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Chapter Text

Harry had not really thought about it, Pansy Parkinson had once again made a simple, contemptuous comment to Hermione, calling her a pathetic Mudblood as she pushed her aside, and Harry had grabbed her arm as she walked away.

"Don't touch me, Potter."

"Stop calling her that."

"That's what she is," the arrogant Slytherin insisted without any shame or doubt. "And she is pathetic, she's not fooling anyone... except you, apparently."

The girl pulled away sharply, and Harry did not really feel like hitting her, so he just let her go, his attention drawn to a piece of paper that fell to the ground in the wake of the pest. A letter had fallen from the sleeve of her witch's robe, and against common decency, Harry read the beginning while looking around, slightly suspicious. Knowing the Slytherins, he feared it might be yet another cruel prank.

Then he began the first real paragraph beneath the platitudes and felt pity overwhelm him. Pansy's grandmother was seriously ill, perhaps even dying. Damn.

He had not expect to feel this kind of empathy for someone like her, and here he was.

"I'll be right back."

"No, Harry, it's not worth it."

"Wait for me!" He insisted, running down the corridors towards the dungeons, hoping he would have time to catch up with her.

He did not like her, but that did not mean he was going to be a jerk about something so important to her. He thought he had lost her when he was hit head-on and fell on his butt, hitting the ground even harder as the person who had bumped into him fell on top of him, carried by their own momentum.

He shook his head and brushed the fine black hair that had fallen over his face, momentarily surprised that the person he had been trying to catch had fallen into his hands. Literally.

"What are you-"

"Now is not the time," she almost literally grunted in his face, pushing him away to get back on her feet.

"Wait a minute..."

"I don't have time for this, Potter," she interrupted, continuing on her way, her eyes fixed on the ground, and Harry hurriedly took the letter out of his pocket, realising that it was what she was so desperately looking for.

"Here it is."

She glanced at him, more by reflex than out of genuine interest, but stopped short when she saw what he was holding. A noble-looking seal had been stamped to the bottom of the letter, probably a recognisable family symbol, and he had made it visible by unfolding the parchment.

"Here," he insisted, handing it to her, "it fell out when you left."

"And you came all this way to give it back to me?"

"I assumed it was important to you," he replied with a shrug, getting up and carefully dusting himself off while Pansy checked the condition of her letter and tucked it more carefully into her belongings.

"It is, I just didn't think you of all people would give it back to me."

"I, of all people, understand very well what it's like to lose a family member," he replied simply, remaining factual. "And I can only imagine how much worse it must be when you have thirteen years of memories on top of that."

She looked at him with an expression so deeply surprised that it was fundamentally vulnerable, there were no other words for it. It was quite impressive to see how, once she lost her stuck-up air, all her features became softer and more serene. She no longer looked like a bulldog ready to bite.

"Do you know her well?"

"She's my only remaining grandmother, my only grandparent in fact, the other three succumbed to the Dragon Pox," she surprisingly replied, her hands pensively stroking her bag. "She was in good health at the start of the school year."

"Do you think you could ask to go home to see her? I don't think the teachers would say no."

"And who would I ask? Professor Dumbledore?"

From the tone of her voice alone, Harry knew that was out of the question.

"Professor Snape?"

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow that said, "Seriously?" and Harry smiled awkwardly. Ahhhh... yeah. He had forgotten for a second. Apparently being in Slytherin did not really offer any privileges.

"Without being the usual pleasant self he is with you red and gold idiots, he doesn't give a damn about my personal problems."

"Professor McGonagall, then," Harry replied without taking offence, mainly feeling sorry for her that she had no one among the adults to talk so that there would be no regrets.

"What an excellent idea, Potter."

"I assure you, you should try. I'm sure she'll be understanding."

She looked away, naturally reverting to her superior attitude without even noticing.

"Or else you can just... I don't know, pray and wait for what may be bad news before the next break."

It was a little too aggressive of a low blow, he realised as he watched her wipe her eyes with her sleeve and turn away without a word.

You're stupid, you're stupid, you're stupid...

Maybe he should not have, but he did it anyway.

"What are you doing, Potter?" The girl whispered softly against his chest, very still and tense.

"It's called a hug, you pure-blood snob. Do it, don't be stupidly stubborn like some red and gold people we know, eh?"

She left with one last annoyed but not malicious glance – a small victory, but a victory nonetheless – and the next morning, she was not in class. Nor was she there in the afternoon, for that matter. He did not see her again until dinner that evening and passed her on his way out.

"The Healers say she's responding well to treatment," she whispered after sneaked beside him, "she has a good chance of pulling through."

"I'm happy for you," he whispered back, smiling sincerely.

When she smiled back at him, it was more discreet but no less happy, and Harry thought back several times to that radiant smile that lit up her face and made her eyes sparkle.

If Pansy Parkinson was capable of such a smile, how many other Slytherins were not as unapproachable as he thought? How many others hid suffering beneath their cold stares and harsh words? And above all... how many others could he soften with a different strategy?

Interesting.

Chapter Text

Harry would not say he disliked Hogwarts' Library, just that he really did not feel comfortable there and preferred to spend as little time as possible in it. There were so many other more interesting things to do, really. Like Quidditch!

But sometimes – often – he needed books to complete his class notes, and Hermione could not always help him, and anyway, it was not her job. She was not his mother, she had better things to do than constantly remind him to do his homework as if he were five years old.

Not that he had ever experienced that, of course, but he always heard Dudley doing his homework with Aunt Petunia when he was young.

Ron had been forced to leave him when his very determined siblings arrived in a mass of red hair to write a letter together wishing their older brother a happy birthday, and since then Harry had had time to finish a Transfiguration assignment that he thought was pretty good, so he was going to call it a day and go home. It was late anyway.

He was putting away the books he had been using when he spotted it. A pile of papers had fallen onto the floor under a table. At first annoyed, he picked up the papers, ready to crumple them up and throw them away, when he saw the beginning and stopped just in time. It was not trash, but a Transfiguration assignment, the very one Harry had been working on. The handwriting was terrible, though. Who had written such rubbish?

Gregory Goyle. The name seemed to taunt him with its elegance compared to the rest of the assignment. It was as if, by signing his name over and over, he had learned to write it well through repeated practice.

Had he been cursed? Was he doomed to return lost documents to Slytherins? Because obviously he was going to give it back even though he did not like it: Goyle was almost a dunce, it would be really cruel to push him down even further even though he was really just a bully.

That, and he was also worried about what he would do if he ever found out that Harry had found his homework without returning it. Beyond accusing him of theft or sabotage, the personal revenge of the Slytherins and Snape would be terrible. He was going to save himself the headache and take care of it.

Maybe he would even ask Pansy to act as an intermediary? She owed him one, she probably would not refuse if it meant preventing the Slytherins from being embarrassed and losing House points. Professor McGonagall was not Professor Snape, after all.

Looking out of curiosity at the arguments and examples used by his classmate – he was not going to bother redoing what he had done anyway, and certainly not to copy Goyle – he quickly understood why the Slytherin consistently got bad grades. He jumped from one idea to another, sometimes without any connection, and in some places the arguments were not even developed. There was no logical consistency between the different elements, and it was the same everywhere: the entire draft and outline were the same. It was as if he had forgotten what he wanted to write and started from scratch eight times. And that was not even mentioning the parts that were completely off-topic... He had never struck him as particularly clever, but was he really so stupid that he forgot the instructions when he had rewritten the topic at the top of his own papers?

Harry checked the time. He had about half an hour before he had to be back. That was more than enough. He was not Hermione, but even he felt bad seeing this.

Poor teachers, Harry had never thought about how much they must suffer seeing the nonsense that those idiots could write with such confidence. He sat back down and began writing on the draft, crossing out useless information and anecdotes, drawing arrows to reorganize the good elements – surprisingly the majority were, he was the first to be surprised – and noting his reading recommendations with the interesting pages so that he could better detail certain aspects that were a little weak in his argument.

The result would not be perfect even if he followed his recommendations, but it would be much better.

He had tidied up his things again and was about to leave when a familiar and dangerous figure came rushing up the library stairs, causing him to turn around immediately. Holy shit. Goyle.

It had to be now, right? It could not have been at another time?

It was extremely close, but Harry managed to place the papers on the table and hide behind a shelf when the mountain of a man that was the Slytherin teenager emerged, looking around frantically before rushing to retrieve his homework. The Gryffindor thought he was going to get away with it, but Goyle noticed the additions and annotations, looking at them first with a confused and dumb look before looking around suspiciously. Finally, he left, but not before checking out every book Harry had recommended in writing, which he considered a victory.

Three days later, they handed in their papers, and Harry had completely forgotten about the incident when, about a week later, their Transfiguration homework was returned and their professor uttered a name that rarely went with praise.

She was a fair person, but Goyle was Goyle, a Slytherin jerk and a bully when he paid attention to what was going on around him.

"Excellent, Mr. Goyle, I can see the improvement, your efforts are paying off, keep it up."

Harry glanced over and smiled at Goyle's stunned expression as he looked at his paper and blushed with embarrassment at Professor McGonagall's compliments. He looked happy, even though it strangely seemed as if he did not really know how to react. It was... in a way, very rewarding for him, even if he could not explain it to Ron or Hermione.

It was like with Pansy. Another facet. A mask that slipped for a second to reveal much more.

That was exactly why, the following week, when he found some abandoned papers in exactly the same place, he did the same thing again: a correction and some advice based on his modest skills. He was not sure it was very useful with Binns, but it did not hurt to try to be a little more precise, did it? The weeks continued like this, with Charms, Herbology, and finally, Harry's bete noire: Potions. To make sure he could help Goyle as best he could, Harry asked Hermione questions until his head hurt. He had no choice: you could not explain something to someone if you did not understand it yourself.

It was also that week that he got caught red-handed. He had barely sat down, wondering whether he would be decent enough this time to help or whether his skills would be too limited, when a hand grabbed his collar and lifted him almost literally out of his chair, making it screech across the floor with a detestable sound.

When Mrs. Pince approached, there was no one there because they were behind a shelf further away, and Harry really preferred to avoid getting punched in the face by Goyle, so he remained silent until she left.

"You?!"

"Um... yeah."

"Why did you do that? What are you trying to do, destroy my notes after getting them up? What, you want to humiliate me? Blackmail me?"

Harry slowly shook his head, noticing more than anger in his eyes. Fear. Hurt.

He felt betrayed. To be honest, Harry assumed he would feel betrayed no matter who his benefactor was, but Harry being Harry, and Goyle being Goyle, a little mistrust was not the most unreasonable reaction.

Now it was a matter of being convincing. He did not know if there were any potions or spells to restore your teeth if they had been knocked off.

"If I had wanted to do that, I would have given you shitty advice. I'm not a Slytherin."

He could have been, but he was not. Goyle frowned, and Harry realized the implied insult but decided not to take it back. That was just how Slytherins were, Harry did not make the rules.

"So you-"

"Honestly, man, if anyone can understand what it's like to not understand potions and be surrounded by talented people for whom everything is always so easy, it's me. I just wanted to help a little, it's not like I'm so good that I'm top of the class."

"Why did you want to help?"

"Why not? I didn't think too much about it, I just started writing."

"But you knew it was my homework."

"So what? Would you have preferred me to burn your assignment?"

"No-"

"Then everything's fine, isn't it?"

Goyle seemed unsettled for a moment before tightening his grip on his collar.

"Who did you tell about this? Who did you show my..."

"No one. Now let go of me or I'll scream for Mrs. Pince."

Neither student wanted that. It was in everyone's best interest to ignore each other again. To pretend it never happened.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll make you pay."

"Who would I tell about helping a Slytherin, Goyle?"

"Don't try to play mind games, Potter."

The promise of retribution was so sincere and threatening that Harry refrained from responding with sass. He was a kind of magical Dudley, and Dudleys could hurt. He did not run away from trouble, but he also tried not to create it.

Despite this tense encounter, Harry noticed other homework lying on the same table, always the same table, their table. So he continued to write things on them. They did not talk about it again, royally ignoring each other.

If Goyle's grades improved along with Harry's, whom the strange tutoring forced to study more regularly and diligently, no one made the connection. And while Harry was happy to see him smile as he looked at his less disastrous grades, it was nobody's business but his own. It was not important.

It was just an isolated incident that would have no impact.

Chapter Text

"Look at this, Mrs. Zabini got engaged!"

"No way! How is that possible?"

"You'd think those men would know better by now. "

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, intrigued, as he approached the newspaper Neville had lent they while he ate.

He knew nothing about Zabini except that he was a rather quiet and self-effacing Slytherin pureblood who preferred his own company to Draco's... or pretty much anyone else's, for that matter. He was a quiet, placid guy who did not rock the boat. Not that he was complaining, of course! He was delighted not to have another Slytherin jerk whose hobby was victimizing them for no reason.

That said, things had seemed more relaxed for them over the last two months, with Pansy ignoring the Gryffindors and Goyle following suit, although Harry was convinced they had not particularly coordinated this. Which was cool, because since Black was a constant threat, Harry was just extremely relieved to have a little respite, even if only a little.

Harry was quite pleased with himself, even though no one knew it was a victory for him. Too bad he could not sweet-talk Malfoy into social peace. That would be amazing.

"Blaise Zabini's mother, the Slytherin," Neville whispered.

"A pureblood with quite a reputation, if you know what I mean," Dean added with a smirk and a knowing wink.

Harry did not understand, so he turned to Ron.

"Hm? Oh, she's had a lot of husbands. Like, more than six, I think?"

"All incredibly wealthy... And older."

The paper suddenly burst into flames and was reduced to ashes in less than fifteen seconds.

"I never want to hear my mother's name out of your mouth again, Finnigan."

"Well, Zabini, that'll be difficult when she's Mrs. Zabini... well, not for much longer, is it? Congratulations on the future stepdad."

When Harry turned to look at him, Zabini was shaking with rage, his face expressive in a way that was very unusual for him.

"Hey, are you okay?" He whispered, surprised that he would have such a strong reaction to such vague and senseless rumours.

The Slytherin shot him a furious look and walked away without a word, his fists clenched, looking as if he were trying very hard not to become physical.

It was... really intense for something so stupid.

Unless there was some truth to the rumours, but... that would be really crazy. Senseless.

He thought about it all day, wondering how he could get unbiased answers when he entered the library with Ron and Hermione to study. When he spotted a familiar figure immersed in a book, he walked over to her with the excuse of going to get a book on Transfiguration.

"Parkinson," he whispered, stopping beside her and grabbing a random book to make it look like he was browsing through its content.

"Potter," the girl greeted him back, a tiny smile stretching her lips. "What can I do for you?"

"I heard something strange about Zabini's mother and he had a rather... aggressive reaction."

"He respects and admires his mother very much," the Slytherin explained succinctly with a knowing look.

"Did she really kill her previous husbands?"

"There must have been investigations, so the answer is obviously no, it's an urban legend. She didn't need to."

Harry raised a curious eyebrow at this, and he did not even need to insist for her to elaborate.

"She's gorgeous, she is very attractive to men... if they're so old that they die naturally or quickly from illness, it's not her fault. We're not going to feel sorry for them, are we? They got to taste marital bliss one last time before they died, that's better than nothing."

Maybe she was right. It was complicated. At least he had an answer, the rest was none of his business, it was not his life.

"Thanks for your time and your information, Parkinson."

"Thanks for listening and for your trust, Potter."

She walked away first, and it was only because he was watching her that he noticed a table of Slytherins studying. Damn. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He left without further ado, preferring not to look at their faces to see if they had witnessed their discussion or what they thought of it if they had.

He had his answers. Zabini was hurt that terrible rumours were circulating about his innocent mother... and, yeah, he could understand why. He felt bad for laughing about it even once: with what the newspapers could say, he should have known better.

He thought for a moment about what he could do and finally waited until he was with other Gryffindors at dinner that evening to make a few subtle remarks when the subject came up again.

"If everyone's talking about it, I think the families and loved ones of the victims must have already investigated. If she's still free and not in Azkaban, it means nothing has been proven. If anything, I feel sorry for her. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to find someone new to love after all my previous partners died prematurely."

"Don't worry about her, life can't be that hard for her considering the inheritances she got from her husbands each time."

"Harry's right, it must be terrible," Hermione interrupted, looking up from her reading with a grimace. "Burying a husband, finding love only to bury him too, all in a never-ending cycle... I hope for her sake that this one will be the one."

Ron, who was about to joke again, looked at Hermione in surprise before he understood what she had said and hid how much her point of view affected him. For him, family was everything, so the prospect of losing wives one after the other must also seem terrible. Seamus was the same, and Neville just seemed completely devastated.

Harry then spotted a figure and added his main message.

"Poor Zabini, it's the same for him, it's hard to get attached when you're afraid your stepfather will die soon."

"It can't help, that's for sure."

This time, there were no objections, only nods of agreement, and Harry waited until no one was looking at him before turning his head slightly and catching Zabini's gaze as he stared at them from across the Slytherin table.

He winked at him and turned back to his friends and House mates to watch Ron's Wizard Chess match against Neville, the two playing on the board placed between their two plates, already smiling at the Slytherin's surprise and confusion. He hoped he would feel better. All he had to do now was get the rest of the school thinking the same as them, and no one would ever bother him for no reason again.

He had a plan to bury those rumours in the school, and it was already well underway.

Three days later, no one was saying anything bad about Mrs. Zabini anymore, even though her wedding was still on the front page of the Daily Prophet, with discussions now mainly focused on the theoretical location of the wedding or the bride's dress.

That morning, an unknown owl delivered a package to him, which he opened with confusion. He could not think of who could have written to him.

"Maybe a fan?"

He had never received any fan mail. Which seemed rather strange now that he thought about it. People were crazy, and Harry was extremely famous: he should have received lots of letters by now.

Was someone intercepting them?

He opened the package and felt his eyes widen. Two things. The first was a silver inkwell that Harry suspected was worth a small fortune, decorated with tiny green-eyed snakes... those were not emeralds, were they? The second...

"This isn't a phoenix feather, is it?"

"I think it is."

But it cost a fortune, it was literally used for rare wands or potions, giving him that was... quite a statement.

But maybe that was exactly what it was.

There was a little note with it, which made Harry smile because the tone was completely at odds with the delicacy and thoughtfulness of the gift.

~ A true gentleman pays his debts, you'd better like it. ~

Paying a debt, paying a debt... while sounding passive-aggressive about it... No, it could not be...

He looked around.

...Zabini?

The Slytherin was eating without looking at anyone, but when he poured himself a glass of water, he looked up as he brought it to his lips and immediately met his gaze, smiling proudly as he drank.

It clearly was Zabini. He must have spent a fortune on that... wow. His strategy of befriending Slytherins was clearly starting to pay off in more ways than one, was not it?

No worries, Harry loved the idea of being showered with gifts by grateful rich Purebloods.

Chapter Text

"... Potter."

Harry looked at the surly Slytherin, unimpressed.

"Flint."

"You're not allowed to be here."

"Neither are you," the Gryffindor retorted sharply, well aware that the Quidditch pitch was not blocked by any team for practice that afternoon. He would know, because he had chosen that precise moment to fly for that very reason.

And now this guy was showing up with... not exactly the official team, in fact, there were only five of them.

Hmm... that actually worked in his favour.

"I'm sure we can come to an agreement," he suggested, ignoring the Golden Snitch that was swirling closer and closer to him. "If you go to Snape, I'll go to McGonagall, and we know she'll make sure the punishment is shared. Between just me and your whole team, I'm sure you know where your interests lie."

He knew it, they all knew it, in fact, and Harry knew he had won even before they consulted each other. He had learned a few things about how to talk to these guys. They were not that complicated, it was more a different language than a different way of thinking.

"All right, we can share the field. What are you doing?"

Harry shrugged.

"Distracting myself a little, I guess. I like flying and I like Quidditch, it's just cool to do it without all the pressure of official matches or training to prepare for said official matches. You?"

"Same, we came to have a few games with friends."

Friends... and it was not the current official Slytherin team, the Beaters, Derrick and Bole, were not there, nor was Draco Malfoy... but Terrence Higgs and Miles Bletchley, the Keeper, were there.

Surprisingly, it was not the bullies who were around, which was odd considering the type of person Flint appeared to be.

"Have fun then, I think the field is big enough for six people," he joked before taking off to chase the Golden Snitch again, paying no further attention to them.

He made sure to stay close to the field and out of sight from the outside, willingly venturing into the clouds to remain hidden, and managed to catch the Golden Snitch twice, more by luck than by skill. He then practiced zigzagging and diving to work on his trajectories, staying away from the centre of the field where the Slytherins were mainly training their Keeper. It seemed that they had split into two teams of two for the Chasers, and everyone was trying to score in the same goals. Bletchley did a surprisingly good job of stopping the shots, considering that everything was happening very close to the goals.

As he searched for the Golden Snitch to catch it one last time and call it a day, Higgs took off between his peers at full speed and, when he raised his hand, Harry saw like the others the Golden Snitch between his fingers. What a good Seeker.

"You're good," he complimented him when the Slytherin returned it without any problem.

He had learned the power of sincere compliments.

"Good, but not good enough," the other replied simply, looking surprisingly calm about it. "I think the others agree with me on that."

Surprisingly, no one denied it, and Flint even supported him, muttering,

"What a shame you're not a Slytherin, we would have loved to have a Seeker like you."

"How funny, it almost happened, the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin."

The five boys looked at him as if they did not believe him before exchanging glances that resembled real silent conversations. Friends indeed.

"Why aren't you a Slytherin then, if I may ask?" Pucey tried on behalf of the curious group.

"When I was told about Voldemort, I was told that there isn't a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin, so I didn't want to go there."

"Bullshit! We may not be nice Hufflepuffs, but we're not all bastards either!" Flint exclaimed, looking furious, and Harry had to admit that he did not back off with his broom only because he thought that if Goyle could hold back long enough to talk, then someone like Flint could too.

It was still impressive how the mask could crack to reveal their true feelings. Anger. Indignation. Contempt.

Harry quickly considered several possible answers and chose the one that seemed most appropriate.

"That's what I understood," he said simply and, above all, very calmly, looking at them all with a carefully neutral expression. "Unfortunately, at the time, I knew nothing about the wizarding world, since I was raised by Muggles who hate magic, so I didn't know any better."

"Wait, you... didn't know anything about the wizarding world? At eleven?"

"Yeah, unexpected for Harry Potter, isn't it? It was a bit of a traumatic time for me. In a matter of days, I learned that I was a wizard, that my parents had been killed by a psychopath who had also tried to kill me, and that while I was famous to hundreds of people in an unknown world while I was living with a hateful Muggle aunt who had made me sleep under the stairs my whole life. It was a lot."

Ahhhh, what a pleasure it was to casually trauma dump on people who were so completely unprepared for it. Harry could see their perception of him rearranging itself in real time with the new information, and the best part? He had not lied once. It was all sadly true.

Flint signalled to Montague to pass him the Quaffle, and he threw it to Harry as soon as he got it, surprising the Seeker. What the-

"We're missing a Chaser to balance the team like in a match. Wanna play?"

Oh my, was he really managing to befriend five Slytherins at the same time, including four members of the Quidditch team?

"Yeah? But I'm warning you, I'm not a Chaser."

"Neither is Terrence, so each team will have its own dead weight."

"Asshole," replied said dead weight. "For that, I'll take Adrian and Graham. You have fun with a Seeker and a Keeper. No offense, Miles."

"I am offended," the Slytherin joked. "So I'm going to stop all your shots, but only yours."

Oh, that sass... it was totally his sense of humour.

Harry looked at Flint, then at the ball, then at Flint again, and he saw in the other athlete's smile that they had the same idea.

They wanted to waste time bickering? Fine. They would score in the meantime.

(They won.)

Chapter Text

Harry woke up in the infirmary, feeling cold. Numb. Lonely.

A hand was holding his, bringing him a little warmth. He squeezed experimentally, smiling slightly when the other hand squeezed back. It felt really good.

"Back with us at last, princess?"

He knew that voice... but at the same time, he did not really. He would not be able to identify it. So Harry opened his eyes and turned to his right, so confused to see Marcus Flint that he did not know what to say.

"What are you doing here?"

"What, am I not allowed to visit the infirmary?"

Harry got the message: they would never talk about it again. He could live with that.

"What am I doing here?"

"Don't you remember?"

Not really... then Harry realized he was in his Seeker's uniform and it all came back to him.

The match against Hufflepuff. The Dementors. His fall.

"Well... glad to be alive, I guess."

"How enthusiastic."

Harry shrugged dispassionately. He was not very enthusiastic... but did not really see any reason to be.

"Where is everyone else, and what happened?"

"It's lunchtime, and as for the match... Diggory caught the Golden Snitch before he realized what was happening."

"So we lost?"

"Not really"

"I'm talking about the official result."

"Who cares about the official result? Diggory himself tried to have his victory annulled because it made no sense."

And yet, his wording suggested that he had failed. That they had preferred to uphold this result even though it was completely skewed. Harry would have liked to be surprised, but he was not really.

"Whatever."

He just felt... tired. He was going to smile for his friends, but... yeah, he was fed up. It was unfair.

"So that's it, you're giving up."

Harry raised a confused eyebrow. It was not as if he could do anything when even Diggory, a sixth-year Quidditch captain of the winning team, had not been able to change the outcome of the match. And why was he offended on his behalf?

"What do you want me to say?"

The Pureblood's expression was grim.

"Do you realize what happened? Dementors aren't a game, they torture and kill people by ripping out their souls. You almost died, the least you can demand in compensation is fairness in the refereeing."

"You just said they refused to overturn the victory even at Diggory's request."

"I never said you had to settle for that!"

Harry had many questions in his head, but finally settled on one of them.

"What would you do if you were in my place?"

Nothing like asking for advice from someone who could be devious and seemed to have a plan.

"It would depend on a few factors."

"Like what?"

"Tell me, does Professor McGonagall know that you were raised by Muggles?"

Harry looked at him, confused.

"I... think so, after all, she's probably the one who sent Hagrid to tell me about the wizarding world, so..."

"You mean she didn't come herself? Normally, she's the one who visits Muggle-borns and Half-bloods living among Muggles."

"Maybe she figured my family would tell me about it."

"If that's the case, why send Hagrid?"

"My uncle and aunt wouldn't let me open my letter."

"All the more reason for her to come in person," the Pureblood insisted, looking genuinely troubled before refocusing on their current topic. "In any case, she knows you didn't grow up as a wizard."

"I guess so, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with the fact that she's a Quidditch fanatic. She broke the rules to let an eleven-year-old kid who had just gotten on a broomstick for the first time play because she saw talent in you and wanted to win. If you declare that you're retiring from Quidditch because this defeat is unfair and you almost died twice because of Dementors, something tells me she'll quickly change her mind about refereeing the match.

"I'm not asking for the win because of that either."

"Not victory, Potter. A re-match."

Flint left him to his thoughts, and Harry pondered it for the rest of the day, finally making up his mind after talking to Diggory, who apologized again in person for catching the Golden Snitch and reiterated his wish to have his victory revoked, as he felt it was undeserved. Since he had Diggory's tacit approval to try, Harry was not going to hesitate to do so.

After all, if even Diggory could see how unfair it was, even as he penalized himself, any referee should see it too and do the right thing. It was not his fault, and he owed them nothing. Certainly not his life.

A troll, a three-headed dog, a devil's snare, deadly chess, Voldemort, a giant spider, a basilisk, Sirius Black, and now Dementors? It was ridiculous to be in so much danger when he should be safe in a damn school. He should change schools: were there any other magic schools besides Hogwarts?

Harry decided not to make a public confrontation and waited until the end of the next Transfiguration class to talk to Professor McGonagall.

"Professor, I have something to tell you."

"I'm listening, Mr. Potter."

"I want to stop being Seeker for the Quidditch team."

The witch stopped reading and looked up from her papers.

"Mr. Potter, there's still time before the next game. By then, you'll have a new broomstick."

"It's not about the broomstick, Professor, it's about the fact that I almost got killed during a game and there will be no consequences.

"The Dementors won't be able to get close anymore-"

"With all due respect, Professor, they weren't supposed to get close in the first place. I could have died, or someone else for all that matters, and on top of going through that, I learn that it's what caused us to lose the match with no hope of a rematch despite the protests of the winning team's captain? It's just not worth it, I'm going to stop here and focus on my studies."

"I... understand what you're saying," Professor McGonagall finally replied reluctantly.

The next day, Headmaster Dumbledore made an announcement at breakfast: Hufflepuff's victory had been annulled and a second match would be held soon.

Upon hearing this, Harry immediately turned to the Slytherin table to scan the students' faces, looking for a certain person. He met the satisfied gazes of Parkinson, Goyle, and Zabini and began to smile. Then he met the gaze of the one who had inspired him and smiled broadly, easily passing it off as rejoicing with all his overexcited Gryffindor classmates.

He would have to return the favour one day.

And he should ask him for more advice the next time he had administrative problems, those Slytherins seemed to have lots of ideas for bending the rules with a little bit of clever manipulation (their specialty).