila and then calling it a night. Instead he’d spent the last four hours in the lake. She’d made him practice, yes, but also showed him around their city. A city! Not some tiny merfolk village, but an expanse of the deepest parts of the lake that held thousands of merfolk. 

Zaxila had taken him to her nest where Bavoli had been carving up some fish. Harry had politely declined the sashimi, not sure he wanted to attempt to eat underwater. His teacher had also shown him the magical portal that allowed them to access the ocean; this kept their population from starving to death, since there wasn’t a large enough ecosystem in the lake to support so many merfolk. It also allowed for immigration among different mer groups.

The most interesting thing he’d seen was the solarium. When she’d taken him closer to Hogwarts, he’d spotted the gleaming lights of the Slytherin common room. With no one up and about that late at night, he’d pressed his nose up against the glass in glee, imagining the room like an aquarium. Zaxila had summoned him with a flick of her tail, moving down away from the rock edge to a sheer drop into the depths of the lake. He’d followed, dipping down to find a large glass building jutting out of the rock face. Tall panels of green glass encompassed a large greenhouse, hidden in the depths of the lake. What’s more, he could see the doorway on the back wall, leading into Hogwarts depths.

Now, as he padded across the stone floor, he grinned wide with exhilaration. He’d almost forgotten about the Chamber and how the map had revealed a maze work of passages below the castle. He wasn’t sure why his house’s namesake would be trying to grow plants under a lake, but he was eager to find out.As he made his way to the dorm, he plotted his next trip into the castle’s bowels… until the sight before him stopped him cold.

Opening the door revealed Draco, Theo, and Vince clustered near the fire. Draco shot to his feet the instant he saw him, pale with fury, while Theo gave a helpless glance at Vince as if to say here we go.

“Where the hell have you been?” Draco’s voice cracked like a whip. His hands curled at his sides, trembling not from anger but from the sheer tension of waiting.

Harry blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected anyone to be awake this early, much less to be confronted by a very angry blond. “I was just-”

“ Just? ” Draco cut him off, his voice rising. “You just vanished for hours in the middle of the night? After everything you’ve told us? After the way you nearly die every single bloody year, you think waking up to find you gone I wouldn’t think the worst?” His breath hitched, and he looked more frayed than Harry had ever seen him. The dark circles that had been present all year stood out stark against his pale face, and his usually neat hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it enough that it was left sticking up. “There’s a killer on the loose, Potter!”

Theo stood, stepping carefully between them, his tone gentler. “Draco, he came back, didn’t he? I told you he was fine.” His eyes flicked to Harry, sharp with warning, urging him not to be flippant.

But Draco wasn’t hearing it. His face twisted, words tumbling out faster now that the dam had cracked. “You think I want to sit here wondering if you’ve been hexed, if someone’s dragged you off into the Forbidden Forest! Merlin, Potter, what am I supposed to think when I can’t find you ?”

Harry, still dripping water onto the carpet, felt the exhilaration leach out of him, replaced with guilt that twisted in his stomach. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally managed, quieter than he meant, “I didn’t… I didn’t think.”

“No,” Draco snapped, voice raw. “You never bloody do.” Theo reached for Draco’s arm, pulling him back a step before he worked himself into another shouting fit. 

Vince shifted uncomfortably, running a hand down his face, but his deep voice carried weight. “Look, just… don’t scare people like that, Potter. Not your friends. Alright?”

Harry’s chest tightened at the word. Friends. He gave a small, ashamed nod, water dripping from his chin. “Alright.”

Draco huffed, a touch calmer but not fully appeased. He finally looked at Harry, taking note of his damp appearance. “Where have you been? We checked the showers.”

“ He checked the showers,” Theo clarified, moving to lay down on his bed, covering his eyes with his forearm.

Draco rolled his eyes, “Fine, I checked the showers. It’s not raining outside, so why are you wet?”

“Um…” Harry rubbed the nap of his neck, “I went swimming.”

“The castle doesn’t have a pool,” Vince’s eyes clouded with confusion.

“The lake? ” Draco caught on quicker, his voice cracking with disbelief. His pale eyes went wide, then narrowed. “You’ve been sneaking off every night into the bloody lake?”

Harry gave a helpless shrug, moving to shed his damp clothing without thinking. He was used to changing in private, with his roommates usually being asleep. But it was chilly despite the fire, and he wanted a hot shower; he regretted the decision when he pulled his shirt over his head, a sharp intake of breath behind him. He spun around, but Draco was staring at the fire with a deep scowl while Vince was staring at Draco.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.” He broke off with a frustrated noise. “You’re insane. Do you know how many things live in that lake that could swallow you whole? Squids, grindylows, merfolk who are known for drowning students.”

Relief flooded Harry as Draco seemed to ignore what he’d seen. A lightning bolt and a slice through my arm aren’t my only scars… He shook his head, focusing on the current discussion. His grin returned, boyish and defiant. “It wasn’t dangerous. Not really. Not compared to everything else.”

Draco’s head snapped up at that, and there was something raw in his voice when he hissed, “You face deadly encounters bimonthly. How is that your bar for danger? That’s not- ” He stopped himself, his mouth pressing into a tight line.

Theo sighed, breaking the silence. “You’ve got to admit, Draco, it’s better than him wandering into the Forbidden Forest to make friends with Acromantulas.”

Draco shot him a look that could have curdled milk. “That’s not the point.”

But even as he said it, his gaze flicked back to Harry, and for a heartbeat his anger faltered to give way to something else; Relief? The faintest pull of reluctant fascination seemed to take on his features, like he almost wanted Harry to tell him more.

Harry saw it, his tone softening under the knowledge they did actually care, “I’ll be careful. I promise.” Draco scoffed, turning on his heel as if he couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. But the tremor in his hands as he reached for the door betrayed just how deeply the words had hit.

The morning moved quickly after that; it had only been an hour until the entire dorm was filled with groggy students making their way to breakfast and Harry sorely regretted his lack of sleep halfway through Transfiguration. Maybe I should brew pepper-up potion next, he wondered idly with a yawn.

By lunchtime he was dragging his feet, but knew he had to get upstairs to his potion work. Pansy and Theo offered to accompany him, but he was able to dissuade them, promising to be quick. Now he sat cross legged on the purple pillow, the black dog sitting and staring as Harry evaluated his reaction to the potion he’d just drank.

“What do you think Pad? Think the grouchy greasy potions professor would be willing to teach me occulmency?” Harry stared down at the empty goblet in his hand with a weak glare. After months, he’d finally finished a perfect Witt-sharpening potion. The rust colored liquid had finished its final resting period under the full moon’s light the night before, and he’d escaped his bodyguards long enough to sneak into the classroom to bottle the three servings. 

He’d started brewing it in hopes of accessing the memories that plagued him, and he’d finally gotten it right. Without further adieu, he had poured one serving into a goblet and downed it in one swallow. It had tasted like vinegar, and he was able to feel the rush of the potion through his veins. It did not, however, open up the part of his mind where his older self hid.

Padfoot voiced his displeasure at the questions, eliciting a small growl in answer, and Harry patted his head soothingly, “Well at least I know he’s not an escaped convict.” He teased, and if a dog could roll its eyes, he definitely made a valiant effort.

Harry honestly wasn’t as hesitant to reach out to Snape as he had been when Hermione first mentioned it. Something less like contempt and more like (dare he think it) a tentative respect had blossomed between himself and the professor since the man had taken his criticisms constructively rather than as an attack. Harry had been able to learn the animegus reversal spell in the span of an afternoon, and since then Snape had seemed less keen on issuing him detentions. 

With a promise to bring back something sweet, Harry bid farewell to the dog and slipped from the room. A quick peek at his map showed Snape three floors below him in his office, and it was moments like these that Harry wished he could fly indoors. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to the dungeons. Herbology was after lunch, and he really didn’t want to be late for class since he doubted Snape would give him a note.

Harry didn’t mean to listen. He’d only wanted to knock, ask about occlumency, maybe catch Snape in a decent mood for once. But as his hand pushed the door open, a voice carried out from the shadows of the store room at the back of the office.

“…he hardly eats. I’ve tried to push food his way in the Hall, but he sometimes seems repulsed by it. And the scars on his back… he told us about nearly dying under the care of those muggles. You know about the rest, don’t you? The broom accident, the basilisk, the Dementors, Merlin knows what else. If it’s not one disaster, it’s another, and he never…he never bloody asks for help. He doesn’t belong in Slytherin, Uncle Sev.” Draco’s voice, low but urgent.

Harry froze. His stomach dropped so fast it made him dizzy.

Snape’s reply came cool and smooth, laced with approval. “You’ve done well, Draco. Very well. I asked you to watch him closely and gather information, and you’ve done precisely that. You’ll continue to keep me apprised of Potter’s… habits.”

The words stabbed sharper than a curse. Spy. All of it …the late-night talks by the fire, the arguments that dissolved into laughter, Draco staying with him to keep him company… every ounce of trust Harry had tentatively, stupidly offered, smashed into shards at his feet.

He must’ve made a sound, because the next moment the back door opened fully. Snape and Draco stepped into the office proper, freezing with nearly identical masks of shock pasted onto their faces as they took in Harry’s presence. Draco’s eyes widened, his expression going stark when he saw Harry standing there, pale and wet-eyed, hand still on the door. “Harry-”

“ Don’t .” Harry’s voice cracked on the single syllable. The word rang in the air, full of power that he couldn’t even think to control. His throat burned, his chest tight. “I should’ve known. Of course it was too good to be real. Why else would you pretend to give a damn? You had Snape’s orders. A perfect little job for the perfect little Slytherin.”

Draco’s face went white. Snape stepped forward, his hands open soothingly in front of him, “Pot- Harry, calm yourself. It’s not what you think.”

Harry laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Not like that? I trusted him. Thought I could actually trust you both. But no, you’re an angry man, to set on holding onto the past to see me for anything other than a copy of my father!” There was a vibration in Harry’s chest as he spit the words. The magic wrapping around each syllable as if carving spells into the air. Snape seemed to freeze, a spark of fear lighting his eyes. Harry’s mind replayed every memory he had of the potion’s professor, both new and old, each one more damning than the last. I should have known. He turned to Draco, feeling as if he was breaking. “I actually thought… I thought you were my friend.” His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and broken. “And you were just reporting back the whole time. Well now you know just how pathetic I actually am, naive Potter should have stayed in his cupboard…”

He didn’t wait for Draco’s reply. The pain and anger painted his vision in bright oranges and yellows, and he had to shut his eyes against the brightness. The hum in his ears drowning out Draco’s voice that cracked across the room, desperate. “Harry, please-”

Harry didn’t remember leaving the dungeons. One moment he was standing inside Snape’s office with his chest caving in on itself, the high pitched hum echoing in his skull, and the next he was stumbling blindly through the familiar door frame of his abandoned classroom. The door and windows shook in his wake. His breath came fast, jagged, like he’d sprinted for miles though his legs felt rooted in ice. He wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out. Instead, the words kept repeating in his mind; well done, Draco… well done.

So it had all been fake. He had to wonder if it had been that way for all of the Slytherin third years, spying for Snape. It at least explained the careful way Draco had looked at him when he thought Harry wasn’t paying attention. It had all been a mask carefully crafted to gain his secrets. To hand Snape his weaknesses on a silver platter. How he must have laughed, learning how the Dursleys treated me. He must have cursed every failed attempt on my life, wishing one of them had stuck. He- he hates me… Why do they hate me? The sting of it burned sharper than the scar on his forehead. His fists clenched at his sides. The abandoned shelves rattled as if in answer.

“Friend,” Harry spat. His voice cracked, his throat raw. “Some bloody friend.”

Something inside him snapped. A potion bottle on the far bench burst into shards, green liquid spilling and hissing against the stone. A chair caught on fire beside him, flames spreading quickly to engulf it as it scraped violently across the floor, tipping over as if shoved by invisible hands. His magic thrashed with his heartbeat, uncontained and furious. Flames caught along the bookshelf, the thick tombs going up like tinder, while his potions table simultaneously burst into flames of blues and green, reacting with his ingredients. His eyes locked on the fabric of one of the tapestries, watching as the fire ate through the threads, climbing higher as his vision blurred with heat and betrayal.

He didn’t care. Let it burn. Let the whole rotten castle burn .

“Harry!”

The voice cut through the roar in his head just as the flames surged. Sirius leapt through the smoke, fur singeing as he transformed mid-stride. His clothes were still the ragged prisoners uniform, his hair matted and unkept. Sirius winced when a spark caught his sleeve, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Harry even as the boy’s magic flared like a storm, even as glass cracked and the air pulsed with heat.

“Harry, listen to me- hey, pup, it’s me, I’ve got you, I’m right here-” His voice was calm and quiet in Harry’s ears.

Harry almost told him to leave, pushing him away before he could betray him too. But the words died against the sob that broke out of his chest. The fire gave way to tears, crashing down harder than his anger ever had. He buried his face against Sirius’s shoulder, shaking and broken, as the man held him tighter, smoke curling around them both.

The ruined classroom crackled and smoldered, but neither of them moved. Sirius murmured something low and steady, something Harry couldn’t quite hear through the rushing in his ears.

***

Severus’s entrance was thunderous, the heavy oak door ricocheting off the stone wall of Dumbledore's office. The frame’s rattled as several portraits snorted awake in outrage, and Phineas Nigellus muttered something about “lack of decorum” before turning his face to the frame. Fawkes ruffled his feathers in agitation on his stand above the headmaster’s desk.

Albus did not startle. He sat serenely behind his desk, quill poised over parchment, as though such outbursts were mere background noise. “Ah, Severus,” he greeted, warm as ever, those bright blue eyes lifting to stare over wire framed glasses with an unsettling calm. “You seem troubled. Have a seat. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

Severus did not sit. Couldn’t bring himself to face his own reality sitting down. He’d just broken the boy; he knew there was no going back from his actions. He’d been unable to move as Harry had forced his own mind on him, his rage fueled voice like a song. In his whole thirty two years he’d never heard of a spell like that, as if it was the reverse of a legilimency spell that had created a sickening feeling of intrusion. Harry’s voice had sizzled with power, words like daggers; ‘ you’re an angry man’ had instantly shoved images of Severus from Harry’s perspective past his occulamency walls, bombarding him with his own viciousness.

It had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before; even under the Dark Lord, who enjoyed digging around in people’s minds, he’d always had some defense. A way to keep himself apart. Instead, he was forced to relive his own torment with every emotion the boy had felt in those moments. And as he’d watched the skinny broken teen burst into flames, he’d thought he might not even live to regret it. But he had. Now he was sick with it, and the truth that he’d learned along the way.

He hadn’t expected a visit from Draco during lunch hour, but had been pleased to see him none the less. He’d looked even more tired than the previous day, and Severus had felt a creeping worry as his god son paced back and forth in silence. Leading him into the backroom, he’d plucked a calming drought from the shelf to place in the boy’s trembling palm. Draco had taken a sip, cleared his throat, and then unloaded his burden.

It hadn’t been Severus’s request for information that had driven Draco into his office, he’d clarified that from the start. No, he was worried. He’d actually developed a friendship with Harry Potter, and feared for his safety. Severus listened as Draco shared snippets of what he’d learned. Years of abuse at the hands of the muggles, just as Severus had expected to hear, what he’d suspected after seeing Potter without a shirt. He could recognize those scars, had seen his own back in the mirror enough times to know they never really went away. 

The news hadn’t shocked him; no, that was what had come after, the stories of Harry nearly dying two years in a row in the school's care. He remembered both incidents vaguely, as they’d been written off as childhood misadventures by none other than Albus Dumbledore. Now Severus loomed over the headmaster, black eyes narrowing. “Did you know?” The words came out low, dangerously soft, as though carved from stone. The phoenix gave an aggressive chirp, shifting from one side of his perch to another.

Albus folded his hands atop the desk, leaning back. His tone was mild, grandfatherly. “You’ll need to be more specific my boy; as you know, I cannot read your mind.” On cue, Severus felt the light brush of legilimency on his mind’s walls, a coaxing tap as if to say let me in, I won’t hurt you. Severus hardened his will, closing his mind down like a steel trap. 

“About Harry Potter’s home life, and how he has nearly died twice now in Hogwarts, under your watchful eye.”

“If you are asking whether I was aware of the boy’s hardships, then yes. I knew.”

Severus’s teeth clenched. He felt the old, familiar anger coil inside him; his own childhood riddled with adults who never cared . His face, however, revealed nothing but contemptuous restraint. “You left him with them. You let him suffer.”

“Severus.” Albus’s voice gentled, as though soothing a skittish animal. “You wouldn’t be growing to care for the boy now would you? The child of James Potter whom you’ve detested for so long?” The words were smooth, carefully chosen. Too carefully. Severus caught the faint glimmer behind the blue eyes; not warmth, not kindness, but calculation. The mask had slipped, if only by degrees.

He shut his mind tighter, pulling the walls of occlumency around him, layers upon layers. He had served Voldemort, learned how to give nothing away while a Dark Lord rifled through his soul. He would give Albus no more. “Of course not, but why would you subject the Boy Who Lived to such a life?”

“Suffering has its uses. It tempers. It forges. Harry’s resilience is born of trial.” Albus leaned forward slightly, his tone light, almost whimsical. “I would hate to lose both my Potions Master and my Defense professor in one summer,” he said lightly, almost as if it were a joke. Yet the words slid into Severus’s chest like a blade: a reminder that I, too, am not untouchable.

The threat was veiled, a jest on the surface, yet Severus heard it as clear as prophecy. Another chain, another leash. His face betrayed nothing; a carefully crafted blank mask, black eyes unreadable. But inside, suspicion gnawed like acid. First the Dark Lord, now Dumbledore. Different masters, same strings.

And so he inclined his head a fraction, playing the part of obedient confidant. He could act the loyal servant; he’d done it before. The trick, he reminded himself, was never forgetting who held the strings. It didn’t bother him as much as it should, switching loyalties. Now, with the memory of angry green eyes so much like hers, he knew which side he’d rather be on. “What would you have me do?”

Albus’s expression appeared pleased, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Every trial, every pain, it sets him on the path he was born to walk. He cannot be allowed to stray. He must be guided back when he falters.”

“Guided,” Severus echoed, his lip curling, though he did not realize until too late how much venom bled into the word.

Albus’s eyes flickered, just for a moment. “Indeed.” His smile widened, faintly. “Isolation can be a powerful teacher. Ostracism sharpens resilience. Even animosity can prove a gift. I had hoped your disdain might help him remember where he belongs.”

There it was, the naked cruelty beneath the honeyed words. Albus had a plan for the child, and while he couldn’t guess what that might be, he was sure the wizard before him was unhappy with the boy’s free will; A Slytherin Harry Potter was not in his plans.

Severus’s thoughts flashed, unbidden, to the boy’s hollow eyes, the way he sat straighter under pressure rather than collapsing, how power clung to him like a storm about to break. Harry Potter was not withering under Slytherin’s shadows. He was… thriving. Growing sharper and stronger despite the backlash he faced. Today’s show in Severus’s office only demonstrated how much more power he had, certainly more than Albus or Voldemort.

Severus did not share this.

He inclined his head, every muscle taut. “As you say, Headmaster.”

Albus leaned back, satisfied.

Chapter Text

Harry’s watched Sirius Black move around the room, his wand in the older man’s hand. This man is an escaped convict, giving him my wand might not be the best idea… Still, Harry couldn’t bring himself to protest as Sirius cast one Reparo after another, attempting to mend the table, chairs, and bookcase that had been torched. Hogwarts repaired the windows and removed the scorch marks from the walls. Only the purple pillow had somehow been spared, which he was now sitting on.

He felt drained, both magically and emotionally after the upset, and was trying his best not to think about what had happened. Instead he observed; Sirius moved in a jerking, agitated way, his eyes darting every so often to the door when an unknown noise spooked him. Nearly as skinny as Harry, he was very much in need of a shower and some clothing. Not that surprising, since he’d been in dog form for over nine months. What’s more, he had large burns on his arms while the ends of his long black hair and what was left of his clothing were singed.

The bite of guilt settled in Harry’s stomach, knowing he was the cause of the man’s injuries. He wasn’t sure how he’d created this mess, but it gave him something to fix nevertheless. Something to focus on.

Sirius turned back, his wary gaze mirroring Harry’s. “Here you go, pup, right as rain.” His voice was quiet and soft as he passed back the wand. Harry stared down at the floor, unsure what to say. Silence permeated, growing more tense by the second. Finally, as if he couldn’t stand it anymore, Sirius crouched down in front of him. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions… and I’d be happy to try and answer them. But, Harry, will you tell me what happened?”

Harry didn’t look up, his anger choking him once again as he remembered their stupid faces, their utter shock at having been caught red handed. Behind him he heard a sizzling, and he turned as Sirius jumped up, smothering a new flame on one of the window curtains. A dawning horror echoed through his tired mind, “I don’t- I’m not- I don’t mean to do that. The fires.”

“I’m not worried about that, your mom was known to have a similar effect when she lost her temper.” He gave Harry a lopsided grin even with sadness in his eyes. Harry frowned at the information. Pyrokinesis wasn’t a common trait so there wasn’t much information on it in the library’s main section, but as far as he knew it wasn’t genetic. He added it to the list of things he would be sneaking into the restricted section for. Walking back over, Sirius pulled up a chair, sitting a respectable distance away. “No, I’m more concerned about what had you in such a state. The only time Lily ever went full inferno was because of Snivellus. Nearly took out the entire tower.”

Despite his dark mood, a giggle escaped his lips unbidden, “Snivellus?”

Sirius shrugged, unrepentant. “He earned the nickname. So who is your ‘Snivellus’?”

“Draco.” The name dripped with acid as he scowled at his hands. 

“The Malfoy boy?” Harry nodded. “I’ll admit, I was a little shocked to see you in the green and silver. But when you brought him and the Nott boy here, they seemed alright.”

“They were faking, or at least Draco was.” The words came out in a whisper as he angrily wiped the moisture from his cheek. Pushing his thoughts to the side, Harry shot to his feet causing Sirius to flinch. “I don’t want to talk about it,” He tempered his movements so as not to spook the man again, “Can you go back to being padfoot for a minute? I want to take you down the hall.”

“Very well?” His gaze remained cautiously curious as he stood, the black dog taking his place. The pooch didn’t look much better than the man, chest and inner arms missing hair with nasty burns. Harry opened the door to peek down the hallways before quickly ushering the quadruped towards the third floor girls' lavatory.

Once inside the haunted bathrooms, Harry moved to the center of the room. “Myrtle? Are you around?”

“MMMMM, Harry? You came to visit me?” Myrtile’s ghostly form moved through one of the stalls to hover nearby, her eyes flicking to Padfoot. “What do we have here? I don’t like dogs.” 

“Then it’s a good thing he’s an animagus and not a dog,” Harry gave her a half-smile. “Would it be alright if he showers here? No one can know he’s around.”

She crossed her arms, mulish, “This is the girls’ room, why shouldn’t I call a teacher?”

“Because he’s my family, and he needs your help.” Harry answered simply, knowing the ghost was nice despite her off putting demeanor. 

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “How dreadful, the Bloody Baron is going to be so mad at me when he finds ooouuut,” She moaned, but moved to let him pass. Sirius shifted back, looking around the empty space.

“This brings back memories.” He smirked, raising an eyebrow at Harry. “I take it I stink?”

“Only like you’ve gone nine months without a bath… plus you smell like burnt dog hair.” He grinned as Sirius clutched his heart.

“You wound me! I’ll have you know I’ve swam in the lake… twice!”

“And that would explain the mildew smell!” He teased, moving further into the room. The shower stalls were still magically stocked like all of the other bathrooms in Hogwarts, and there were fluffy dust-free towels stacked on the cupboard at the end. Several large bathtubs were tucked into alcoves with their own curtains for privacy, and Harry thought it was a touch unfair that the boy’s lavatories didn’t have tubs.

Pulling three full size towels down from the shelf, Harry laid them out in a row along the edge of one of the baths. “ Summus Vestis, Summitto Vestis, Pedestis.” The fabric took on the shape of a long-sleeve plaid button-up, a pair of black jeans, and a pair of shoes. He transfigured a pair of socks to go with the shoes before turning to Sirius. “I’ll go get some cream for your blisters. Myrtle won’t tattle, and class is in session still so no one should come snooping.”

The man looked taken aback by the small kindness, his fingers reaching down to caress the new clothing. “I- Thank you.” His eyes shined with sincerity, and Harry felt uncomfortable with the gratitude, unsure where he should stand with the animagus. He gave a nonchalant shrug, moving towards the door.

“I’ll be back, don’t go anywhere and I’ll bring my cloak.” He bolted before Sirius could say another word.

***

Severus stood in the doorway of Remus’s quarters, his face red as he tried to look anywhere besides the shirtless werewolf that opened the door. He’d been too shocked by the sight to give his usual snide comment, while Remus appeared to be just as shocked by Severus knocking on his door that he was frozen in place. Well defined muscles were covered with fresh wounds and scars, and yet he still had taken a sharp breath. Focus, find Harry.

“Severus? What are you doing here?” The wolf frowned at him in concern, unperturbed by his state of undress.

Severus swallowed thickly, “I… need your help.” The very utterance of the words would have galled him the previous year, yet now it was the most logical course of action.

He’d tried to wait it out, chalking his worries up as unnecessary. When he’d received two notes, one from Pomona and the other from Rubeus citing Harry’s absence from their afternoon classes he’d wanted to write it off as the boy needing time to cool down (literally and figuratively). He’ll calm down after a few hours, then I’ll explain it to him ; he’d thought, trying to stamp out his fears. By dinner, no less than twelve of his charges had ambushed him to voice their concern over Harry Potter, and his guilt continued to grow with each. 

Sitting at the head table, he’d lost his appetite watching the young snakes trying to coax Draco to eat, his godson looking sickly and pale resting his arms on his head. He’d held out hope that Ms. Granger’s absence had meant she was with Harry, that he wasn’t alone. But when she’d marched into the great hall like a general ready for battle half way through dinner to whisper furiously at the group, Severus knew that Harry was actually missing. 

Keeping his composure through dinner had been a challenge, not wanting Albus to grow suspicious. Hermione had quickly gathered the third years, leaving the dining hall gossiping at their abrupt departure. The old codger had sat by smugly watching the drama unfold while eating a large helping of lemon pudding. After dinner Severus had endured an hour-long faculty meeting while trying to come up with some sort of game plan on how he would locate the boy. If any of the other staff had an inkling that Potter was missing, they didn’t let on. Instead they discussed detentions, class schedules for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, and the ever present threat of Sirius Black.

He’d escaped swiftly to his office only to be followed by Marcus Flint and the fifth year prefect Sadie Baldock reporting Harry’s absence. It would seem that every single Slytherin knew he was missing, and even those who hadn’t come to Severus directly were reporting to their next highest authorities. He was proud of his house; these children were loyal, worried for one of their own, and wouldn’t let this leak past the dungeon walls. 

Now Remus opened the door wide, allowing him entry. The wolf turned to grab a sweater off the back of a reclining chair, pulling it over his lean form while Severus set several wards over the room. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself before turning to meet the concerned amber gaze.

“I’ve lost Harry Potter.” 

Remus blinked. “…Lost him? What, like a set of keys?”

Severus’s mouth tightened into a line. “Do you think this is amusing, Lupin?”

“Depends,” Remus replied, tugging his sleeve down as if to hide a smile. “Did you check under the sofa cushions?”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering about insufferable Gryffindors. The humor slipped quickly from Remus’s face as he caught on to the genuine strain in his expression.

“Alright,” he said more gently, “tell me what happened.”

He quickly explained Draco coming to him out of concern for the other boy’s welfare. Severus watched the look of concern morph into rage as the other man learned of Harry’s life so far. Then he got to the part where the teen had walked in; “Do you remember Lily’s ‘temper’.” It had been the code word the Gryffindor had come up with when they had all been in school, referencing her proclivity for combustion when she’d gotten angry. He’d only ever been on the receiving end once, earning him third degree burn and a tentative mistrust for fire. Lupin’s eyes widened in understanding.

“Surely he didn’t inherit that?”

“Worse, I think it’s far more powerful than hers had been. He caught fire in the middle of my office so bright I had to look away. When the light faded he was gone, and no one has seen him since.” Severus left out the part about the reverse legilimency, still unsure and fearful of the odd magic.

“Merlin, Severus! Why haven’t you gone to Albus?!”

“Because,” Severus hissed, “I no longer trust that man with Potter’s welfare. Two years, Lupin. Two years and two miraculous brushes with death. You think it's a coincidence?”

Remus blinked, thrown by the venom. “You can’t mean-”

“I can and I do.” Severus folded his arms, pacing the small space. “First year: a cerberus, a deadly chess set, and a Dark Lord riding shotgun in the back of a professor’s skull. Any one of those would have been enough to kill a child. Second year: an unleashed basilisk that just happened to stalk the castle unchecked. Tell me, Lupin, do you really believe Albus had no idea what was slithering through his pipes?”

Remus opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “He’s always said Harry’s safety was his top priority…”

Severus barked out a laugh, dry as parchment. “The boy is safer in the Forbidden Forest juggling blast-ended skrewts than under Albus’s tender guidance. Even now, with a killer on the loose, Albus is more concerned about the Ministry’s meddling than the welfare of his students.” He sneered. “No, I won’t hand Potter over to him, not now. If the headmaster is orchestrating this little puppet show, then Harry’s very survival depends on him not realizing the strings have tangled.” He sat heavily into an unoccupied chair, elbows resting on his knees as his hands laced through his hair.

Remus opened his mouth, but no words came. Severus knew it was a hard truth to swallow; Albus Dumbledore was the figurehead for all that was light and good in the wizarding world. Remus, like everyone else, was a foot soldier at best. Wickedly smart, talented, and a powerful caster; the man had been recruited by Albus to the Order because his loyalty was steadfast. A loyalty Severus knew he was now testing.

No doubt entered his mind that the werewolf would see reason; he loved the boy more than anyone else, well past Severus’s own tentative respect and overwhelming guilt for his current circumstances. It wasn’t paranoia he heard in Severus’s voice, it was conviction, stripped to the bone. After a long silence, Remus leaned forward slightly, searching his face. “Why tell me this? Of all people… why me?”

The question made something twist sharply in Severus’s chest. He looked away, fingers tightening on the arm of his chair as though it could anchor him. There were half a dozen answers he might have given; any one of them more rational than what arose to the forefront of his mind. But none of them would be completely true. Not the truth he’d tried to bury since the last time they had been alone together, when a moment of weakness had ended in heat. When he’d thrown it all away out of fear.

“Because,” he said at last, forcing the word through stiff lips, “you will hear me without running to him. Because, I hope you have some trust in me…” His throat closed on the rest, the admission that hovered like glass about to shatter. He swallowed hard, hating the tremor that threatened in his voice. “Because I find myself trusting you more than I ought.” He could feel Remus’s gaze linger, heavy with memory. The weight of it made Severus want to flinch, but he held his ground, every nerve taut.

Remus’s hand twitched, as if he might reach out again. Instead, his voice came quiet, roughened at the edges. “I won’t betray that trust, Severus.” Something in Severus eased, though he did not allow himself to show it. The silence stretched in a way that was heavy but not unbearable, before Remus finally drew in a slow breath. “If you don’t trust Albus… then what do we do? Because Harry still needs protection, and he mustn’t go back to those bastards.”

Severus’s jaw tightened. We. The word was both irritating and, despite his best judgement, oddly steadying. He had survived too long in the shadows by himself. Answering to no one but necessity and his own judgment. And yet, sitting across from Lupin, he felt the edges of a plan sharpening.

“First we need to find him,” Severus said flatly. “That should be our main concern at the moment… Then we can start planning for the future. Whatever the future may hold, Potter will be the primary target of any of schemes that Albus may have, and any semblance of normalcy will only serve to leave the boy unprepared. He requires… training. Knowledge. Preparation that Albus will never sanction.”

Remus leaned back, brow furrowed. “And you think we can provide it?”

Severus sneered, though the expression lacked its usual venom. “We’re the only options, Lupin. Defense, occlumency, tactics; anything that will give him an advantage, a chance to survive. If left to the headmaster’s tender mercies, the boy would march into battle with nothing but blind luck.”

Remus considered this, lips pressed thin. “You’re not wrong,” he said slowly. “But if we move behind Albus’s back, we’ll have enemies on both sides; Dumbledore and the Dark world that still has hopes of reviving their master. You of all people know they are out for Harry’s life, even from the shadows.”

“Enemies are the one resource I have never lacked,” Severus muttered. He shifted, restless, running a hand through his hair. “The question is not whether we risk exposure, it’s whether the risk weighs more than the goal. I can’t say I’ve ever truly cared for the boy, and up until now I didn’t know if I could.” He confided, feeling the weight of his mistakes on his shoulders, fortifying his resolve. “But if it comes down to revealing my hand to secure the Harry’s life, I would lay my cards bare for all to see.”

Remus’s eyes softened, not with pity but something far worse: understanding. “Then we plan,” he said simply. “Together. Between us…” He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Between us and his excessive luck, we might just manage to keep him alive.”

***

“What did you do, you bloody ferret?” Hermione shoved Draco into a chair in the common room before Blaise and Pansy wrapped their arms around her, pulling her back before she could give him a proper black eye. She’d felt something wrong in her bones sometime in the middle of lunch, a vibrating hum that felt like a pulsing fever in her veins. Then nothing. She’d wanted to ignore it, until Herbology when no one had seen Harry. She’d nearly lost her cool then and there, but had waited patiently until after classes ended to begin her search. None of them had seen him, and she’d checked his secret lab to find the ‘dog’ gone as well.

She knew enough from her own dreams and Harry’s visions to know that Sirius wouldn’t hurt him; she just hoped that he was with Harry wherever he was. Worry eating at her, she’d made her way to dinner only to spot a very guilty looking Draco from the door way, sitting at the dining table. She should have cursed him then, but instead had stormed up to the group of third years clustered around him to demand one of their meetings. She hadn’t expected them all to rise instantly, no arguments.

This year had already been brutal on her; in addition to having future memories shoved in her brain, she was constantly using the time turner to move back and forth between classes. There were up to three memories in her brain for any given day, so her attention was wearing thin. She refused to break under the strain, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel it coming. She only wished it was under better circumstances that she might enjoy the tentative friendships she’d been forming with the other Slytherins, that they could become a support system to ease the strain. She wished she could trust them as much as Harry seemed to. As it was, she marched on the war path, and Draco was in her way.

“No violence Granger!” Pansy hissed, “Remember the rules.”

“Damn your rules. Harry’s missing and he knows why.” She struggled in their hold, wishing she had her wand. She wasn’t above hexing him for whatever betrayal he’d committed, knew she’d do a hell of a lot worse for Harry’s sake at this point and not even bat an eye. She’d been watching Draco throughout this year and had thought he was really changing by being around Harry, that he might be a better champion for her best friend than Ron ever was. Apparently I was wrong.

Blaise’s arms tightened across her shoulders like iron. “Shouting isn’t going to bring him back. Let Draco speak.”

Draco sat stiff-backed in the chair, what little color that was left drained from his face. The dark circles that ringed his eyes made him look corpse-like, and his silver irises were stark. His mouth worked once, twice, but no sound came out until Theo leaned forward with a glare sharp enough to cut. “Spit it out, Malfoy.”

Hermione’s chest heaved, her pulse hammering. Every second Draco wasted felt like sand slipping through her fingers. Finally, Draco lifted his chin, though his voice cracked when he spoke. “I told Snape.”

The words dropped like stones in a well.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Millicent hissed, “You told Snape what?” as though she hadn’t heard correctly, as though she hoped he wasn’t about to confirm their fears.

“After he disappeared last night, I couldn’t stay silent,” Draco said quickly, defensively. “I was worried! Potter, he’s in danger. Not just the well aimed jinx of a bully, but actively in mortal danger by being here. With his past, and everything else, Snape’s the only one who might know what to do!”

Hermione felt as if the floor would drop out from under her. Harry trusted them, after everything he’s been through, and everything he’s been bombarded with from the future… He might not come back. She surged forward again, and Blaise barely managed to keep her from clawing at the blond. “You betrayed him!” she shouted. “You all promised that this was a safe place, that you all would keep each other’s secrets, Harry’s secrets!”

Draco flinched. His pale face looked almost green in the firelight, but he didn’t deny it. “I thought I was helping,” he muttered.

“You didn’t just betray Harry,” Daphne said coldly from where she sat curled in an armchair. Her voice was quiet, dangerous. “You betrayed all of us. If he can’t trust you, then none of us can.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the fire seemed to have dimmed.

Theo gave a low deprecating laugh, “We can’t even do this now. Leave him be. Without Harry, the numbers are even. We cannot condemn him without the deciding odd.” Hermione wanted to berate them for their stupid system, to pull her hair in frustration, and to curse the boy before her into a puddle. It was his fault after all, all of this wouldn’t have happened if not for him. The memory, a fuzzy dream rising to the front of her mind.

“ We can’t leave him and do nothing Hermione,” Harry, older, with unused laugh lines around his eyes, had met her for tea in the heart of London, far away from any wizard’s ears. This had been the very start, when Harry had gotten word that the Aurors were to begin raiding ‘Dark Wizard’ families, arresting them without evidence. He’d seen Draco’s name among those on the list, and had come to her hoping she could persuade others with her seat on the Wizgamot, and persuade Ron as her husband (and head Auror) that this was wrong. That had been when everything went wrong, because Harry was too good to let others suffer, but also because it had been Draco Malfoy.

It’s always been bloody Draco Malfoy, Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, fury curdling into dread. “Fine,” she bit out, eyes locked on Draco’s guilty expression. “You’ve admitted your crime. But it doesn’t tell us where Harry is, and that’s the only thing that matters now.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know where he is,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “He… he disappeared.”

***

“You know you’re going to have to go back.”

Harry groaned at the reminder. It was early morning and he hadn’t even been gone twenty-four hours, but he knew Sirius was right. Harry shifted where he sat on the dusty floorboards, his back propped against a crumbling wall. The Shrieking Shack smelled of mildew and rot, but somehow, it felt safer than the castle would have.

Yesterday he’d gathered his cloak first, sneaking into Madam Pomfry’s cabinets for the burn cream before meeting back up with Sirius. They’d then made their way to the One-Eyed Witch under his cloak, then through Hogsmead to the Shrieking Shack. Here, tucked safely in the shadows, they'd spent the night talking until Harry had been overcome by his exhaustion.

It was now early morning; Sirius was watching him with that strange mixture of pride and sorrow that Harry wasn’t used to seeing from anyone. This was all so very different than any of the memories he had of the man, but the overall familiarity with Sirius was still there. He was still funny, with a touch of darkness. He offered Harry snippets of his life, and answered any questions posed to him. And Harry was sure that, unlike the previous future, he could truly come to love his godfather.

Which made him even more determined to change the future.

“It won't be that bad.” Sirius grinned at him knowingly. They'd plotted revenge on Draco, and they'd decided to make his hair fall out. Sirius knew how to brew a potion to mix in with his shampoo that would do the trick. “And don’t forget! You have the Ravenclaw game left! I watched your game with Gryffindor. I never thought in a million years that I would be cheering for Slytherin, but you did great!” Harry gave a small smile, but his eyes remained on the window, watching the rising sun. The quiet dragged until Sirius cleared his throat.“… You can’t hide out here forever, kiddo.”

Harry dragged his hands over his face. “Don’t remind me. The last thing I want right now is to sit through double Potions with him breathing down my neck.” He let his arms drop, staring up at the rafters. “Or worse, pretending nothing happened. Pretending Draco didn’t-” His throat tightened, and he snapped his mouth shut. He was so tired of pretending.

Sirius’s expression darkened, his jaw flexing as he gave an evil grin. “Leave little Snivellus to me. As for Barbie,” Draco's new nickname, “You don’t have to pretend, just don’t confront him. It’s only a few more weeks until summer, then you’ll be with me and you can forget about the boy.” Harry shrugged, and Sirius shifted closer, resting an arm casually over his shoulders. “Harry… I can’t change the fact that people will let you down. Merlin knows I’ve seen it more times than I care to count. But you’re not the kind of person who can just disappear and let the world spin on without you.”

Harry’s gaze flickered toward him, sullen but searching.

“You’re Lily and James’s son,” Sirius said, his voice hoarse but steady. “You fight. You keep going. Even when it’s unfair. Especially when it’s unfair. That’s who you are.”

Harry wanted to argue, to shout that he was tired of fighting, tired of betrayal, tired of being used as someone’s pawn. But deep down, beneath the anger still smoldering in his chest, Sirius’s words lodged like a seed. Quidditch, classes, even bloody Snape; they were threads to the future he was trying to change. Running away wouldn’t fix anything. He sighed, defeated. “Fine. I’ll go back.”

Sirius’s grin was quick and wolfish. “That’s my boy.” 

Harry snorted, shaking his head as he clambered to his feet. He was still tired, and oddly sore though he supposed that had more to do with the four hour swim from the previous night. Merlin, has it only been a day since I came in from the lake? The wound in his heart thrummed painfully.

“Come on, pup. Let me show you the shortcut to Hogwarts grounds. Next time you need an escape, you won’t have to cut through Honeydukes.”

Chapter Text

“Why won’t he talk to me!” Draco’s voice cracked with frustration as he paced a worn track across the dormitory rug. His pale fingers tugged at his hair so roughly that Theo half-expected to see strands left behind on the floor.

“Because you’re a twat?” Theo replied without looking up, flipping a page in his book with a snap. He’d said the same thing at least three times in the last twenty minutes. At this point it was less of an answer and more of a mantra. He smirked faintly at his own thought: maybe all Malfoys came with memory loss baked in… tragic, really . But Draco didn’t so much as flinch at the insult. He just kept pacing, muttering, tugging. The blond was a mess.

Harry Potter had come back different. He was colder, even more quiet than when he’d first switched into Slytherin, the walls around him thicker than before. He lingered near Granger as if she were his only tether to sanity, ignoring everyone else. The fires had started again, and Harry looked gaunter by the day as he reverted back to barely eating, shadows under his eyes darker than the dungeons themselves. He wasn’t even sleeping in the dorm anymore. The bed beside Theo’s remained neatly made, which, somehow, was more unnerving than if it had been torn apart.

Theo’s jaw tightened. All that work this year, his carefully balanced diplomacy, his effort to keep Potter among them, to earn his trust, all of it was gone, cracked to pieces. He was livid. And yet… he couldn’t just abandon Draco. The idiot was at least trying, even if his good intentions always managed to wrap themselves in self-serving arrogance. The rest of the House saw only betrayal, and they were more than happy to let Draco hang for it. But Theo knew better. He could see how rattled the boy really was, how distraught.

It wasn’t odd for the other boy to be this concerned with what Harry Potter thought of him. Two years of Theo’s life had been spent bored to tears as Draco dissected each insult they cast upon each other, being oddly obsessed with his ‘arch nemesis’. The difference was that Draco seemed to actually care that Potter hated him now, honestly regretting his mistake. Theo could applaud personal growth when he saw it.

“Potter needs to eat,” Draco muttered for the hundredth time, like a broken clock that only rang out guilt. “I can’t go to Professor Snape again, that would only put oil on the fire. But he’s the only one I trust to fix this. And Harry won’t -” he cut off mid sentence, jaw clenched tight.

“Have you tried apologizing?” Theo drawled, tossing the jab in like bait.

Draco spun on him, grey eyes wild and bloodshot. “Have you not been listening!” He looked feral with hollow cheeks, skin too pale, movements twitchy with exhaustion. “I’ve tried. After class? He’s gone before I can even get my books packed. I follow him, and he vanishes like a ghost. Corners, staircases, dead ends! I know Granger’s running interference, she bloody tripped me yesterday when I almost caught up to him. And I had Goyle signaling me so I could sneak around him, but even then, nothing. He just disappears. Like he knows where I am every second.” His voice broke with desperation. “It’s insane.”

Theo finally shut his book with a sharp thud. He gave Draco a long, unimpressed look. “Draco, when was the last time you actually slept? Because you’re starting to sound properly unhinged.”

“Ugh, I don’t know. Yesterday? The day before?” Draco rubbed his temples, voice fraying. “But you know… the nightmares.” His bravado slipped at that, collapsing into something softer, rawer. Of course Theo knew. He’d known all year. Draco never admitted much, but he’d let slip once about learning silencing charms over the summer to keep the dorm from hearing him scream in the middle of the night. Now the blond finally stopped pacing and sank onto the end of his bed. His elbows rested on his knees, shoulders hunched, head bowed like he could no longer bear the weight of it all. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. He wanted to be irritated, wanted to keep needling. But instead he just stared at his friend. Draco Malfoy, heir to centuries of pride and arrogance, looked like a boy on the edge of breaking. The last thing I need is another broken snake. He leaned back, drumming his fingers against the book cover, weighing his options. He wasn’t in the habit of playing owl for melodramatic blondes, but Potter’s state was worrying Theo as much as Draco, and the other boy wasn’t wrong about Harry needing someone to drag him back from the brink.

“Alright,” Theo said finally. “I’ll write him a note. Anonymously. Tell him to meet in that abandoned classroom of his, saying it’s important. You won’t be anywhere near it, so he won’t bolt on sight. If he shows, you’ll get your chance to explain. If he doesn’t… well, you can at least stop pacing like a caged hippogriff.”

Draco’s head snapped up, surprise breaking through the despair. “You’d- Theo, you’d do that?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it sound like I’m donating a kidney. It’s a scrap of parchment and a bit of ink. Don’t get used to me playing matchmaker for you.” But still, Draco’s mouth twitched just slightly, a little bit of light returning to his eyes

***

Remus smirked. The dungeons rang with laughter, and for once, it wasn’t echoing from inside a classroom. It followed Severus down the corridor like an uninvited entourage, whispers and stifled snickers bursting into poorly muffled cackles as he passed.

The man’s robes which were normally the color of storm clouds and shadows currently sported a hideous canary yellow, glowing so bright they practically lit the stones around him. Not even his most menacing scowl could offset the ridiculous effect. Remus could see the man’s wand hand twitched at his side, and the sight of a third-year sprinting around the corner to howl with laughter only seemed to deepen the murderous line of his mouth. He was cute.

After several minutes of stalking his prey, Remus planted himself  out of sight and waited. As planned, Severus turned a corner too sharply and ‘accidentally’ collided with him.

“Severus,” Remus said, too mildly, though his lips quivered as he bit back a grin. “You seem… brighter than usual.”

“Spare me your wit, Lupin.” Severus’s voice cracked like a whip, though it lost some of its sting when accompanied by the absurd swish of sunflower-yellow robes. “Where are they? The Weasley vermin. I’ll have them in detention until graduation.”

Remus lifted a brow, eyes flicking over the robes with familiarity. “Ah,” he murmured, as if confirming a suspicion. “Fred and George Weasley are clever boys, but I don’t think they can claim authorship of this. That one’s… an old spell. Sirius used to delight in tormenting me with it, though he never made it quite this fluorescent.”

Severus stiffened, color high in his cheeks, though Remus couldn’t tell whether it stemmed from fury or embarrassment. “You mean to tell me you recognize this abomination?”

“I do.” Remus raised his wand with easy confidence. “One of mine, actually. A half-finished bit of hex-work I passed along to Sirius when we were… experimenting. I suppose I should be flattered it’s still being used, though I’d be more inclined to believe Harry found it and was taking revenge for last week.” Honestly, he was eighty percent sure a mischievous black dog had found his way into the potion master’s wardrobe, but throwing Harry under the bus was less disastrous than revealing that truth.

A precise flick, a murmured counter-charm, and the yellow bled away, melting back into his usual severe, though very sexy, black. The laughter from nearby students stuttered into silence, disappointed that the spectacle had ended. Snape glanced down at himself, relief warring with suspicion. “You kept such creations?”

Remus’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Some of us prefer to learn from the past, Severus. Even the more embarrassing bits.” Not a lie, he did have the charm written down in one of his journals along with many others that hadn’t seen the light of day for nearly fifteen years.

“Do speak to Po- Harry about this. I do detest pranks and cannot afford to show lenience within these walls.” It was a vague comment, but he could read between the lines. They were being watched. With a nod, he bid Severus a good afternoon and departed feeling a bit sad. It was hard enough courting the man without adding the convoluted mess of secret plots.

In truth, he hadn’t spoken to Harry since he returned last week. It had physically pained him to watch the boy move through the halls like a ghost, pushing away his friends. But he didn’t want Albus thinking he was taking too much of an interest. Remus wanted this teaching position again next year, wanted to be close to Harry. So he would feign ignorance to get what he wanted.

Stepping into the darkness of his office, the familiar scent hit him before the voice. “Good to see you, Moony.”

His breath caught in his throat even as his wand slid into his palm. With a flick, the candles lit to reveal Sirius Black, seated in his chair with his feet propped on the desk. His arms were crossed, a familiar looking wand spinning idly between his fingers.

“Sirius. Please tell me you didn’t steal Harry’s wand.” He didn’t move, unsure whether he should call for help, murder the man where he stood, or rush over to give him a hug.

“Borrowed,” Sirius corrected smoothly, twirling the wand again. “Our poor pup let me have it. Needed it to rattle your boy toy.” His lip curled in a sneer. “Really, though, Moons? Snivellus? That’s where you’ve sunk?”

Something hot and vicious flashed in Remus’s veins. His grip on his wand tightened until it ached. “Don’t you dare call him that.”

Sirius’s eyebrows rose, mocking. “Don’t tell me you’re serious -” he smirked at his own pun, “-about him.”

“You’re not allowed to get yourself imprisoned for twelve years then break into my office and judge me on my choices! Severus is a better man than you ever gave him credit for,” Remus snapped. The words were out before he could stop them. He heard the ragged edge of his own voice, watched as the other man's face flickered with a mixture of emotions; shock, anger, then finally a contemptuous raised brow.

Sirius barked a laugh, harsh and bitter. “Better? He was a Death Eater, Moony! He would’ve sold us out without blinking. You think he’s changed, just Albus swathed him in teaching robes?”

Remus’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart hammered with fury. He'd had eyes for Severus since third year when an inter house potions project had paired him with the gloomy boy. He’d seen what Lily had loved for so long, and had wanted it for himself. James and Sirius had never given the sullen Slytherin a chance, and he, stupidly, had let them bully and berate his crush, craving their acceptance and lacking conviction. It was no wonder Severus had turned down a dark road with what they had put him through, it amazed him that the man hadn't hexed him on sight. 

But what was Sirius’s excuse, “And what about you?” he spat. “You were our brother. You left James, Lily, and Harry to die.” His voice cracked, but he pressed on, louder. “You expect me to just forgive you because you crawl back with that damned grin?”

The words hit Sirius like blows; the smirk faltered, the light fading from his wounded grey eyes . He shifted his boots off the desk, leaning forward as if the weight of Remus’s anger pressed him down.

“I didn’t betray them,” Sirius said hoarsely, the bravado bleeding away. “I never would. I-” He cut himself off, staring at the wand in his fist as though it held the answers he couldn’t give. Remus’s wand trembled slightly in his grip, his chest still heaving from the raw fury Sirius’s words had dredged up. He wanted to hate him for it. He wanted to hex him until there was nothing left but smoke and ash. And yet… that damned flicker of familiarity, of the boy he’d once followed through the castle corridors, lingered behind the gaunt lines of Sirius’s face.

Sirius’s sneer faltered first. He rubbed at his jaw, eyes darting to the side as though ashamed of what he’d said. “I… didn’t mean it like that. Not really. Merlin, Moony, I didn’t come here to fight you.”

“Then what in hell did you come for?” Remus snapped, voice cutting sharp. “To remind me of how far we’ve all fallen? To spit on what’s left of my choices?”

“No.” Sirius’s voice dropped low, almost a growl. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the mad glint in his eyes sharpened into something frighteningly clear. “I came because Peter’s alive.”

The world seemed to tilt sideways. For a moment Remus thought he’d misheard, that Sirius was rambling from hunger or madness. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said coldly. “Peter died. You killed him.”

Sirius shot to his feet, fists clenching. “I didn’t kill him, Remus! He framed me. That filthy rat, he cut off his own finger and ran form the scene as the Aurors showed up. He’s been hiding ever since as that Weasley boy’s hand-me-down. One of the guards used to slip me the paper, didn’t you notice? Wormtail front and center.” His voice cracked, a desperate edge cutting through his anger. “It’s him, Moony. He’s right under their noses.”

Remus’s blood ran cold. The memory of Peter’s watery eyes, his stammering voice, the way he always lingered at the edges of their group… it all came flooding back, curdling into something sickening. He’d never been the bravest Gryffindor, but could he..“You expect me to believe-”

“I expect you to remember who Peter was,” Sirius barked. “How he worshiped James, how he feared Voldemort, how he’d sell his own mother if it meant staying alive. He betrayed them. He’s the reason James and Lily are dead. And I’m not letting him slip away again.” The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Remus lowered his wand, but only an inch, his chest twisting with doubt and dawning horror. Sirius’s voice softened, hoarse with exhaustion. “I need your help, Moony. You know me better than anyone. Do you really think I’d have betrayed them?”

Remus didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. The words stuck like thorns in his throat. He lowered his wand fully but kept it tight in his hand, as though letting it go would make all of this real. Sirius’s ragged breathing filled the quiet between them, but Remus barely heard it. Twice now in the span of a week he’d been rocked to his core. His mind had already spun elsewhere, back to the web of plots and counter plots that had tangled his life into something unrecognizable.

Albus Dumbledore, grandfatherly figure and leader of the light; allowing the abuse of a child for his own gain. Dumbledore, with that too-knowing gleam in his eyes, forever nudging Harry closer to danger under the guise of preparing him. Snape, coiled and bitter, yet still bound to the boy’s safety by threads Remus could barely comprehend. And now Sirius emerging from the shadows with tales of Peter alive, hiding in plain sight. Peter, who he’d mourned alongside James and Lily for years, possibly alive and guilty of the crimes Sirius had spent the last decade imprisoned for. 

It seemed almost too cruel to be chance. Too orchestrated not to be some final test.

Perhaps he was mad for even listening, for letting the old ache of brotherhood stir in his chest when he should have thrown Sirius back to the dementors. But why else had Sirius come to him? Of all people; Why me? He’d asked the same of Severus, because for the life of him he couldn’t see the merit in it. He was smart and loyal, but there were plenty of wizards with more power that had the same qualities. And none of them with nearly as much baggage.

Still, as he stared at his long lost brother, he couldn’t turn away from his pleas. Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “What a fitting way to close the semester,” he muttered to himself. Trying to protect the one child who apparently ran headlong into peril every year, Dumbledore’s quiet machinations ticking away in the background, and now the ghost of a friendship long dead standing in his office asking for trust.

He shook his head, tired and bitter as Sirius grinned at him with relief in his eyes. Mad. I must be mad to even consider it. But if I don’t…

***

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself before he opened the door to his classroom, tucking away the map into his pocket. “Luna? What’s wrong? Your note said it was important.” He hadn’t been sure who had written it when Hedwig had delivered it to him this morning at breakfast. He had fully planned to ignore it, until he’d seen his quirky friend making her way to the meeting place. He’d rationalized that with all of her foresight, a vague note requesting his urgent attention from Luna shouldn’t be ignored and had rushed to the classroom.

“Note?” Her gaze looked more confused than usual as she turned in a slow circle near the center of the room. She looked like she wasn’t sure where she’d found herself, lost and addled. She was wearing a pretty blue dress, and bright orange tights with bats. Her wand seemed attached to a macrame belt that hung loosely from her waist, and her hair looked as if she’d just woken up. “I didn’t write you a note Harry.”

“Then who did?” With dawning horror, he turned to see the answer opening the door. His wand dropped into his hand with a thought, “ Iniuriam capillus !” Draco dropped out of the way, drawing his own wand.

“ Expelliarmus.” Draco attempted to pull Harry’s wand from him. 

It didn’t budge. Harry’s arm swung wide with “ Locomotor Wibbly .” The bright light deflected off of Draco’s shield. “ Trebea foumarts.” It was a quick followup, and Harry watched with a smirk as the spell landed squarely in the other boy’s chest, Draco’s eyes widening in fear. A loud screeching broke through the room, and he couldn’t believe his luck as they all froze. 

Nothing happened. 

Draco stood stalk still mid flinch, as if waiting for something to happen. He didn’t even move as Harry cast another jelly legs jinx, hitting him directly again. Another loud screech, but still nothing. Enraged, Harry stalked forward, casting one spell after another, each landing but having no other effect than a sharp sound that echoed in the empty room. Draco backed up, still alarmed as Harry pinned him against the door with his wand to the blond’s throat. His breath heaved from his chest, needing something to take his anger out on.

Draco, barely older than he was now, bloody, huge gashes across his chest as he gasped in pain. He stared down at the blonde in horror, “What have I done?”

“AHH!” Harry spun away with a curse, the palm of his hand coming to his temple to apply pressure where the memory throbbed to life in his skull. A nearby desk caught fire. He paced like a caged animal, trying to calm himself. He could hear Luna casting a quiet charm, putting out the flames before walking over to Draco.

“I must be going now, Cousin.” She said sweetly, as if she hadn’t just watched Harry attack her relative. Draco stepped out of the way to let her by before closing the door once again, blocking Harry’s escape.

“Harry,” The whisper had Harry gritting his teeth. “I… I just want to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk, Malfoy.” He bit back, spinning around to face him. He felt the temperature drop almost instantly, cold despite the warm temperature of the castle. Draco’s eyes widened as he hastened forward to lock his fingers around Harry’s wrist. “Let go!” He tried to jerk away.

Draco held fast, shaking his head as his face scrunched up in pain. “No you don’t, I’m not letting you disappear again.”

“What-” Harry looked down where Draco’s skin was bright red and with bubbling blisters forming, bright yellow flames licking up his hand and singeing his robes. Harry’s flames. He was on fire. “Shit!” The sight was shocking enough to cool his temper, the flames fading with it. Draco pulled away, cradling his hand to his chest, tears streaking down his face as he glared at Harry. He was clearly in pain, but didn’t budge, stubborn as ever.

Harry took several deep breaths, once again trying to imagine a bottle in his mind to push all of his feelings into. Stupid prat, Harry glared back, not as if it’s my fault he grabbed hold. He instantly bottled up the guilt alongside dastardly thoughts that it stemmed from; the small part of his mind that was glad Draco was hurting. Smashing both warring sides into the bottle with the rest of his feelings. He would be neutral. He would emotionless if it killed him. He crossed his arms over his chest, putting the mask back on that he’d been wearing all week.

Draco seemed to crack then, as if all the strain he’d been holding together with brittle arrogance finally snapped under the weight. His face twisted, not in anger, but in exhaustion and shame. He drew in a shuddering breath and words came tumbling out, rushed and jagged. “Stop putting on that bloody face! You’re not Slytherin! Merlin, I know you hate me, and maybe you should, but I didn’t- ” his voice broke, the floodgates opening. “I didn’t know what else to do! I never meant for it to get this bad, I only wanted to help and everyone thinks I’m poison and maybe they’re right but-” he choked on a sob, clutching his burned hand tighter to his chest. “You- you have to believe me. I was only try- trying to help.”

“Help who? Help Snape dig up dirt on me?” Harry’s icy gaze didn’t waver. “Giving him more fodder to mock me with?”

“No! I was trying to help, from the very beginning. But after you told us about your past-” he wiped away the wetness from his face, but was still unable to regain his composure. “It- it was out of my depth. Uncle Sev, I trust him with my- with my life.” 

“Are you blind? Have you not seen the torment he’s put me through for the last three years? He hates me!” Harry threw his hands in the air, his yell shaking the windows.

“You have to believe me, he doesn’t.”

“He does, and so do you! Or you wouldn’t have betrayed me. Fool me once…” Harry felt a bone deep weariness settle in.

“I don’t hate you Harry.” Draco whispered, silver meeting green with bare honesty.

Harry flinched away from his gaze, “Then why? Why betray me? Why tell me again and again that I don’t belong in the house you covet?”

Draco’s legs seemed to give out from underneath him, knees landing hard on the floor as his face paled even more. “Because it’s my fault. You were never… you were never meant to be in Slytherin.” He looked as if he was seeing a ghost, staring through Harry. Draco sat trembling, pale and disheveled, the picture of defeat. A shiver ran through him at the hollowness of Draco’s voice, and the floor felt as if it was going to drop out from under him any second. “It’s my fault you’re in Slytherin, if I hadn’t sought you out during the summer… But no, I just had to try and help.” His voice turned self-deprecating as he looked up at Harry. “I just had to try and change the future.”

Chapter Text

Bile rose in Harry’s throat. His mouth dried, his mind raced. …Change the future.

“What-what do you mean?” He rasped. Draco shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes unseeing. Or at least they weren't seeing Harry; they had that same distant look he recognized. He’d seen it in Hermione. In Luna. In the mirror.

“Draco,” He dropped to his knees, reaching forward to shake the blond. “What do you mean change the future? Please, I need to know.”

“I’m the worst person I know,” His voice was hollow, the whisper barely audible. He closed his eyes as tears continued to track down his pale skin. “I don’t want to be, but every time I try to be better, it doesn’t help. I think it was out of selfishness that I sought you out that day in the library, because if anyone could help me be better it would be the great Harry Potter.” He inhaled a stuttered breath, halfway sobbing. “I see it, in my dreams. The wrong I will do. I haven’t slept soundly since the summer. Mother thinks it's our seer blood. Father thinks I'm going mad… I had hoped that by seeking you out, giving you a peek behind the curtain with what little I knew about this year, that I might help you in some way to prevent whatever is coming. But I made a bloody mess of everything.” He opened his eyes again, bright silver irises rigging constricted pupils. “I know I sound mad.”

Harry shook his head, unable to process what he was hearing. Draco knew the future? But that would mean…

“What do you know?”

“I know your godfather is innocent… that Peter Pettigrew is alive…” The name struck like a curse, low and venomous on Draco’s tongue. A frown pinched his brow, “It's vague. I know he’s out to revive the dar- Voldemort. And I know he is here in Hogwarts, because he bragged about it to me, or will… in the future. About living underneath your nose. About his friends being oblivious until the end.” Another jagged breath, “Harry, I know you have no reason to trust me, to believe me. But you must go back to Gryffindor. Please. You need to be our savior in the end. Voldemort will rise again, and Slytherin won’t be safe for you or Granger. I’m- I’m not strong enough.” 

Harry’s breath hitched and then a laugh ripped out of him. Harsh, startled, bubbling up like it had been clawing at his ribs for months. He clutched his stomach, doubling over, and it wouldn’t stop. Each gasp of air turned into another jagged laugh, until his eyes watered and his chest hurt. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t pinpoint what about this heartbreaking story he found funny. 

Draco froze, his expression shifting from exhaustion to alarm. “What- what’s so bloody funny?” His voice cracked. He leaned forward as if to grasp Harry again, but his good hand hovered uselessly in the air, trembling.

Harry wheezed, trying to swallow it down, but the sound kept spilling out of him, high and broken, teetering on the edge of sobs. “You- Oh Merlin-” He choked on another laugh, dragging a hand over his face, the hysteria and disbelief tangling together until he hardly knew which way was up.

Draco paled further, if that was possible. “Potter- stop- this isn’t- I’m serious, I’m not making it up-” His words were frantic now, rushing out, his own control unraveling at the edges. “I told you because I can’t- because I don’t know what else to do- don’t laugh at me-” The gut wrenching plea lacked Draco’s usual haughtiness, drawing Harry from his hysteria. He did his best to pull himself together though his thoughts were muddled,  and he felt on the edge of madness himself. Reaching out, he quickly nabbed Draco’s hand from the air, causing the other boy to flinch. 

“How did you get away?” 

The question had Draco freezing in place, barely breathing as confusion turned to shock, then a guarded expression. “Excuse me?”

“How did you get away from the Aurors?” Harry’s own vision of a much older Draco being apparated away was the last thing he knew would happen to him. For months he’d been riddled with the guilt of leaving him behind, and now he couldn’t believe his luck. Draco was the same as him. Not one hundred percent from this timeline.  When the blond didn’t answer, Harry decided to clarify. “In the future, after years of being adults with families and jobs and responsibilities; Hermione and I will side against Ron and the Aurors. We will become fugitives and attempt to hide witches and wizards deemed ‘too dark for the welfare of wizarding kind’. You, Draco Malfoy, will be captured after we try to shelter you. Now I need to know; How did you escape?”

Draco’s throat bobbed. His eyes widened with flashes of disbelief, horror, and recognition. For the first time, he looked truly young, stripped of the practiced Malfoy composure. He swallowed hard, lips parting, but no sound came. Finally, he forced the words out, quiet and uneven. “I… I didn’t.”

The silence that followed pressed in like a physical weight. Harry waited, the clammy pale hand clasped in his own as they both processed their own revelations. Finally, Draco seemed to relax ever so slightly. “I didn’t escape. I was imprisoned without trial alongside Pansy and Neville. We were scheduled to meet the dementor’s kiss. I remember… An old man in long blue robes being escorted to his cell. No one noticed the timeturner that slipped from his robes, rolling to my feet. It was a nasty piece of work, and I’d never even used one before but… I had to try. That’s it.”

The story was horrifying, but still familiar. An odd time turner was how Hermione had described the cause of their own situation. “I don’t know much about how we got here, my memories don’t come to me in dreams, but rather forceful migraines. But Hermione said about the same, finding a time turner that exploded with us in the warp. We-”

“Wait! Hermione, she- you both-?” He couldn’t seem to find the words, but Harry nodded anyway.

“Thank Godric, I don’t know what I would have done without her… I honestly don’t know how you kept it to yourself without going insane.”

Draco huffed, the first sign he was returning to normal despite still being quite pale. “I’m better at compartmentalizing than you, I’m sure.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “Because nightmares are such a healthy response, of course.” He tried for sarcasm, but the words came out thick with bitterness instead. His gaze dropped, lingering for a moment on their joined hands before memory jolted through him. He pulled back abruptly, fingers curling into a fist.

Draco flinched at the sudden absence but said nothing.

Harry’s chest tightened, the ugly knot of old betrayal and present exhaustion tangling together. “You’re… not forgiven,” he said at last, voice low but steady. “For telling Snape. Just because you have a reason behind it- just because you thought you were doing something you thought necessary, doesn’t mean you didn’t mess up.”

Draco’s jaw worked, something complicated flickering across his expression: shame, defensiveness, regret. His composure cracked for only a heartbeat before the mask slid back into place. He didn’t argue. His shoulders sagged a little, as if he’d expected the blow and simply let it land. Silence stretched, brittle and uncomfortable, until he broke it in a quieter tone.

“So… you and Granger,” he said, eyes flicking to Harry’s face. “You both chose to come to Slytherin?”

Harry gave a short nod.

Draco hesitated. “Why?”

Harry met his gaze evenly, the answer simple but weighted. “Same as you. We want to change the future.” The words were heavy on his tongue. Hermione’s warning about not telling anyone didn’t apply to someone who was also from the future, but it still felt odd sharing. Neither boy spoke for a long moment, and the silence grew thick, awkward, more vulnerable than either wanted to admit. Finally, Harry shifted, his voice softer but still edged with demand. “Can I see the bracelet I gave you, the one from Christmas?”

Draco blinked, startled by the turn in conversation. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his bad wrist. The skin there was raw and angry, blisters bubbling over bright red patches that looked more like cracked leather than flesh.

Harry gasped, his stomach lurching. He’d forgotten entirely about Draco catching fire. “Shit! Bloody hell- okay, um- I got this, okay?”

Without waiting for permission, he scrambled to his feet and hauled Draco up by his uninjured hand. Draco hissed at the movement but didn’t resist, letting Harry drag him into motion.

They hurried through the corridor, Harry practically towing him as they jogged toward Myrtle’s lavatory where he’d last seen the burn cream. It was midday on a Saturday, which meant the castle was busy. The sight of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, one pale and blistered, the other visibly frantic racing past earned more than a few double-takes and confused stares.

Harry ignored them all, jaw tight, heart thudding against his ribs as he half-dragged Draco through the corridor. He couldn’t get the image of the blistered wrist out of his head, the bracelet biting into scorched flesh. He should’ve noticed sooner. Should’ve done something. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let people around him get hurt if he could help it: and now look! Though to be fair, catching fire wasn’t on the list of how people got hurt last time around…Focus, Potter. Think. Cream. Myrtle’s bathroom. That’s the fastest shot.

They skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a pair of Ravenclaws who gave them matching looks of bewilderment. Draco muttered something under his breath, face pale but lips pressed shut, as though he’d decided not to argue. It didn’t last, and when they reached the door to the girls’ lavatory, Draco balked, attempting to tug his arm back. “Potter, wait, this is-”

Harry didn’t let him finish. “Don’t care.” He yanked the door open with more force than necessary, pulling Draco in after him. “You’ll survive the scandal.”

The echoing space was empty, cold, and faintly damp as ever. Harry’s voice rang out, sharp with urgency. “Myrtle! Where’s the burn cream? It was here last, where’d you put it?” His words bounced off the tiled walls, his pulse racing as he scanned the dingy sinks and cracked mirrors. Please let her be here. Please let this work. He tightened his grip on Draco’s uninjured arm, as though keeping hold would keep him from slipping further away. 

“Harry, this is an empty bathroom.” Draco looked at him like he had finally lost his marbles. 

“Not quite. Myrtle!” He called out again, moving further in to begin searching himself. Towel cabinet, each toilet stall, and the bathtubs. Nothing. “MYRTLE!”

“OOOOOOOO Harryyyy, you don’t have to yelllll.” The moan came from her favorite toilet, and Draco practically jumped out of his skin as the spectacled ghost pulled herself from the abandoned pipes.

“I wouldn’t yell if you didn’t ignore me.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was pretending to sleep.”

Harry raised his hand in surrender, “Then I’m sorry for disturbing you, but where is the cream from last time?”

She puffed out her cheeks, looking at an overly interesting cobweb attached to the toilet stall, “I don’t know, maybe your animagus took it.”

Harry rolled his eyes, She’s a worse liar than I am. “Please, I know I left it here with you.”

She gave a big pout before her eyes turned to the other boy, going wide. “Oh, a Malfoy?” She gave a shy giggle before disappearing into the sink, reappearing from a different toilet after a second with a levitating jar pulled from the bowl. “Abraxus was such a handsome boy, you look very similar.” She sighed like a longing fangirl, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at Draco’s creeping blush as the ghost stared at him.

Harry snagged the jar, tapping it with his wand with a drying spell before popping it open. “Here, give me your hand,” Harry held out his own expectantly. The blond hesitated, eyes darting between Harry, Myrtle and the jar. “Come on, Draco. Unless you’d prefer to spend the rest of the week looking like you tried to fistfight a dragon and lost.”

Draco sniffed, curling his burned hand closer to his chest. “I’d rather not have you of all people poking at me with untested potions, thanks.”

“It’s not untested, I literally used it on Padfoot last week,” Harry shot back, exasperated. “And, in any case, it's one of Pomfry’s. You don’t need to put your faith in my brewing abilities for this one.”

“Vouching for her medicine is generous,” Draco drawled, lifting his chin. Myrtle’s giggle echoed through the tiles, making both boys stiffen. 

She hovered halfway out of the sink, eyes glittering with mischief. “Ohhh, don’t stop on my account. This is delightful. Like a drama!”

Harry groaned. “You’re not helping, Myrtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” she replied sweetly, propping her chin in her translucent palms. “Though I must admit, Malfoys don’t usually squirm. It’s rather cute.”

Draco made a strangled noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “Cute? Did she just- Potter, tell her to stop looking at me like that.”

Harry snorted despite himself. “She’s a ghost, Draco. Pretty sure staring is her only hobby.” He gestured impatiently. “Hand. Now. Before it blisters worse.”

Draco muttered under his breath, “If you botch this, I’ll make sure your nightmares include my father every single night.” He passed his hand over and Harry flinched as he took it into his own. It was amazing that Draco had been able to hang on to him, let alone have a conversation afterwards. He applied the cream, watching the large blisters shrink under his touch. He wasn't squeamish, but it made him sick knowing he'd done this much damage.

Harry pasted on a fake smirk as he dabbed the cream across the angry red skin, his movements as gentle as possible. “Empty threats. I already dream about him without your help.”

That silenced Draco for a beat, long enough for Myrtle to sigh dreamily and coo, “So much tension… oh, if only I had popcorn.” Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Draco looked down at his burn, lips parting as the angry red skin smoothed over, leaving only pale, unblemished flesh. Both boys watched the last trace of damage fade as if it had never been there. He flexed his fingers slowly, as though testing whether they truly belonged to him again, then jerked his hand back to admire the light catching on unscarred skin.

“Wow,” he murmured, awe threading through his voice despite himself. “It actually works.”

Without warning, he darted forward, snatching the jar from Harry’s hands with a sharpness that made Myrtle squeal in giddy delight. Draco held it to his chest like a prize. “I’ll keep this. Something tells me I’ll need more if I’m going to stay your friend.”

The word made Harry go still. The warmth of relief he’d felt at fixing the damage was gone in an instant, his expression icing over. “We aren’t friends.” His voice came out clipped, harsh, as though he needed to cut the thought away before it could take root.

Draco flinched at the bluntness, shoulders tightening. But instead of snapping back or retreating into sneers like he usually did, he steadied himself. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, thin but stubborn, and his gray eyes gleamed with a quiet resolve. “No,” he said at last, almost lightly, though there was a weight beneath it. “I suppose we’re not. Not yet, anyway.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at the certainty in those words. He turned away with a sharp huff, unwilling to let the strange flicker of hope on Draco’s face unsettle him further. Myrtle’s delighted giggles echoed through the tiled chamber, needling at Harry’s frayed patience until irritation surged hot and sharp.

***

The Slytherin common room had never felt so claustrophobic. The firelight threw long shadows against the stone walls, and the usual murmur of quiet study had been replaced by a sharp-edged silence. Every Slytherin third-year was there, tucked into their back corner, gathered in a loose circle. Draco sat stiff-backed on the leather couch, Pansy and Theo on either side with their bodies angled away from him.

Harry watched as the other shifted, unsure how to proceed. He doubted any of them had had this problem before, being betrayed by their friends. He, unfortunately, had plenty of experience with it.

Hermione broke the silence first, her tone clipped and deliberate, every word honed to cut. “Draco betrayed Harry. He gave Snape his secret. That isn’t loyalty, not the kind we were promised when you offered us your friendships. He exposed Harry to someone who would twist it, use it against him.” Her chin lifted a fraction, but Harry caught the fire behind her steady gaze. She was furious, though her voice never wavered, wrapping that rage in logic sharp enough to draw blood.

Millicent crossed her arms, nodding. “Agreed. If it had been any of us, would you have done the same, Malfoy? Or was it just convenient because it was Potter?”

Draco flinched but didn’t look away. His voice was low, tired. “I did it. I’m guilty. You don’t need to argue that part.”

Blaise leaned forward on the arm of the loveseat, his arm crossed threateningly over his chest, tone like ice. “Then why should we keep you among us? If we can’t trust you, what’s the point?”

“Because he’s still one of us,” Theo cut in before Draco could respond, his dark eyes sharp. “We don’t cut off our own every time they stumble. And it's not as if he took it to Dumbledore or McGonagall. Our head of house is loyal to us.”

Pansy tossed her hair over her shoulder with a huff. “Exactly. You’re acting like Gryffindors with this ‘betrayal equals exile’ nonsense. We survive because we adapt, because we keep each other close. Malfoy messed up, yes, but he admitted it.” The words were spoken dully, her part in keeping the balance lacking any conviction.

“He admitted it because he was caught,” Tracy shot back, earning nods from Hermione and Daphne.

Greg shifted uneasily, speaking for once without Draco prompting him. “Doesn’t matter. He’s still family. If you kick him out, you’re not making us stronger. You’re just showing we’re easy to divide.” Vince nodded along with him, the pair seated on the floor to Harry’s right.

Daphne’s cool, measured voice followed. “Aren’t we though? It was selfish and reckless to go to Snape without Harry's go ahead. What if Snape brought the matter to Dumbledore and was able to convince him to change Harry back to Gryffindor? All of our secrets would be out in the open.”

The fire crackled in the heavy silence that followed. Harry could see that even those who argued on Draco's side seemed to be keeping their distance. No one here supported him in private. Draco’s head bowed, the faintest shake of his blond hair betraying resignation. “I won’t fight it if you want me gone. But…” His throat worked, and his voice cracked just slightly. “I didn't do it out of malice.” 

Harry sat off to the side of the fire, apart from the circle but not outside it, listening. The flames snapped in the hearth, painting everyone in light and shadow. His stomach was in knots. Usually, he would have opened the discussion; this was an argument between Draco and himself. Hermione hadn't been thrilled when he’d asked her to speak for his side. Part of him still wanted to scream at Draco, to agree with Hermione and Millicent and Blaise and let the betrayal burn away what was left of their fragile alliance. It would only take a word. But another quieter, stubborn part kept him rooted. His eyes slipping over each Slytherin in turn. Finally settling on Draco.

He knew what it was to be alone. He knew now that they all did in some way. And the look on Draco’s face right now wasn’t arrogant or smug or even defensive. It was acceptance. His eyes flicked up, silver meeting Harry's gaze; there was sadness and knowing in those irises. He expects Harry's judgement.

Hermione’s voice cut the air like a blade, drawing his attention back to her, his curly haired champion. “He broke your trust, Harry. How can we move forward if the one person who should’ve kept your secret handed it over to Snape? He doesn’t deserve to sit among us.”

Draco didn’t answer this time, his gaze slipping back to his clenched fists, as if braced for the inevitable.

Harry’s fingers curled around the arm of his chair. He could feel everyone’s eyes flicking toward him in turn; some openly, some slyly. They all knew the truth, that in the end it didn’t matter what Blaise or Pansy or anyone else said. This decision was his.

He took a slow breath, forcing himself to speak. “I’m not saying I forgive him.” His eyes moved to Draco, hard and steady. “But cutting him out won’t fix anything. It’ll just make things worse.” Everyone’d attention shot to him, Draco’s gaze lifting as shock replaced resignation.

Hermione’s shoulders tensed, her frown deep. “Harry-”

“No,” Harry said, sharper than he intended. He lowered his voice, steady but firm. “He stays. We’ve got enough enemies already without turning on each other. If Draco wants to prove he’s with us, then let him do it. But I’m not casting him out.”

A ripple went through the group, both relieved and resentful. Hermione, though, looked furious, her lips pressed thin as if holding back words she didn’t dare say here. Harry leaned back into his chair, the decision sitting heavy in his chest. He didn’t forgive Draco. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but secrets about his past were not as important as the knowledge he could get from Draco about the future. So for now, Draco was still one of them.

The fire was low, casting long shadows across the Slytherin common room. Everyone quickly exited the common room, heading to bed with the matter settled. Harry stayed seated, watching the wood flicker and pop behind the grate. He wasn’t surprised when Hermione stayed behind, her arms folded so tightly across her chest they might leave bruises.

“You sided with him,” she said, her voice sharp but shaking underneath. “After everything he’s done… you still chose him.”

Harry sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t choose him, Hermione. I said he stays.”

“That’s the same thing!” Her whisper came out strangled, too raw. “How can you protect him like that?  How can you look at him and think anything will change?” She cut herself off, jaw clenching tight.

Harry blinked, thrown. Standing, he joined her on the loveseat, clasping her fists in his. “Hermione, not everything is what it seems.”

She shot him a look, eyes wet and burning. “Isn’t it? Because I don’t understand. He betrayed you, Harry! He’s always been selfish and self serving. I thought he was doing better with you as a friend, with us in Slytherin. But I was wrong, and you are too. He hurt you, and now you’re shielding him like he’s one of us.”

“He is,” Harry said firmly. Then softer: “You know why we came back. To change the future. To save people, to stop Voldemort and keep the Aurors from following after. Draco’s in the same boat as us.”

Her arms dropped, her whole body stiffening. “…What?”

“He’s from the future too,” Harry said, the words heavy in the air. “Not exactly the same, but close enough. He knows what’s coming. He’s been carrying it this whole time. That’s why he’s-” he gestured vaguely with his hand in the air, helpless “-such a mess. He’s not lying.”

Hermione’s face drained of color. For a moment she looked small, almost fragile, before she whispered, “You told him?”

Harry shook his head quickly, panicked at the hurt in her voice. “No, he told me first, I only just found out. Today. Hermione, I’d never keep something like that from you.”

Her gaze searched his, still suspicious and raw. “I don’t like this. I don’t like him. He gets under your skin, Harry. He always has.”

“I don’t need you to like him,” Harry said, more gently now. “I just need you to trust me.”

Her lip trembled; her hands tightening, muscles tense. Then, as if a snap decision, she wrapped her arms around his slight frame, hugging him hard. Her breath was hot against his ear, and he shivered at the contact. “I do trust you. I just… I hate that it feels like I’m losing you to him.”

Harry swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his gut as he returned the embrace. “You’re not. I promise.”

***

Theo thought he was good at pretending not to care. It was his specialty, really; tilt your head just so, keep your expression flat, and most people assumed nothing could touch you. But watching Harry sit so casually in the common room after siding with Draco, not a care in the world slipping through his composed expression. That got under his skin.

It wasn’t like he wanted to kick Draco out; he’d been honest with himself and the others when he’d sided with the guilty boy. But that didn’t mean he thought Harry should have done the same. He was too nice, too forgiving. And for the life of him, Theo couldn’t decipher what he was thinking.

So he waited until later, watching from the darkened corridor as Harry received a tongue lashing from Hermione. After a while they seemed to make up, their quiet whispers drowned out by the sound of a crackling fire, and for close to an hour he watched them. He had always known they were close, but they rarely showed it. Now, heads bent together is quiet conversation, Theo had to wonder what Draco would think if he saw them. His obsession with Harry may have to stay platonic after all, Theo regretted the ten sickles he’d bet against Blaise.

Finally, when Potter was alone in the common room, half-hidden by shadows as Hermione tiptoed back to the girls dorm, Theo made his move. He slid into the chair opposite him without asking, resting his chin on his fist. Harry didn’t seem surprised by the intrusion, instead staring into the fire as if in a trance. 

He didn’t look healthy, more of a ghost of the boy whose company he’d come to enjoy. The only thing that assured him Harry was corporeal were his eyes, flashing emeralds too intense for any specter. Theo watched him for a minute, thinking over how to broach the subject. Finally he threw his caution to the wind.

“You’re not an idiot,” he said flatly. Harry didn’t look up at first, as if Theo hadn’t spoken. Typical. But then his green eyes lifted, sharp and tired. Theo almost regretted pushing. Almost.

“Why’d you side with Draco?” Theo pressed. “He broke the one rule we’ve all managed to follow. Keep the secrets, don’t sell each other out. You of all people should’ve voted against him.” Harry’s gaze didn’t waver and or a long moment, he said nothing. Theo thought he might ignore him altogether, but then Harry suddenly shifted, his full attention intense as he leaned forward. It’s as if he could be fifty, or even a hundred years old with a countenance like that, Theo shuddered involuntarily. 

“At least he cared enough to do something.” The words slipped out in a low, fragile murmur, as if Harry wasn’t sure he should say them at all. His gaze lingered on Theo, shoulders tight. “That’s… more than anyone’s ever done for me. Even if it was Snape he told.”

Theo blinked. That one line carried weight he couldn’t dismiss. That was the same reason he’d sided with Draco, why he’d offered to set up a meeting between the two. Because despite the blond’s terrible delivery, he truly seemed to care about Harry.

Theo remembered the day Potter had stepped in when that Gryffindor had decided to hex him just for the fun of it. Potter hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t calculated, hadn’t cared about the consequences. He had just done it. That recklessness had drawn Theo in like a moth to a flame, not because it was overly daring or heroic. No, it was because Harry had chosen to care what happened to him.

Theo sat back, letting his arms fold across his chest. Potter could see things differently, and he still had his heart in the right place. Even now, with Draco’s betrayal freshly stinging, Harry wasn’t lashing out, wasn’t playing the victim. He had enough foresight to play the long game. How every Slytherin.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” Theo said, voice softer than usual, as if testing himself.

A faint smirk tugged at Potter’s mouth. “So I’ve been told.”

Chapter Text

The stands roared as emerald and blue banners whipped in the spring wind, the pitch alive with chanting. Harry mounted his broom with the familiar rush of adrenaline, the tension of the past weeks shoved aside in favor of the thrill of flight. Around him, players lifted into the air, the cheers growing louder. Flint shot him a wicked grin, his excitement infectious as Harry returned the expression.

Roger Davies was captain of the Ravenclaw team this season, his calculating gaze giving nothing away as he scanned the field. His fellow Chasers were Randolph Burrow and Jeremy Stretton. Burrow was a large boy, tall with broad shoulders that made him seem more fit for rugby than quidditch. Stretton on the other hand was practically invisible, the second year floating off to the side with nondescript brown hair and an average face. He was the kind of person that you wouldn’t notice if you passed him on the street. Jason Samuels, who was doing backflips with his broom in the background, and Duncan Inglebee played as Beaters. Both Samuels and Inglebee were prats, and Harry’d already jinxed them once this year for hiding Luna’s shoes on a gargoyle statue in the castle. Inglebee cast him an evil glare, clearly not having forgotten the attack. 

Harry wiggled his fingers tauntingly at the boy in reply.

Grant Page was their keeper, his red hair not nearly as overpowering as the Weasleys’, with his serious face lacking any freckles. Cho Chang would have been their Seeker, but she’d been hit by a bludger during last week's game against Gryffindor, and Madam Pomfry had banned her from flying for the rest of the season.

Heather Bordeaux, Ravenclaw’s temporary Seeker, cast a black look at him from across the pitch as Madam Hooch walked to the center of the field. Heather was a wiry girl with sharp brown eyes and a streak of confidence that showed in everything she did. Harry had watched her at practice when the Slytherin team did reconnaissance, and he remembered bits and pieces of her from the future, though not enough to spark a headache. She gave a little salute with her broom hand. “Try not to make this too easy, Potter.”

Harry smirked despite himself. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Madam Hooch’s whistle split the air, and the match exploded into motion. The chase was on; Beaters darting, Bludgers whipping dangerously, the Quaffle spinning between hands. The Ravenclaw team were just as cunning as the Slytherins, pulling stunts that barely skimmed the line of proper conduct. Harry’s teammates weren't about to take it laying down, giving as good as they got. Within the first fifteen minutes, Hooch had already called four time-outs, her ‘good clean game’ speech falling on deaf ears. Both teams were undefeated this season, and the tension was high as they both vied for the house cup.

Harry’s eyes kept sweeping for the glint of gold. High above the chaotic play, he was just banking left when he caught movement across the field. Bordeaux diving, her broom a blur as she cut through the Ravenclaw section of the pitch.

She was fast, and Harry pushed himself to catch up as he spied the snitch in front of her. Left, then right, the snitch zig-zaged before heading in his direction. It was perfect; the tiny flying ball halfway between the two seekers, and Harry knew his Firebolt was faster than her Cleansweep.

Briefly pulling his eyes from the shine, he watched in slow motion horror as a bludger smashed through the front end of his opponent's broom, sending her into a tail spin. The crowd gasped as she clipped the tail of a passing Chaser’s Comet, and in the next heartbeat Heather was sliding sideways off her broom, fingers scrabbling uselessly against polished wood.

Harry didn’t think. The snitch forgotten, he flattened himself against his broom, the world blurring past in streaks of color. His fingers reached out, clasping onto the tan skin of her wrist just as her grip gave out. For one sickening second they dangled above the pitch as her broom plummeted to the ground below. Then he pulled, hauling her upright until she clung to him with white-knuckles.

The roar from the stands was deafening.

“Merlin’s beard,” Heather gasped, breathless and wide-eyed. “You actually caught me.”

Harry gave her a lopsided grin, adrenaline still thrumming in his veins. “You’re welcome. Now hold on, I don’t want to save you twice in one game.”

They landed briefly so she could get her balance again; one of the Ravenclaw first years running out a new broom for her. Heather still looked at him with something between awe and mischief. “Guess I owe you one, Slytherin.”

“Guess you do,” Harry said, a strange warmth curling in his chest despite the rival colors around them. He didn't remember having many friends in Ravenclaw, aside from Luna. Maybe this would be another chance for him to broaden his reach. A brief shadow crossed his mind, the thrum of a headache that he quickly shoved away. They took off again, the game still raging around them.

Harry’s grip tightened on his broom as he soared higher, the cheers of the crowd muffled beneath the rush of wind in his ears. Heather was back on her broom, earning several concerned shoulder taps from passing chasers and beaters. She greeted each with a dazzling smile, diverting attention back on the play. He should be following their example; his team and house were waiting for him to find the Snitch, but his gaze snagged on a flicker of movement under the Hufflepuff stands.

A muzzle. Black, coarse fur jutting out from beneath the wood, gone in an instant but enough to twist his stomach into knots.

Sirius.

The sight was a stone sinking heavy in his chest. It had been over a week since he’d seen his godfather. Since the man had promised to watch his quidditch game. Harry knew he was still around, having heard through the gossip chain (AKA the twins) that Snape had been on the receiving end of some interesting pranks. While the effort had brought a smile to his melancholy attitude during the week he’d avoided the other Slytherins, he couldn’t help but wish Sirius didn’t have to be in hiding. 

He should be free; laughing, alive, pulling pranks without risking dementors. Not skulking in the shadows like the rat in the wall. If Peter had been caught, if I had focused on finding the man instead of my schoolyard drama, Sirius might now be sitting inside the stands to cheer instead of hiding. A new anger bloomed, directed at himself.

I have to win this game. He wasn’t thinking about quidditch as he turned his broom back to the course, but the game he was now playing with time and space. The Snitch gleamed somewhere out there in the sun, but Harry’s eyes stung too much to see clearly. Not yet, he told himself. Catch Peter first. Then everything can change.

***

Harry awoke as if a clock in his mind had stopped ticking. It was time. He needed to catch Peter, and tonight was the night to do it. Sliding from his bed, there was little light in the murky lake beyond the window. He was able to see his roommates bed curtains closed and he hummed a silencing charm so as not to wake them. It felt good to use his mer-magic, calming his anxiety, and he gently sang a mind strengthening song as he dressed. It had been weeks since he’d been swimming, though he’d seen Zaxila swim by the window to check on him. Maybe when I’m done tonight, I can go tell her goodbye for the summer. Tomorrow was packing day; with the train leaving in the afternoon, he doubted he’d be able to slip away again.

Donning his Harpy t-shirt and a pair of trousers, he stuffed the map into his pocket before slipping soundlessly into the hall, tiptoeing to the common room where he froze in his tracks. 

Two individuals sitting across from each other at one of the small round tables, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The table was positioned directly across from the boy’s dorm hallway, lit by a single candle. Hermione was glaring at Draco, the blond rolling his eyes at Harry's appearance in the doorway. “And I argued that you wouldn’t be dumb enough to get into another near death experience," Draco huffed, leaning back into his chair with his arms crossed across his chest, his expression shuttering as he eyed Harry in the shadows.

“Argued with who? Anyone would tell you that's a bad bet.” Despite the cautious distance he wanted to maintain with the blond, Harry couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, though he tried to muffle it when Hermione's glare was turned towards him. Draco popped a thumb in Hermione's direction, indicating she was the one who'd vouched for Harry's stupidity. “You argued against Hermione in favor of my self-preservation? You should know she's been arguing with me about it since first year.”

It had been a topic of interest since the night of Draco's trial; Harry had known something big was coming. Two years of near death experiences all occurring in the last week of school, and the vaguest memories of more to come had made him anxious as he attempted to focus on his finals. He’d wanted to be proactive. Yesterday's game and his anger fueled guilt had only strengthened his resolve to find the rat. 

Hermione hadn't argued the necessity of it, only offering insight on what she little remembered; them being attacked by a black dog, something with a full moon, and dementors mixed in. It wasn’t much, and they'd spent several hours arguing the finer points such as how his blind luck and lack of a plan would get him hurt. Sadly, with very little either of them remembered with regard to the end of their third year, they were both left worried about the future to come.

“It's not my fault you insist on running headlong into danger,” Hermione replied haughtily, her glare lessening as he watched the thoughts spin behind her eyes. “Somethings going to happen tonight though, I woke up from it. No dreams, just… knowing?” Harry nodded wordlessly, understanding the feeling.

“So what's your excuse for being up past curfew? If you had such faith in my decision making.” Harry turned to Draco, taking a seat in between them.

“Guard duty,” Draco said at last, his tone casual but his eyes betraying fatigue. “Theo and I both figured something was bound to happen with you, given your running track record. We’ve been taking turns all week.”

Harry squinted at him, taking in the pale shadows beneath Draco’s eyes. He looked more worn down than usual, his polished arrogance couldn’t mask the tenseness in his shoulders. “You’ve been… keeping watch?” Harry asked, not sure if he wanted to laugh or sink into the stone floor.

Draco gave a halfhearted shrug. “Well, someone has to keep you from stumbling into the next catastrophe.” He hesitated then, glancing sideways at Hermione before lowering his voice. “I don’t have anything to help, though. At this point, I’m fairly certain that past-me was sleeping soundly after exams, blissfully unaware of all this mess.”

Hermione stiffened, her disapproval sharpening the air like the scrape of flint. Harry caught it immediately; the faint tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against the table, how she angled her body as if she was preparing for a fight. 

Neither of the ex-Gryffindors had mentioned Draco when trying to plan their rat hunt; he was a wild card from the future whom they didn’t trust.That didn’t mean Harry wasn’t willing to give him a chance. Something told him he’d need the blonde just as much as he needed to keep Hermione by his side. It was a delicate balancing act, however, and Harry was sure Hermione would have hexed him had he invited the other boy to replace Ron in their trio of mischief. Even now he could tell she was tempted with the way her fingers tapped her wand that laid innocently on the table.

Disappointment curled low in his chest at Draco’s admission, but he forced it down. It didn’t matter. They’d find a way forward.

“Reasonable conclusion,” he said at last, reaching into his pocket. “But I have things to do, so I can’t stay in the safety of the dungeon tonight.”

Hermione’s expression shifted from irritation to horror as she saw what he withdrew. “Harry, don’t-”

“You can stay,” he interrupted evenly, focusing on Draco, “but I want your bracelet until morning.”

The boy blinked, surprised by the request. “My bracelet? What for?”

Harry couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. The confusion on both their faces; Draco’s white blond brows knit together in puzzled indignation, the expression cute on his usually composed features. Hermione’s suspicious gaze flickering in the candle light was endearing. The idea that he knew something she didn’t, paired with her protectiveness, lodged complicated warm feelings in his chest that he didn’t want to think about. He shook off the train of thought.

“I just need it,” he said simply, holding out his hand patiently.

Draco hesitated, then slipped the string of dark beads from his wrist. They pulsed faintly against Harry’s palm, a warm and rhythmic hum that only he seemed to hear. The soothing vibration lapped at him like waves, a quiet reassurance that steadied his nerves. He fastened it around his own wrist and unfolded the parchment.

Draco leaned forward, curious. “What’s the paper?”

“The paper,” Hermione hissed, eyes wide, “is dangerous.” Her hand darted out, pressing gently over Harry’s. Her gaze was pleading as it met his own. “Harry, you can’t just-”

He gave her hand a small squeeze, his own expression softening. “It’s fine, Hermione. Trust me.”

She didn’t look convinced, but after a beat, her fingers slipped away.

Draco, oblivious to the silent exchange, studied the parchment as if it might reveal its secrets on its own. “Looks like rubbish to me.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Only if you don’t know how to read it.” He tapped the surface lightly, his voice low and deliberate. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The ink began to bloom like black frost, creeping across the page in intricate, twisting lines. Hermione’s breath hitched. Draco’s eyes widened, fascination bright as the candlelight that flickered over his face. “This explains a lot,” He whispered, watching Dumbledore’s name trail tiny footprints as it passed back and forth in his office. Flipping it over, Snape was at his desk in his office; though motionless, it was obvious he wasn’t sleeping.

Harry pulled the paper gently, opening it up to better view the entirety of the castle. Stationary names filled the dorm rooms and teacher’s quarters. Some roamed the corridors; prefects, Filch and Mrs. Norris… Both Fred and George in a broom closet with  Sadie Baldoc. Ignoring that development, Harry’s eyes flicked quickly over the ink, searching for one name in particular. 

Hermione turned a page, her brow furrowing. “Look,” she whispered.

There was Peter Pettigrew. The name slid across the courtyard, creeping in jagged motions. Harry’s breath caught. The rat was out, moving boldly in the night. And his path- “Merlin, he’s headed towards the Whomping Willow.” Harry gasped, bolting from his chair.

“What’s the hurry?” Draco rushed to pull the map from the table, folding it neatly despite running to keep up with a frantic Harry. Hermione was just as quick, summoning a glamour over the three of them so that they would go relatively unnoticed by the sleeping paintings they passed through the corridors.

Harry’s adrenaline coursed through his body as he sprinted down the hall and up the dungeon’s stairs, “The Willow has a passage into the Shrieking Shack. He will be able to escape into Hogsmead and then who knows where!” 

They tore through the castle and burst into the courtyard, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them with a low echo that vanished into the night. The air outside was thick and cool, clinging to their skin as though trying to hold them back. Clouds rolled over the moon in slow, heavy waves, drowning the grounds in shifting darkness. The faint outlines of towers and trees loomed like silent sentinels, the lake glimmering faintly beyond.

The grass was slick beneath their feet, each hurried step sending up the scent of rain and earth. Their breaths came in ragged bursts that mingled with the low hum of the wind threading through the courtyard. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted a lonely, haunting sound that only deepened the sense of isolation.

Hermione’s glamour shimmered faintly as they ran, rippling like heat in the air. Harry’s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out everything but the rhythm of their footfalls and the relentless thought that kept pulsing through him: Don’t lose him. He could almost see the hulking shadow of the Whomping Willow ahead with its branches beginning to stir, restless and waiting.

They reached the edge of the grounds, the massive silhouette of the tree looming ahead, twisted and skeletal against the clouded sky. Its gnarled branches flexed with a groan, sensing the approaching intruders. A sudden gust whipped through the clearing, tugging at clothes and hair alike, and for a brief moment the moon broke free of the clouds to cast everything in stark silver.

“Careful!” Hermione hissed as a thick limb lashed out, cracking through the air where Harry’s head had been a heartbeat before. He dropped to a crouch, rolling through the wet grass as the earth trembled with the force of the impact. Mud splattered across his glasses, but he could still make out the movement of the small figure of Pettigrew darting beneath the tree toward one of the exposed roots.

“There!” Harry shouted, already sprinting forward again. Draco swore under his breath, following close behind with his wand raised, while Hermione muttered something sharp and protective under hers. A flash of blue light burst from her wand, briefly illuminating the chaos; a tangle of roots, swinging branches, and glistening mud. A limb that was aimed at Harry’s head bounced harmlessly off her shield. “Thanks!” He gave a shout in her direction, rolling out of the way as another limb flew through the air overhead.

The Willow creaked as another branch came crashing down, and Harry’s pulse roared in his ears. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The thought of Peter escaping again burned hotter than fear. “He’s going for the passage!” he yelled.

Draco’s voice cut through the night, strained but determined as his wand snapped up with practiced precision. “Immobulus!” The spell burst from his wand in a streak of pale blue, striking the trunk dead center. The Whomping Willow froze mid-swing, its limbs suspended in an unnatural stillness. Leaves trembled, then went utterly still.

Harry blinked, chest heaving, and glanced back at Draco. “Good thinking!”

Draco smirked faintly, lowering his wand. “Go before it wears off!”

The three of them darted forward, slipping between the motionless roots until they reached the small, dark opening near the base of the tree. The smell of damp earth and old wood filled the air as Harry crouched to enter first, the others close behind. The tunnel was narrow, forcing them to stoop as they hurried through. Their breaths echoed off the walls, and the faint scurrying sound ahead told them Peter was still just out of reach.

“Faster,” Hermione urged, voice breathless and tense. “He’s almost there!”

They stumbled into the basement of the Shrieking Shack moments later, the air thick with dust and the scent of decay. The faint light spilling from Hermione’s wand painted everything in silver and shadow. Peter Pettigrew was halfway across the room, his rat form darting for the stairs.

“Not this time,” Harry whispered, wand raised. “Vicissim subcinctus animagi!”

The magic hit like a thunderclap. A flash of blinding light erupted from his wand, filling the room with a crackling hum. The rat’s body twisted mid-leap, elongating and warping until a man landed in a heap on the dusty floor. Pettigrew gasped for breath, limbs flailing as though he’d been dragged from a nightmare, his watery eyes darting wildly between them.

Harry’s hand was shaking, but he didn’t lower his wand. The sound of blood in his ears was deafening. Draco’s breath hitched beside him, and Hermione made a soft sound of confirmation.

There he was.

The man who had betrayed his parents.

The man who had ruined everything.

“Well,” came a low, familiar voice from the shadows, “that saves me the trouble.”

A floorboard above them creaked.  Harry froze, wand still trained on Peter whose fearful eyes darted toward the sound. The hair on Harry’s neck rose an instant before two shadows stepped into the doorway at the top of the stairs.

Sirius was wild-eyed, the shadows distorting his rage-filled expression into one of a demon, a wand already raised. Remus stood beside him, pale but steady, his expression grim.

“Stand back, Harry,” Sirius said, voice shook with fury. He jumped down the steps, eliciting a squeak of fright from Pettigrew. “I’ll take it from here.” Before Harry could speak, the door the trio had just entered through burst open again. 

“Like hell you will.” Snape’s voice sliced through the air as he strode in, robes billowing. His wand leveled at Sirius as his eyes flicked over the scene; Lupin, the children, the trembling man on the floor. A mask of disgust settled on his features, the man from all of Harry’s memories front and center. “I should have known you were working together all along.” His voice trembled with venom, and Remus flinched as though the accusation itself burned. “It was too convenient for you to be given a teaching position the same year he escaped prison. How he evaded dementors and wizards alike; he had you to keep him safe.” 

Remus stepped forward as if he would reach out, but froze mid-step, disbelief flashing across his face. “Severus, no-”

“Professor-” Harry started, but his voice was drowned out as chaos broke loose.

Hermione, trembling and furious, turned on Draco. “You told him!” she hissed, her wand flashing upward as light sparked from her wand.

Harry reacted on instinct and threw his arm out. “Protego!” The shield flared between them, deflecting her hex into the wall.

Sirius bellowed a cutting curse an instant later, aimed not at Snape but straight at Peter. Harry whirled, the words not even needing to form on his tongue. A hum in his chest, faster than any spoken spell, producing a shield similar to the one still hovering protectively between Draco and Hermione, catching Sirius’s curse in a shower of sparks.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Harry shouted at the group, voice hoarse as all eyes turned to him. His eyes met Snape's as he gestured to Sirius, “He is innocent!” 

In the same breath he turned to Sirius who still looked ready to earn the last twelve years of incarceration, watching Peter's every move. “He has to be alive!” His hand shook as he pointed to the rat man, “He’s proof you didn’t side with Voldimort, that you didn’t get my parents killed! And he,” Harry swiveled on Hermione, gesturing to Draco. “Is not our enemy!”

Hermione glared at him in indignation, her wand lowering to her side while Draco seemed shocked at his defense. Sirius’s face twisted, the words hitting their mark. Before either could respond, Snape snarled, “Of course you’d defend him. Just like your father; always certain you’re the brightest in the room while the rest of us clean up the mess you make.” He gestured at the fugitive in front of him, his grip tightening on his wand as he seemed to contemplate his next move.

Remus quickly stepped between the other professor and his long lost friend, shielding them from each other despite Sirius wielding his wand. His voice was steady, hands raised in a soothing motion, “This is just a misunderstanding,” he said, the words tight, almost pleading.

Snape’s eyes flashed. The look he turned on Remus wasn’t one of anger alone but layered with betrayal sharpened to a knife’s edge. For a heartbeat, Harry thought he saw something raw flicker there, something almost like grief, before it was buried beneath a sneer.

“A misunderstanding,” Snape repeated softly, the words like acid. His gaze raked over Remus with such loathing that Harry felt the heat of it from where he stood. Whatever had passed between them, Harry realized, this wasn’t about Sirius anymore.

Harry stood at the center of the chaos; between Hermione and Draco, between Sirius and Peter, between Snape and Lupin. A foreboding sense of de ja vu had his head pounding behind his eyes and the six individuals stared each other down. But he knew it was… wrong? This wasn't how it went last time, so why does my brain want to leak out of my ears? He must have made a sound as he rubbed his temple, because both Hermione and Draco shot him looks of concern.

All the while Peter squeaked pitifully behind him “Oh Harry, I loved your parents, I’d never hurt them… Remus, my dearest friend, you have to protect me…Please Sirius, you don’t understand.” Everyone was ignoring him, too busy among themselves. His voice was high-pitched and desperate, eyes darting in search of an ally before settling on Harry. In an instant, the fear filled gaze of the cowardly man seemed to flicker, unnoticed. Before anyone could move, there was a wand in his bony grasp.

“Harry!” 

Everyone moved as if to jump in front of the spell that burst from the wood in an ugly yellow light; however, each individual, set up like chess pieces against one another, had put too much space between them and the boy who lived. They all watched in horror as the blast of light struck Harry square in the back, a high pitch shriek echoing through the room.

Harry staggered but didn’t fall. The force was reminiscent of the time his uncle had gotten in a car accident with him in the vehicle; jarring, but a more pleasant experience than if it had been his soft body versus the car. He knew in an instant that the spell, whatever it was, had been cast to hurt him. His magic surged instinctively, hot and sharp in his veins. His fingers clenched tight around his wand as a cold, furious calm settled over him. “Immobulus!” The sound made everyone flinch… everyone except Harry. The word rang out clear and fierce. The man froze mid-scramble, body stiff as stone.

The silence shattered as Harry turned, his wand snapping away from Peter and toward the others as Sirius and Snape began actively insulting each other. With Peter immobile, it had only taken a breath before Sirius turned his attention to the potion professor. The two dark haired men had their wands leveled at each other, the scarred blond trying his best to mediate. They were at an impasse, but the threat of violence was thick. One wrong move and spells would fly.

“Enough.” It wasn’t shouted, but the command in Harry’s voice carried through the room like thunder. Snape hesitated momentarily, but it wasn't enough to stop him; he continued to berate Sirius, his lips curling in defiance. Sirius responded in kind, ignoring his godson.

“Harry-” Remus began, soft but cautious. A warning. He knew that the two men were both stubborn and out for blood, but for whatever reason he seemed powerless to side with either. And neither of them were going to concede. 

They are acting like children! He drew on the knowledge of his adult self, buried deep in his psyche. He could feel it; years of anger and resentment. Things would have been different if they had just, for a second, thought about what they were doing! Not his own thought, but the memory of a future thought. Twined with rage and grief, the image of all three bickering men, dead in some fashion before Harry even had a chance to grow up. The pain was almost blinding as he pushed the heel of his free palm to his temple; the memory's emotions were all consuming as he looked on the scene before him with contempt.

“I said enough!” The force behind it wasn’t just volume; it was power. Every word seemed to vibrate in the air, threading with the lingering static of magic. He felt the air change, chilling as his anger sparked to light on his skin, casting the room in an orange glow as fire licked over his skin. He turned sharply to Hermione; she looked at him in horrified-awe, the light of the flames dancing along the planes of her face. “Get Peter. Bind him tight. He doesn’t move again until we hand him over to the Ministry.”

She gave a sharp nod, moving to Peter’s side. Draco, who had initially flinched away from the fire, stepped forward and came to stand at Harry’s side. Pale but resolute, his wand leveled squarely at Snape. “You heard him,” Draco said quietly, his voice flat with determination. “Stand down, Uncle.”

The word hung between them, heavy as lead. Snape’s nostrils flared, his gaze slicing toward his godson, but he didn’t lower his wand. Harry didn’t flinch. He looked between Sirius, Remus, and Snape. Three grown men, three ghosts of old grudges, and felt his restraint snap.

“This-” he gestured between them, voice trembling with fury, “-is why everything went wrong. Your stupid childhood feuds, your pride, your grudges. You’ve been at each other’s throats since before I was born, and it’s all pointless!”

Sirius bristled. “You don’t understand what he’s done-”

Harry cut him off, sharp as a whip. “No, I do! He was a bloody death eater.” Snape flinched, but his expression quickly changed from shocked to contemplative. Harry didn’t care if he’d revealed too much, anger fueling his words. “He made your lives hell, and made mine hell. But I know you give as much as you get. You were children, get over it.” Sirius blinked as if Harry’s shout had physically struck him. His wand wavered, then steadied again, eyes darting between the frozen Peter and the boy standing protectively before him. But Harry didn’t stop. He turned that burning gaze on Snape. “And you’re no better. You hate them, and me, so much you can’t see past your own bitterness long enough to do what’s right until it's too late. ” Snape stiffened, jaw locking, but the silence that followed was telling.

Harry drew a deep breath, steadying himself. “The only way this ends, the only way any of this works out, is if you stop fighting amongst yourselves. Peter has to go to the authorities alive. He’s the proof that Sirius is innocent. If you kill him, or each other, everything we’ve done means nothing.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The air was thick with tension, the dust and candle smoke curling around them like fog. Then, slowly, Sirius lowered his wand. Remus took a breath as the tension eased. Even Snape, after a long, unreadable look at Harry, and then at Draco, finally let his wand drop to his side. Harry didn’t relax. His grip on his wand remained firm, his stance unwavering.

“Good,” he said, voice quieter now but no less steady. The silence that followed was as sharp as shattered glass. The pounding in his skull was intense, and he felt the need to curl in on himself though no image or memory accompanied the pain. “Let’s get him to the castle,” Harry said finally. His voice was quieter, but it still carried the weight of command. “The sooner Dumbledore sees him, the better.”

Draco nodded immediately, stepping closer to Harry’s side as if daring anyone to argue. Hermione moved to his other side, her steady, albeit prickly, support easing Harry's mind. 

The three men exchanged a look that said they didn't appreciate this turn of events. Harry didn't care; technically we are older than them, or at least partially… it doesn't help that they just finished acting like us from last year. The memory of Hermione and himself as Gryffindors fighting with Draco and the other Slytherins seemed funny now, easing his anger and extinguishing his flames. 

Casting a levitation spell, he lifted Peter, heading for the passage back to the Whomping Willow. He was unsteady: the short exchange that couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes had drained him emotionally but his magic felt over flowing, drawn out by his adrenaline and ready to do battle. He swayed slightly on his feet and Snape’s sneer flickered out, his expression solemn as his wand moved in a smooth arc to assist the motion. Sirius looked like a kicked puppy, seeming unsure what to say to his godson. He and Remus exchanged a long look and followed without a word.

They filed out of the Shack, the tunnel quiet as they marched through the small passageway. Outside, the air was cooler, filled with the scent of damp grass and bark. Heavy clouds obscured the night sky, and Draco cast a quick spell, freezing the Whomping Willow once again so that they could exit safely.

For a moment, it almost felt peaceful. 

Then Remus stopped walking.The clouds began to peal back away from the sky to reveal the moon. Bright white light cast a silver tint on the figures walking the hill side. Centered in the sky now, the celestial body was pale and round and full.

Harry turned at the sharp breath, catching a look of horror cross the defense professor's scarred face. The man took two stumbling steps backward, body tense before a spasm racked his thin frame. His breath hitched sharply and Sirius’s expression turned to dread in an instant. His whisper, too quiet for the others to hear, “Moony…”